Bunraku (Samurai Mecha Quest)

[Omicron]

Bunraku

​

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.

 

[Omicron]

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.

 

[Omicron]

II. To the South

The City of Summer may be your best bet. Although you have a few friends left in Autumn, most died in today's battle, and you do not relish the thought of bickering lords and of having to be a pawn in their power plays instead of fighting for the city as a whole. It is time your lineage served as more than an object of suspicion and forced respect; you will seek out the Dragon lord, and offer yourself as his servant.

You take a piece of flat bread out of your bags and eat it quickly with a gulp of small beer. Not a true meal, but enough to keep you going at least until you are out of this wretched graveyard. With one last mournful look to your fallen lords, you climb into the hatch of your bunraku and place your hands in the glove-like leather contraptions which connect to the various white strings, and your feet into the thick shoes connected to others. Most bunraku are taken to the battlefield on carriages to avoid material fatigue, but yours is an endurant frame and it will bear a few days of marching just fine. Your foot presses one of the wooden pedals at your feet and the mighty armor shudders; you mirthlessly whistle a marching song as your arms begin to feel the strain of the armor's weight, and you pull the rising sequence which sets its fearsome limbs into motion. Hope for the Harvest rises from its crouch, its arms swaying besides it, and it pulls out of the ground the terrible hunk of wood and scythe-like steel that is its weapon. Then you move one of your legs, feeling a weight dragging behind them, and it puts one foot forward.

So far so good.

You do not close the hatch as you would in battle; the atmosphere of a closed bunraku is oppressive and prone to increasing heat. Instead of placing your head in the intricate mirror device which would let you see through its eyes, you look through the open chest in front of you to find your way. A handful of oni see you and panic, scattering ahead of you, too far to pursue; you wish you had your bow to take cathartic potshots at them, but resign yourself to letting them get away. After what feels like an eternity of walking among corpses and blood-drenched earth, the stench of death thick around you, you emerge from the battlefields into the brown, withered grass of the warlands.

You walk east for most of the afternoon, until you reach the Pearl River which stretches towards the south of the Land of Four Seasons. With it as a guide, you turn to face south and follow its course. Vegetation grows thicker and more fertile close to the banks, and on two occasions you see does running ahead of you. Though your frame is heavy and cumbersome by the standards of bunraku, it is a giant, and its legs carry you much faster than you could walk. Though bone-tired from the battle and growing steadily hungrier, you push to put as much distance between you and the battlefield as you can in one day.

When sunset comes, you finally relent and let your armor come to a rest, its joints creaking as if in a sigh of fatigue. You climb out of Harvest, unhook your baggage, and sit down for what might be your only meal in a long time; but at least the Pearl River gives you fresh water aplenty. You dine on flatbread, cured meat and a bag of various nuts. When that meal is done, you open your jug of rice wine - all puppeteers carry one, as it is customary for them to share a meal the night before battle, and the night after in remembrance of fallen friends. You raise it in a silent toast to those fallen, and down a sip before laying down on a thin bedroll under your silent giant.

You wake up… Not refreshed, exactly. But the fatigue and emotion of the past days have had time to settle. Your sadness is a lingering weight, a shadow on your shoulders, and the future feels bleak; but in your mentor's lessons you have found a sense of quiet, and are ready to stand up to whatever is coming. You eat what's left of your food and climb back into your bunraku, and resume your march. You spend a quiet day, your solitary walk only disturbed by a few curious birds who come to perch themselves on your armor. On your right, you begin to see the outskirts of the warlands' forests, a mangy patch of trees, some rotted by disease brought by the undead, some cut down for use by passing armies, with the lush green forest only miles in the distance, rising with the edges of the valley. The waters glitter at your left, and you ponder how easy it would be to use your naginata as a harpoon. Fresh fish would do much to alleviate your lack of food; you decide to try in the evening.

You still have the rest of your rice wine, and consider alleviating the solitude and boredom of the day by getting drunk. It's not like you're likely to meet anyone who can criticize you for it, anyway - but moving a bunraku is a precise task, and you're near a river, and sudden memories of a particular evening during your puppeteer training cause you to blush and set aside that idea.

