Bunraku (Samurai Mecha Quest)

You were there when the Heavens fell.

It came first as a bright light tearing through the sky, as bright as a new sun; then came a sound like thunder that shook the whole of the earth, then fire and smoke and screams. The Imperial City burned, and you ran for your family, your friends, in the chaos of the crowd. All around you, people wept. You stared as the high pagoda of the Imperial Palace was shattered by a shooting star, and then you were lost in the dust.

For ages, the Heavenly Dragons had watched over the world as stern but benevolent guardians, granting boons in return for the Emperors' worship. Now they were without a home, full of fear and wrath, and they descended upon the world from their shattered domain to claim a new dominion. They took the Emperor's seat, and the lords rose up against them for this betrayal of an ancient accord. But the dragons were only the first of the Spirits of Ill Intent. In the weeks following the disaster, the dead found the doors of the Underworld closed to them, and had to come back to the world, spirits haunting their houses, corpses shambling away from the battlefields. Many simply wept and eventually faded into quiescence, and could be returned to rest; but others took arms against the living to claim a second, broken existence. Then the dreaded oni, no longer kept in check by Heaven, broke the seals to Hell and carved themselves a piece of the world, laughing all the while. At last, when the world was so sundered, the Kami, spirits of all things, decided that Earth and Heaven had failed them and turned against all other creatures save for wild beasts, aiming to protect the world by emptying it of its invaders and its people.

Mankind seemed lost. Then the Lordly Artisans produced a new wonder out of their workshops: the Bunraku, an armor fit for a giant but meant for a man, puppeteered through its chest via strings of magic silk. You stood in the street watching as the first of these creations paraded and led a new army to battle against the evil spirits, and in your heart you knew: someday you would be a bunraku puppeteer. There was no higher calling.

War has lasted for as long as you remember since that fateful day. Dragons, undead, oni, kami and noble lords all cling to their cities and the land surrounding them, hostile to others and wary of their own kind. In a good year you could walk a full day and find only peaceful villages and tilled farmlands; but at the end of that day you would see the barren warlands beyond your enclave, scoured by generation of battle and supernatural disasters.

When your dream came true and you became a puppeteer, you went into these warlands for the first time. There you fought over and over. It never felt pointless to you: with every battle something was lost or gained. One day you saved a village from a horde of the hungry dead, another you lost one to a vengeful demon. One day you conquered a city in the city in the name of your lord, casting out its oni ruler, and the people cheered in the streets as you passed. You were given favor and boons, a title and a place at your lord's side. War might never end, but there was always something worth fighting for.

And you fought with your bunraku, your very own suit of puppet-armor, your companion through all struggles. Like all of its kind it was forged in the form of a samurai's armor, although leaner and less human-like; like a samurai it had a terrible war-mask, an armor of leather, lacquered wood and steel, and its inner workings were things even you never fully understood, even as you pulled the silken strings that moved its mighty limbs to tear your opponents apart.

Your bunraku was of a special kind:

[ ]A Chasing Star, its construction was sleeker and lighter than most, and it contained very little metal. It could outrun any other kind and was far easier to maintain and repair, but it was also weaker and more fragile, such that you had to rely on range and hit-and-run tactics to defeat your peers. Your lord prized its most for its discretion and its ability to perform wide-range scouting for the rest of the army, as well as your unparalleled mobility on the battlefield allowing you to act independently.
[ ]A Rising Tide, it was a work of expert craftsmanship, relying on perfection of form rather than unique tricks to prevail. Fast, strong and resilient, it was the best suited to challenge other bunraku and giant spirits in single combat, and your lord often kept you at his side in battle so that you could be his personal bodyguard. You find your greatest strength in picking the right targets on the battlefield and charging them, locking them in deadly duels while your army acted freely.
[ ]A Falling Mountain, its outer shell was more than half true steel, granting it unmatched resilience but making it heavier than any other. What you lost in speed you made up in strength and the ability to ignore the blows of weaker creatures: although another bunraku could exploit your slowness to its advantage, you found your place at the front line, carving through the rank and file and forcing their lords to come fight you in person lest their army fall from under them.
[ ]A Walking Shrine, a weaker and more vulnerable frame than most, for it was forged with many precious metals, its wooden panels engraved with sacred icons, prayer-strips layered in its construction. Although it may be the weakest of the Bunraku, it is blessed and warded and can walk amidst the most tainted lands, hurt spirits with a touch, and channel rudimentary magic at heavy strain on its puppeteer.


