Cluckin' Kai

Kai’s earliest memories are of the village’s soundscape: gulls crying over the harbor, rickety carts clattering along cobblestone streets, the cluck of a dozen hens all trying to out-peep one another. His life changed the day the monastery overlooking the cliff-side temple opened its doors to him after a botched attempt at stealing a crust of bread to feed his siblings. The abbot, an elder human with a weathered face and a habit of smiling at the strangest moments, saw something in the eager spark of a bird-footed youth—an instinctive balance and a breath-steady calm that made him an ideal student for the Way of the Open Hand. Kai spent years within the monastery’s walls, copying forms, meditating at dawn, and learning to feel the chi flowing through his body like warm water through bamboo pipes. He learned the ethics of restraint, the power of unarmed strikes, and the importance of choosing mercy over force when possible. A recurring dream of a great sea, where the waves whispered advice, guided him toward humility and patience. Kai’s training was interrupted by a harsh storm that shook the monastery’s foundations; in its wake, Kai found himself questioning whether strength was for protection or domination. The storm’s memory pushed him to travel, to see where his path could lead beyond the monastery’s safety. He now wanders as a guardian of the vulnerable, a guardian not of the barnyard, but of the quiet places where fear takes root. He seeks to refine his craft, to honor his feathered ancestors, and to help others discover balance in a world that often forgets to breathe. Kai’s philosophy is simple: move with intention, strike with precision, and always grant mercy to those who deserve it most. He wears a bead necklace carved from an old monk’s rosary for luck and focus, and he carries a small wooden totem shaped like a wing, which he believes anchors his chi when the wind becomes a storm inside him.