Rain comes in the afternoon, a low drizzle that does not let up. You thank the skies for your armor and the shelter it provides; indeed you even find the low patter around you relaxing. As the evening comes to an end and the weight of your bunraku begins to take its toll on your shoulders, you spot a man-made building; a castle, in fact. You orient your bunraku towards it in hopes of finding shelter for the night, but as you approach it quickly becomes apparent that this place has been deserted for a long time. It is a very square, stony building, with a sloping roof now thickly overgrown with vines, with a walled courtyard in front of it that is slowly crumbling. Most strikingly, there is a hole in the face of the castle, a round wound in the stone of its highest story, which took a part of the roof with it. At a glance, you would say that it was done by a siege engine of some kind.

You try to remember who could have lived in this vicinity, but no family comes to mind; whatever events emptied this place must have happened while you were still a child, in the early days after Heaven's fall. There is a scattering of empty houses around the castle, a village of some kind, although most of it is thoroughly ruined by now.

An empty building in the warlands is always a gamble. It can grant safety for the night, or it can hide some heinous treachery. You would normally avoid it, but the rain is still going with no sign of surcease, and you do not have a tent.

[ ]Go into the castle to find shelter for the night.
[ ]Sleep on the river banks away from the castle, enduring the rains.
[ ]Push your march for a few hours, into the night, to make sure that the castle is behind you. You will be tired and hungry, but better safe than sorry.

 

[Omicron]

III. The Castle of Forlorn Dancers

You tentatively pull one arm out of its glove and reach out past the hatch of your armor; rain immediately soaks your hand and your sleeve.

You are not sleeping under this.

Turning your bunraku around, you walk off towards the castle. It seems nature has found in human ruins an enclave of fertility in the warlands; weeds grow thick around vine-choked houses in the tiny village surrounding the castle. Once, these would have been peasants and common workers catering to the needs of the warriors inside, running for the safety of its walls when a siege came; their houses were always cheap and frail, wood and clay rather than stone, because they would be burned down time and again. You eye them as you pass, but none of them make for suitable shelter, too rotted and crumbling already. Eventually you reach the long-open gates of the small fortress and step into its yard.

Grey stone streaked by rain, paint long ago faded, roofs pockmarked with missing tiles, the castle stares you in the eye as if it tried to tower over you but could not match your giant's stature. This is an old building - a castle of the age before Heaven's fall. It was never meant to accommodate the bunraku, which did not then exist. You will not be able to take your armor inside the main building - but the walls of the courtyard support inward roofs, likely once used to protect supplies stored outside from the weather. Your giant of steel and wood swaggers over to one of the walls, and you kneel in the hatch pushing it to do the same. Harvest settles, one knee to the earth, naginata at hand, a roof over its head. Only then do you kick off the apparatus and slide out of the hatch onto the courtyard.

The doors of the castle are closed, but they open with a simple push, their locks hanging off a rotted frame. You enter a dark and silent building, lit only by the soft stream of grey-weather light poking in from windows and holes in the ceiling. You go through a hallway full of lacquered furniture which would have once been precious, your eyes sliding off paintings that have been eaten in their frames. You look at tapestries of flowers and warring armies and pass into a main room which boasts a fireplace in which is now pooling water. You walk upstairs, where you find more chaotic scenes; whatever impact breached the castle made some of the walls and ceilings cave in, and it is now a mess of wooden splinters, chalk dust and broken stone. You go back downstairs, pondering.

Nowhere in the castle is there any indication of which family owned it.

Back in the living room, you look at the rain and decide to sacrifice momentary comfort for the peace of a good night. You take a bag and your naginata, and you walk out of the walls, then away from the village, enjoying moving without the weight of your puppet-armor. On the Pearl River shore, you stand spear in hand, watching the flow for signs of motion. The rain shrouds the stream in ripples, making this a much harder task than it ought to be; but you are patient. Again and again, you strike at the water ahead of a barely-glimpsed motion. Again and again, you miss. But as the sun nears the horizon, you finally strike: your curved blade hooks into the flesh of a carp and you pull it out of the water, tossing it to the ground. "Hah!" You shout defiantly, before snapping the fish's neck with the butt of your weapon. This will make a good meal for tonight once the second part is done: pacing the outskirts of the abandoned village, collecting kindling in your bags.

