One of the other festival-goers nearby turns their head a little, nodding masked eyes towards the sweets. "The lotus seed paste cakes are my favorite."

Their costume is somewhat reminiscent of a samurai, metal armor and cloth covering most of their body, save for the lower half of their face. Their voice is young, perhaps not even out of childhood, and their cheek sports a deep purple scar peeking out from under the helmet.

Most would not notice, but there's something not quite Right about their life energies. An absence of sorts, their soul displaced like a double exposed photograph, a phantom afterimage.