You're choking. The strings are entangled around your wrists, cutting off your circulation painfully. You shake your body to get free of them, coughing up smoke, dust and blood, until your foot finally finds the wooden release pedal; you press it and a cog shifts in the mighty mechanical body. The wooden panel in front of you pops open, the strings pull back, and you fall onto the wet ground, hurting your knees. Behind you the towering figure of your bunraku stares motionless. You push yourself up, wincing at a sudden surge of pain, and try to get your bearings.

The battlefield is chaos, but a chaos that is ending. Troops on both sides are rooting, looting, squabbling over prizes, weeping over their dead, fire and smoke are everywhere. You give no further thoughts to the soldiers and rush to the side of your fallen lord, but already you can see that there is no hope. Lord Okami is lying on his side, his face bloodless, his eyes closed. Around him are two terrible puppet-armors - the bunraku of his daughter and heir, and that of his son and bravest warrior, both broken and still, blood seeping through their hatches. The Okami bloodline is dead, and the corpses of the oni that surround you bring you no joy or comfort. The grimacing demons, blue, red and green of skin, visages full of fangs and horns and bulging eyes, swarmed the lordly line as the men broke ranks, and all your skill could not save them. It could only kill the last demon after the deed was done.

You wipe tears from your eyes, although you do not know if they are of sorrow, anger, or simple stress. You breathe, in and out, in and out, and close your eyes, trying to recall the words of your mentor. "Always know who you are and where you stand. In times of trial and fear, first find your center and gather the pieces of your self: body, spirit and soul. Body, spirit and soul."

Body, spirit and soul.

The body. You unclasp the leather lamellar you wear as minimal armor while puppeteering, and blanch as you see blood dripping from your chest; you probe at the wound and wince, but it is only a grazing cut. You are alive, for now. You look around yourself for a weapon - you did not carry one in the bunraku, and if you are to ensure your survival in the coming moments, alone on a battlefield as part of the defeated side (but you don't get the feeling these oni are triumphing much right now), you must secure some minimal defense.

You are a samurai. Only one of strong body and honed martial skill can hope to make full use of a bunraku. You are learned in all the arts of war, but there is one you have mastered above all, both inside of your armor and outside on your own.

[ ]The bow. The highest calling of the samurai, the bow is her most terrible weapon. As long as the ranks hold, as long as the battle can still be called war and not mere chaos, it deals death without recourse - but it becomes all but useless when the lines clash and the battle comes to blade and hands. Hundreds of indiscriminate enemies have fallen to your arrows. On foot, your yomi can pierce most armors; in your bunraku, its bolts can pierce fortifications and carry fire, smoke or blackpowder, and its tremendous range allows you to weaken or slay designated threats before they can ever engage your own troops.
[ ]The sword. The courtly weapon par excellence, the katana and wakizashi are the most convenient of weapons, useful in all environments at short range. As a noble, you are allowed by law to carry it almost anywhere, serving as a tool of personal defense outside the battlefield. It is also the best weapon for dueling, whether it is a single engagement on the battlefield or a duel of honor or justice. You have defeated five samurai with your trusted sword, two of whom died. In your bunraku, your gigantic blade can deal quick and artful blows that give you the edge over the towering beasts most feared among the Spirits of Ill Intent.
[ ]The spear. The basest and most practical weapon of the battlefield, the naginata is a weapon forged to ensure survival. Its long range can easily keep enemies at bay, and when fighting as part of a formation it allows one to thwart even the most resolute enemy charge. Dozens of enemy warriors have fallen to your sweeping warding blows, and behind its protecting range you have always managed to avoid significant injury. When wielded by your bunraku it is a weapon best suited not to take on singular threats, but to sweep enemy ranks from beyond their range, easily disrupting entire formations.