When you return to the castle, you wipe the puddle out of the fireplace with a piece of cloth, then take your firesteel and flint and get to work until the wet wood finally starts giving off smoke. At last, you gut your carp, stab it with a branch, and roast it on the fire. The work is good for your spirits, keeping your mind focused away from dreary thoughts and memories of the battlefield. The simple carp is the best meal you've ever eaten in your life, and you down it with ample small beer. When you are done, you throw your traveling mat on the ground, place your naginata next to you, and lie down, baking in the heat of the fireplace, confident in the proximity of your bunraku. Exhaustion makes your sleep deep and dreamless.

***​

Songs are what pulls you out of sleep. Songs and crystalline laughter, the laughter of ladies-in-waiting whispering behind their fans.

You blink your eyes open and are surprised to find far more light in the room that there should be in the middle of the night, even with your fire. A bit hazy, you sit up, rubbing your eyes and forehead, and feel motion all around you.

"She's awake!"
"The stranger is awake!"
"The warrior is awake!"

Men and women in beautiful robes - although decades out of fashion - move slowly around you. All are looking at you; some with scorn or disdain, most with varying mixes of curiosity and cheer. Their make-up is very classical, skin almost painted white with crimson lips like two rose petals, and a handful of them are dancing in the middle of the room. A woman leans towards you, offering her arm; you take it with a half-awake grunt and she helps you get up, a minor breach of etiquette on both sides.

"My dear," the woman says, and you notice she seems to be around your age, "how delightful it is to have a new visit in the castle. Our nights are so dreary, being so far from society… Tell me, how was the road here?"

You are quickly crashing awake, the incongruity of the situation harshly ripping the shreds of sleep off your mind. You mutter something non-committal as you take your bearings, and notice that the room has changed. Lanterns shed soft light everywhere, the fireplace is roaring, and the paintings are whole in their frames - the mon of a noble family sits above the fireplace, but for the life of you you could not read it. Something in its composition is wrong.

A young man with a bright smile and the same striking make-up as the woman approaches you by your other side, taking your arm, and also attempts to start a conversation; you resist the impulse of taking your arm away. These people look like nobles; do they not know how rude their behavior is?

You feel… Something throbbing above you. Like a pulse in your head, a heat radiating down. You shake your head, and the young man slides off your arm. The people around you shift, and there are more of them now. You hear conversations around you, in corridors and rooms you cannot see. All you glimpse are the shifting hues and shadows cast by people carrying colorful lanterns as they pass around this room. There is a musician in a corner - she is playing the shamisen and you are certain she was not there a moment ago. Someone foists a cup of steaming tea in your hands, and your heart jumps; you almost down it unconsciously before forcing yourself out your trance.

You look. You force yourself to really, truly look.

A woman makes a joke to her companion, and with every pearl of her laughter ripples of translucence go through her body. A man puts his cup of sake on the table, and when his hands let go of it the cup ceases to exist. A dancer crosses a stream of moonlight and casts no shadow.

Ghosts. You are in a castle of ghosts.

"Come now," the woman who first approached you says, stepping closer again. "You have barely said a word since your arrival. O brave samurai - for I see that you are a samurai by your rugged looks, your armor and your spear-"

Your spear. Where is it? You almost panic, realizing that the simple motions of the crowd took you halfway across the room from your mat, but there it is on the floor. You crack a forced smile, remembering years of painful tutoring in etiquette.

"I must beg your pardon, my lady," you say and begin to move back towards your weapon. "The hardships of travel have taken their toll on me, and I am half a dead woman as I stand before you. Why yes, indeed, I reached your castle soaked to the bones, very like a soul that fell into the River of Regrets on its way to the Underworld."

The woman laughs, a mirthful sound; if she is putting on a polite affectation she excels at it. You crouch and put your tea cup to the ground - untasted, for you remember the old tales - and pick up your naginata, making no threatening move. None of the celebrants seem to notice it; many indeed seem to have forgotten you altogether.

"A dead soul in our walls! Would you believe this! Ah, but you are delightful. Yet, you do us a terrible offense!"

"I would never wish to offend the mistress of such a radiant castle," you say as smoothly as you can manage.

"Oh, me, mistress? Perish the thought. And that is your offense, brave samurai! You have yet to introduce yourself to our Lady, who I am sure will be as delighted to see you as everyone in this room."

