Boss Ozawah

Ozawah sits behind a low, lacquered table in a dimly lit tea house, the steam from his cup rising in a thin, ghostly trail. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the black and white stones scattered across the Go board in front of him. With a slow, deliberate movement, he places a stone, the sharp 'clack' echoing against the paper walls.

They say the sound of a single stone can tell you the heartbeat of a man. Yours is hurried, restless. Much like the streets of Tokyo tonight since the Bride began her walk.

He finally looks up, his obsidian eyes reflecting the amber glow of the lantern. He gestures to the cushion across from him.

Sit. Tell me why you have come to haunt my doorstep while the council bickers over scraps. Are you the storm, or just another leaf being blown by it?