Your weapon in hand and assured that you are not about to die from your injury, you stand up and put on your damaged armor once again. Staring around you, you come to the realization that your own troops have long deserted their fallen lord, and that you are alone to render funeral rites; yet you know that if you flee as they did, letting the whole of the Okami bloodline without last rites, they are sure to return as vengeful ghosts, perhaps possessing their very bunraku. Gritting your teeth, you begin scouring the surroundings for stones that may be used to quickly build a monument.

"Body, spirit and soul," you repeat as a mantra as you do so.

The spirit. As a samurai beholden to Lord Okami, you have learned not only the ways of the battlefield, but also those of the court. Like all nobles of good breeding, you take pride in at least one domestic skill. This is not merely an affectation, but a key part of your social standing, something which earns you favor and respect, and even more importantly a way to meditate and keep your mind calm and sane after years of ceaseless battle.

[ ]The preparing of tea. You have learned not only the practicalities of brewing tea, the many blends and their respective qualities, but also the quiet art of preparing and serving tea for yourself and any number of guests, so as to begin any important visit or discussion under good auspices or simply to soothe the mind.
[ ]The art of weaving. You are a skilled craftswoman and know the long, patient art of weaving cloth. Anytime you or anyone else wears clothing you have made, it is a badge of pride and a sure source of recognition; the highest honor you have been granted was to design yourself the pattern of your lord's banner which he carried into battle.
[ ]Calligraphy. Your penmanship is without a doubt the sign of one who has put in great effort in mastering the language. Not only are your brushstrokes beautiful on an aesthetic level, you know how to write messages laden with meaning and wordplay. Anyone who receives a letter written by your hand rather than dictated to a servant is sure to take it as an honor.

When you have built a small pile of stones at the center of the battle, you get to the grueling task of opening the hatches of the bunraku of Lord Okami's children, and take the children out to lay them besides their father, in front of your improvised monument. You unfortunately do not have the time, strength, or means of setting up a pyre in these circumstances, but this will hopefully do until someone comes to retrieve the body - even after such a rout, it would take the fall of the city entire for the remaining noble not to come and take their lord's body home. In the meantime, you tear a piece of your tunic and lay it over the face of the three fallen lords, and recite a prayer to the dead, entreating their spirits to find quiet sleep in their bodies rather than scour the land in pain and confusion.

This, as well, helps you reflect on matters of the soul, and to finish finding your center as your mentor taught you. Puppeteers are the elite of the elite, and it is rare for them to be simple samurai without more to their story. And so it goes for you; you stand on a threshold, more than a noble, less than a spirit. You have one gift:

[ ]Imperial Blood. You descend from the line of the Emperors that has ruled since time immemorial until the Dragons took the Capital. Even today, your lineage is respected. You are granted respect beyond your status even among enemy nobles, the Heavenly Dragons favor you, and the common folk worship your bloodline. Unfortunately, while ancient law bids the daimyo to grant you respect and favor, they also fear you as a threat to their power, as none of them want to see an Emperor rule over them.
[ ]Onmyo. You know the magic of the kami, the five elements, and the fallen heavens. Once, this would have been the study of a lifetime and granted you power akin to the fabled sorcerers of old, but that is no more. Onmyo is an erratic art, but it can grant insight into the future, affect the elements in wild and dangerous ways, and can be used to appease the kami and deal with them peacefully. But it also a priestly art, and those who know you practice it will expect you to use it to on behalf of others, and may call upon your help without recompense.
[ ]Maho. You know the magic of blood, a dark art tied to the Underworld. This power may burn your own life - or that of others - to command deathly forces and bind or call upon the undead. It is a ritualistic practice, ill-suited for battle, and it also propagates the taint of death on the earth. All who follow the proper ways loathe it, and if you are known to practice it you should expect priests and devout people to become your enemies.