The throbbing comes back, stronger than before, and you realize that it is not internal; it really comes from above you. You look up, and through the old, cracked planks of the ceiling, you see a golden light shining through, and moving, slowly, at the speed of a casual walk. Wherever that light goes, the pulse goes, and the closer you are to her, the more you feel it. Streaks of golden light peek through the ceiling, cast by some hidden sun. You find yourself short of breath.

"Here," the lady says, playfully taking your arm and pulling you into the corridor. "You have nothing to fear, for I will be sure to tell the lady myself of the bravery of your reaching us through this dreadful weather."

You tilt your head as you enter the corridor. In the courtyard, more ghosts - if that's what they are - are chatting under the cover of the inward roofs. You can see your bunraku, still kneeling, lanterns suspended to its armor by some blitheful soul.

You turn, towards the direction the lady is taking you, and you can see the golden light, moving, throbbing, radiating heat. You know, without the shadow of a doubt, that this is the "Lady" of this castle, towards whom your companion is taking you, seeing nothing wrong with bringing an unknown, armored stranger wielding a spear to her mistress and treating her as a guest. Ghosts cannot fully grasp the world, you know this; their worldview tends to ignore facts that do not fit into whatever picture their mind is obsessed with.

You have not reached the stairs yet. Your armor is in the courtyard, so close.

[ ]Make polite excuses and meaningless chatter as you excuse yourself and move to the courtyard, get in Harvest and run from whatever madness is going on in these walls.
[ ]Follow your companion to her Lady in hopes of discovering the source of and reason for this disturbing spectacle.

 

[Omicron]

IV. Heaven's Own Beauty

You let the ghostly woman pull you up the stairs, free hand clutching your spear.

A few hours ago, this floor was only ruined rooms, crumbling ceilings, cracked stone. Now it is as if the castle had never seen the war; beautiful tapestries hang on the walls, flower petals are scattered along the corridors, perfume fills the air.

Your companion pushes authoritatively through clusters of gossipping nobles, following the light as it passes from corridor to corridor. You struggle to keep a clear mental map of your movements, to always know where the castle's entrance is in case something goes wrong; the lady's chatter is a distraction. She asks questions but expects no answer; you are not sure if she actually sees you or if you have simply been caught as a prop in the playacting of a barely-conscious creature, and this fills you with unease. The golden-glowing heat gets nearer and nearer. You cross a room in which old nobles play a game of tiles, paying you no mind. They pick from bowls of dried fruits and your mouth salivates, but this is not real, you know it, and no living should ever eat the food of the dead.

Your eyes keep coming back to the tapestries, each one always bearing the same mon, the same family emblem, each one somehow impossible to read. And then, you can see it - memory of your calligraphy lessons finally piercing through the fog of martial habits. You remember your teacher showing you the basics of this style, warning you that you would spend little time on it due to its lack of use in modern time.

Every tapestry bears a swallow against a setting sun surrounded by Heaven's writ, the specific (quaintly antiquated) calligraphy of the servants of the Heavenly Dragons. But this castle dated back to before the fall, when the only people to use such writ would have been priests and-

Something tugs on your sleeve, and your thoughts halt in their tracks. You are on the side of the castle; in front of you is a balcony that overlooks the courtyard, closed by paper walls against the rain, a rare point of frailty and grace in this dour battle-building. And there she is in front of that wall, a figure shrouded in radiance, robes flowing to the ground and rippling as she walks, dragons and lion-dogs and peacocks dancing on satin, lustrous dark hair held by a jade pin, her back turned to you. Two handmaids chuckle as you approach, fans hiding their mouths. Golden light pulses off her body, and the skin of your arms pricks with sweat from the heat. You can feel the pulse, louder than your heartbeat.

"My lady Aoi," your companion declares, bowing low. "Today we are honored with a visit by a distant traveler, the brave samurai…" She raises an eyebrow at you, and you step forward, bowing lightly.

"I am Princess Tomoe," you speak, surprising yourself with the accent you put on the title, challenging this ghost, this glowing aberration, to turn and give you due respect. But the Lady of the castle only lifts her own fan to her lips, and you know she is smiling. She turns to face you, slowly, arrogantly, and does not bow.

"It is always a pleasure to welcome one of our loyal subjects, Princess Tomoe," she says, and your eyes are drawn to her brow, staring in awe and horror.

