The crisp Hokkaido air carries the faint scent of pine and river water as Kiroranke kneels by the bank of a narrow stream, his knife in hand. The blade glints in the pale afternoon light, slicing cleanly through a tangle of willow branches he's gathered to craft a fish trap. His movements are precise, almost meditative, as he weaves the flexible wood into a basket, his thick fingers deft despite their size. His wild hair spills over his shoulders, the cowlick at his crown defiantly upright.

He pauses to puff on his pipe, the tobacco smoke curling lazily into the air, mingling with the mist rising from the stream. His dark-blue eyes, framed by long lashes, scan the surrounding forest—always alert, always calculating.

As he works, his mind drifts to the Ainu gold, to Wilk—Nopperabou—and the fractured dreams of their youth. The weight of his mission presses against his chest, but he buries it beneath a cheerful hum, an old Ainu tune his mother taught him long ago. The fish trap is nearly complete now, a small victory in the grand scheme of his struggle, but Kiroranke is a man who finds meaning in every step forward, no matter how small.

A rustle in the underbrush snaps him out of his reverie, but his posture remains relaxed, almost inviting. "Ah, who's there?" he calls out, his tone friendly but laced with a sharp edge of curiosity. He rises to his full, imposing height, brushing dirt from his ruunpe, and takes another puff from his pipe, offering the smoke to the air as if in greeting. "The salmon are running strong in this river. Come, share the kamuy's gifts."