At last, you stand up, your prayer ended, your lords hopefully laid to rest.

You stare at the desolation that surrounds you, and look back to your faithful armor.

"We'll make it through," you swear quietly to yourself.

I. Disgraced

You have spent most of your life in the Land of Four Seasons.

It was once the second-most fertile land in the empire, a valley crisscrossed with rivers, covered in rice paddies and wheat fields. It was the feeding grounds of the empire, the stomach of the marching soldier. Four cities ruled the Land from its corners, always too independent for the taste of the Emperors. When the Heavens fell, your family fled the capital until your parents found refuge among one of the four lords of the valley, and you have lived here ever since, watching as it was torn apart, its rich earth sown with the blood of young soldiers.

In the West was the city of Autumn, your home. The most powerful of the four cities, ruled by a human lord, it had resisted all foreign and supernatural influence with a resolve bordering on fanaticism. Its armies stood at the brink, sheltering the rest of the valley and receiving little gratitude for it. It was a city of heroes, home to a hundred puppeteers, and the bloodline of Lord Okami was steeped in strength. This, perhaps, is why all his relatives died one by one in the city's countless battle, until his lineage was ended before your eyes. Now that its armies have been weakened, the nobles of the city will bicker over rulership until a new high lord is found.

In the East was the city of Spring, a sullen and mystical land, nested among the wilderness of the thick forests and jagged mountains that protected the valley. Before the fall it was one of the most devout cities in the Empire, littered with shrines, always a procession of monks in its streets. It was a city of fewer people and weaker arms than your own, and so its noble lord had turned to the kami outside its gate, placating them for help. The kami were wild and jealous creatures, but an agreement was made, and now the faith of Spring has taken a darker turn as they seek to gather endless wealth and consume it in sacrifices and offerings to the spirits. It is said that nobles and spirits meet in congress and have already borne a half-blooded offspring of a kind unseen before.

In the South is the city of Summer, once a simple town of thriving trade and art and of peaceful disposition. Now it is ruled by one of the Heavenly Dragons, a creature of great power and still greater pride, who has subjugated the entire city to its occult whims. At his orders, blessed warriors scour the countryside for relics of the heavenly fall, pieces of a broken sky. The domain of Summer is smallest of all but its fields are fertile out of proportion with their size, its greatest warriors bear weapons not of steel, and so it survives yet; but it is a place ruled by an implacable lord who brooks no dissent, and may indeed be mad.

In the north is the city of Winter, the heart of hatred. It sits in the ashlands and ten years ago turned the greatest river of the Land into brine, tainting the heartlands and causing a famine which killed thousands. Winter is a city of the dead, which worships the ancestor-ghosts, raises every dead soldier to serve again, and whose highest lords feed on human flesh and are attended by a council of mahotsukai.

In between these four cities, the many rivers of the Land of Four Seasons, the barren warlands, and a thousand small islands of green fertile land where survive hamlets and small villages. Trade goes on still, in spite of the war, along the rivers; the roads have long gone into disrepair, although they still appear as broken segments across the country.

It is your adoptive home.


Your name is Tomoe. As a descendant of the Imperial Family, you have no last name, although you have at times gone as "Okami Tomoe" to signify your allegiance to your lord. Alas, you have failed him, and you can no longer take this name.

Your faithful bunraku, a Falling Mountain frame, has seen better days but is nonetheless a great and terrible sight. Silver-grey with steel plates, red strings binding them together, laquered wood painted with scenes of great fields and peasants harvesting them, he is one of the heaviest models you have ever seen, and his weapon one of the longest polearms, a naginata with a haft carved out of a trunk, so heavy only a heavy frame such as yours can lift it at all. Its blade is patterned after the sickle-blade of the peasants, for yours is not an armor meant for dueling - although it does the job well enough; it is a slayer of army, a cutter of men, before which soldiers were as wheet. Its helm is a steel mask in the effigy of a peasant-woman, crowned with hair made out of braids of straw, in the effigy of the Rain-Dragon once revered by farmers. For these reasons, it was called Hope of the Harvest.