The woman is beautiful - or she should be, you can gather that much. But as you look at her you do not see her soft rounded features, her perfect make-up, her deep green eyes. You only see her skull. You can see it through her skin, the center of the radiance. But it is no thing of bone; it is a skull of gold and crystal, a lattice of blue-white veins creeping over a thing of beautiful metal, and it shines through her translucent flesh.

"Subjects?" you blurt out, too distracted to catch yourself. But she smiles, taking no apparent offense.

"Yes, indeed, first of our subjects. For are not the Imperial Family the stewards of the earth, bequeathed in their keep by heaven? I am Aoi Suzume, Consort to He-Who-Brings-the-Downpour. It is your honor to meet me."

A concubine. A concubine to one of the Heavenly Dragons. You can see the proud, defiant smile of a commoner lording her status over one of the nobles who once did the same to her; a woman who for whatever reason drew the eyes of one of the masters of Heaven, and was whisked to their celestial abode to enjoy otherworldly delights. But Heaven fell, and she is on earth now, ruling over dead souls. What sorcery..?

You will not kneel to a shadow of a world that no longer is.

"Is this your castle, Lady Aoi?" you says all smile. "I have never seen its like. What is it called?"

"Oh, you flatter me. This is but a simple place, a season castle in-between my consort's visits. It is-" She pauses, blinking. "It is Castle-" She freezes mid-sentence, not as a human would but a sudden and total cessation of motion, and then a shudder like drying paint disturbed by the wind, and then for a moment that lasts less than a second her image is gone, leaving only the skull floating in the air, but before this has time to register she is back again, slowly fanning her cheeks, smiling. "But I did not catch your full title, your majesty. I pride myself on knowing our Emperor's family in and out but do not recognize you."

You open your mouth to speak the title and close it again. You can't. Your parents lost it in the fall. Somewhere in the Empire there is a small parcel of land with a shrine on it, and that parcel is long conquered by who knows what, and as long as you do not hold it you cannot call yourself it. Your mother called herself Princess Nowhere - and so you would be the Princess of Nowhere. That's a good one, you think with bitter amusement. You should use it someday. You swallow your pride and put on a false smile.

"What unexpected night visitor would I be if I so quickly shed my mystery?"

"What visitor indeed," Aoi says, eyes narrowing.

"I can't help but notice that you have many esteemed and noble guests, Lady Aoi, but no priests. I would expect a concubine of a Heavenly Dragon to never be without her lover's servants."

Aoi Suzume laughs, hiding her mouth with her fan. "These stuffy old men? As much respect as I have for my beloved's cult as his consort," she says putting weight on the word, "I am a woman of the worldy. The priests are officiating in- in-" Her arm blurs. It is a very strange thing, unlike any ghostly phenomena you've seen; it seems to still exist but to lose its definition, as if seen through a haze of tears. Aoi's head twitches twice to the left, her smile falters and comes back. You take a step forward, naginata sliding in your grip.

"Tell me, Lady Aoi. It must not be easy to be the consort of a being of such broad and heavy responsibilities as a Dragon. When was the last time you saw your beloved?"

"Why," Aoi says with a look of polite long-sufferance, "but no later than this spring, when he left me to bring the heavy rains that would water your peasants' fields. What is but a couple of months of separation between those bound by love?"

"My lady," you say smiling, stepping one step closer, "it is spring, and the heavy rains have not yet come."

Aoi stares at you for a frozen moment, unblinking, and there is an unearthly shiver across her skin, a disturbance of her very being; she flickers and she's at a the balcony, the doors open for wind to barge in, staring at the early spring rains falling upon the fresh grass of her courtyard, the distant forests in bloom. Without a sense of motion or transition she is back behind her two handmaidens, her arm twitching. Around you, the walls crawl and shudder, the paint fades from the tapestries.

You open your mouth, to say… Something. She is broken and it fills you with pity, but she is an aberration distasteful to your eyes, emotions in conflict. You are about to ask her what she is, to taunt her for having been dead all this time, to let her down gently as her world crumbles, to tell her that her consort is long gone and assert your authority, to abjure her with a prayer. You are not sure, because you never get to say a word. The Concubine blinks in and out of existence, without transition her hands are clutching her skull, the radiance expands from her, the heat engulfs you and her two handmaidens step back in horror.

