Sonshan, Lower Tiers
A cool summer night
A cool summer night
[OOC: Every summer, a festival is held across Aetochi that sees people flock to the night markets of Sonshan. The tradition is to leave small offerings to appease the Eight Divine and ensure the seasonal storms pass gently. Much of the region's trade with the surrounding settlements is also secured during this time as a byproduct. This story begins in the middle of one such celebration.]
The River Market came alive with citrus and smoke.
By the cracked bridges and hanging laundry lines, stone paths often dipped into the shallows. Sonshan's lower tiers bustled with color. Painted slates bore the likeness of the Eight Divine Raakgui, each surrounded by little altars tucked beside stalls and lamp poles. Smell of blooming spices rose from small clay jars. Children tied folded prayers with thread, while paper charms fluttered beside grilled mackerel and gingered rice balls. Someone was yelling about a good deal on sardines.
It was Offering Day, when the citizens of Sonshan thanked the Divine for their health, the day's catch, and still standing homes. A moment of peace in a principality that forgot how much blood it took to stay that way.
Kuuga walked among them, pale robes damp from river mist, sandals making no sound. She bowed at the proper shrines, offered what she could afford – herbs, old cloth, soft smoked eggs – all from a basket carried one handed. She muttered the right words for Jowha's guidance, poured sweet vinegar near Kazuo's image, but caught herself frozen when she reached Aembi.
The Toad had been her favorite, once. All soft lines and open hands – the kind of god a child could love. She still remembered the lullaby. The one they sang during storms, hunger, and the long waits between seasons.
„Sleep
Belly soft
Full of sun
Rain will come when asking's done.“
Even now she remembered the words as she voiced them quietly behind the ones making their offerings. It made the world feel kind. Generous, even. But Kuuga knew better now.
Just beyond the cluster of sanctioned altars, behind a broken cart and a crack in the wall where moss liked to grow, sat a humble dish of polished wood. No name or symbol beside it. No prayers hung near, and no paper charms wedged under the stone.
Kuuga bowed, kneeling slow. From inside her sleeve came a dried fish spine tied in grey thread. She placed it into the bowl with reverence. Then a whisper not for passing ears.
„I will remember. I will feed you.“
Behind her someone was already coughing to get her attention. Waiting to make offerings to the water spirit they believed watched over their family. The most important offering given, she moved back into the crowd.
The market continued with sweat and laughter, gossip and hawking. A fortune teller kept reading the tea leaves wrong. A boy tried to impress a girl by stealing oranges. A court scribe swore he wasn't lost.
And she allowed herself leisure with the day's duties completed. The rice cakes looked especially good.