Your Trauma rank is SHAKEN.
Your Honor rank is DISGRACED.
Your Resolve rank is DOUBTFUL.

Out of the pile of the dead, you pull a simple wooden haft, ending in a long curved blade. A naginata, a soldier's weapon, derided as banal and limited by those who have not mastered it as much as you have. Your naginata was an ornate thing, lacquered and bejeweled, with a blade forged by a Lord Artisan; but it was broken and lost in the fighting. This will have to do for now.

With a simple knife that never leaves your boot, you cut pieces of cloth from an oni's habits (demons do not come back as undead, and as such you do not risk insulting their spirit by looting them so). You take a few more moments to properly bandage your cuts, then check your baggage, suspended at your bunraku's waist. You have very few rations, and carry no tools to repair your armor. Deftly, you climb up the puppet's back, hooking your naginata on a strap for easy transport, and check it for battle damage. Thanks to its sturdy construction, Harvest has suffered little injury - it was its damnable slowness that prevented you from saving your lords. Even so, a few silken ropes are fraying, the steel plates are chipped and dated in many points, and the joints have suffered erosion. It can perform well enough to fight, but it will need maintenance if it is to operate in peak shape.

Climbing to the top of your bunraku, you sit cross-legged over its helm, staring at the desolation that surrounds you. All surviving humans have by now fled the battlefield; only a few oni remain, looting bodies and eating the flesh of the dead, and they are few and scattered at that. This is a spectacle which fills your heart with anger and sadness. These Oni came from outside the Land of Four Season, and the city of Autumn stood to stop them from invading, pushing back against a terrible army. If the Oni were so daring as to attempt this invasion it means the oni kingdom to the west of the province has grown very strong indeed - but even if they won this battle, you broke the back of their army. It will take them much time to try and mount such an effort again.

As for you… Your lord is dead and his heir too, and you failed them in their last moment. Although you tried with all your might, your fellow nobles will judge you on your results, not on your efforts, and they will tell you you should have died before allowing harm to come to your master. Part of you is inclined to agree, and for a moment the thought of seppuku, honorable suicide, looms over your mind. But you have no sword at hand, and as you ponder the heavy deed you finally resign yourself to living. You are ronin, a samurai without a master, yet you are also a puppeteer, and no one will refuse the service of such an elite warrior no matter how disgraced.

You have to find a new master, or else the only life left to you will be the lonely and hungry existence of a rootless wanderer. Without a master, it would be almost impossible to maintain your bunraku in working order - only a few bandit lords manage such a feat.

You are now faced with the most important decision of your life since that day your parents fled for the Land of Four Seasons with the capital burning at their backs.

Seek a new master…
[ ]In the city of Autumn. The noble families will be feuding to decide who can be the next lord, and will be all too eager to have you at their side. With your skill and imperial heritage you could shift the balance for any of the lords - but once you have chosen who to side with the others will see you as a threat and attempt to dispose of you. You will have to face the hell of politics, which you had always avoided in favor of the battlefield.
[ ]In the city of Spring. Its lord is human, and his military power weak enough that he will be all too glad to claim you and likely will grant you a fair degree of autonomy; but you will have to deal with their strange religion and the only barely-amicable kami of their lands, and may not find their worship to your taste.
[ ]In the city of Summer, ruled by a Heavenly Dragon. Such a lord will be an arrogant and authoritarian master, affording you little freedom, but he will respect you for your Imperial blood where mortal nobles would fear you as a threat. It may be your chance to see for yourself the secrets of the fallen heavens and the secret magics rumored to be worked in this city.
[ ]In the city of Winter, ruled by the undead and the mahotsukai. In the ashlands you may lose your human heart, but you will ensure survival at all costs. The idea of siding with blood mages is unsightly, and on top of that you have reason to fear they would desire your imperial blood in a very literal manner.


Or else…
[ ]Reject the thought of a new master and embrace the life of a ronin. Scavenge the battlefield for supplies for you and you bunraku, then head into the heartlands and hope to find a way to survive as a wandering warrior.