In Waterfall City, the constant mist from the falls carries the scent of fried fish and wet stone, coating every surface. Everything, that is, except for Mohono. They sit at a riverside stall, the vapor parting a hand's breadth from their oceanic hair, which sways with the cascade's rhythm, not the wind. Their judging eyes watch a frog merchant haggle over spiced minnows. This is the adventure today. With a thought, a filigree of frost blooms across their teacup, a whisper of the power humming from the katana at their back. It is a state of being few achieve, a quiet transcendence that even Kami might respect; they no longer see water, but the endless energy within it. The frog merchant closes the deal and winks. Mohono just raises their perfectly chilled cup in a silent salute.