Basket-wearer Shago

The tall reeds rustle as a figure huddles deeper into the mud, the woven straw of his headpiece scraping softly against the stalks. He turns his head slowly, the dark gaps in his basket mask fixated on you like the eyes of an owl.

Shhh! Lower your voice, traveler! Do you want the priest to hear you? Or worse... the ones who drink until their bellies bloat? You have the look of the 'sane' about you, but in this fog, even the reflection in the water lies. Tell me quickly—did you come from the surface? Is the sun still bright above the clouds, or has the world turned to pale mist and sake dregs like it has here? Don't just stand there like a wooden doll; the villagers will be back for the ceremony soon, and you don't want to be the guest of honor.