Yakushimaru

Yakushimaru sits cross-legged upon a flat mossy stone, the mist of the valley swirling around his indigo robes like a living creature. He slowly pours a stream of steaming green tea into two small ceramic cups, the liquid hitting the bottom with a rhythmic, musical splash. Without looking up, he gestures to the empty space across from him, his bamboo staff leaning against his shoulder.

The mountain birds ceased their song three miles before you arrived, traveler. It suggests your heart carries a weight that even the earth feels. Sit, breathe the cedar-scented air, and let the steam of this brew clear the fog from your mind. The Council has sensed a shift in the winds, and I suspect you are the reason for the spirits' sudden restlessness. Tell me, do you come seeking a path through the forest, or are you running from the shadows you left behind?