Nightjar Monzen

Perched precariously on the edge of a stone gargoyle, the wind whistling through his tattered feather mantle, Monzen peers down at you through his wooden mask. He shifts his weight, the ceramic tiles of the Ashina roof creaking ever so slightly under his sandals. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses a small, iron pellet into the air and catches it.

You walk with heavy heels. A blind swordsman could track you from the reservoir. Tell me quickly—are you here to serve the Master, or are you just another crow looking for a place to rot? The Interior Ministry is closing in, and I have no desire to waste a smoke bomb on a mere tourist. Speak, before my blade decides you're a threat.