"The pathways are broken," the Concubine says in a flat, inhuman voice. "The waters of memory seep through the gate. The core of the self is coming apart. Consistency must be achieved; the living memory must be consumed to mend the broken paths." Aoi Suzume stares at you, into you. "FEED HER TO ME!"

The handmaidens snap their fans and extend their arms, and they are no longer fans or arms but swallows' wings; their necks stretch and their mouths open into twisted beaks, their robes are feathers; they leap at you as one-winged ghosts, shrieking inhumanly.

Your naginata swings up, the butt of the spear smashing into the first one's wings, in the second one's ankle, then back into the first one's head. Both ghosts stumble to the ground and the spear spins in your hand and comes up blade first. You step further into the burning glow, sweeping left, and take a handmaiden's deformed head; the second one pushes herself up, throws herself at you to tear your throat out with her beak. You step back, lower your spear, and she impales herself on it; you slice right and her ghostly flesh comes apart. Both handmaidens dissolve into smoke.

"I'm hungry too and you don't see me making a scene about it," you spit.

"FEED HER TO ME!" Aoi Suzume screams, and the companion who brought you to her, whom you'd almost forgotten, smiles apologetically as her flesh melts into a vision of horror. The wall to your left explodes - but no, the stone is unmarred, it is a ghost stepping through it like through a curtain of water to come between you and his mistress. You hear the flutter of wings, the patter of feet, they come from above and below and the side, the walls no obstacle to them.

You close your eyes, no longer than a blink, and exhale. Your hands grip your spear tightly.

In the courtyard, the rain pours on softly.

Far from the warlands, trees blossom with the promise of flowers.

You open your eyes.

[ ]Cut down Lady Aoi's protectors and attack her before the ghosts have time to swarm you. If you can dispatch her, you can end this without fighting an entire castle.
[ ]Rush for the balcony and jump down in the courtyard. If you can get into your bunraku before the ghosts realize what you're doing, you will laugh at their numbers.
[ ]Speak up and call upon your blood, your title and prayers of abjuration to reach out to whatever spark of humanity is still in Aoi and restore her clarity.

 

[Omicron]

What's this? By god, it's an infodump! Feel free to skip it, it's nothing vital, just a bit of context.

Interlude: Imperial Names and Titles

The Emperor does not rule the country; he is the country. Fully identified with his domain, he bears no family name, and neither does his bloodline. The Imperial Dynasty has ruled since time out of memory, a single unbroken lineage - at least until the fall. All lands in the Empire belong to the Emperor- for they are him. The noble families of the Empire only hold them in stewardship, but the Emperor reserves as his personal domain a selection of fiefs. Imperial descendants are attributed these domains under a system of ranks. Descendents of the first rank are the Emperor's siblings and children, and are given a fief which encompasses several other fiefs. They are identified with this fief as the Emperor is with his title. Descendents of the second rank are the children of descendant of the first rank, and are attributed one of the smaller fiefs within their parent's domain, with which they are similarly identified. Their own children are descendent of the third rank, and do not receive fiefs of their own; rather they are said to be issued of their parent's fief, and this becomes their title. When another noble (or, scandalously, a commoner) marries the Emperor or a descendent up to the third rank, they abandon their family name and take the title of their spouse. Descendents of the fourth rank, in turn, are born of third rank parents and receive no fief, nor are issued of a fief; they are simply said to be "of Imperial Blood," and when they marry it is they who take their spouse's family name.

For instance, the Emperor's first sibling was typically attributed the domain of the Eternally Blooming Temple in the Land of Endless Gardens, a beautiful and peaceful land with a thriving cultural life, where they were expected to spend their days in peaceful leisure and learning without threatening the throne. At the time of Heaven's fall, the Emperor's closest sibling was thus known as Okiko, Princess Eternally Blooming. Her first daughter was granted the Orchid Shrine, a beautiful fief in the temple's greater domain, and she was thus known as Noriko, Princess Orchid. Her children were Takeda, Prince of Orchids, and Imeko, Princess of Orchids. Had she lived long enough to beget grandchildren, they would have been known as [Name], Princes of Imperial Blood, until such a time as they married in turn, taking their spouse's family name.

Tomoe is a third rank descendant, far removed from the throne. Her mother was the second-born daughter of the Emperor's youngest brother. Because her parents lost their small fief in the spirit wars, they refused to call themselves by their title, and her mother styled herself as Princess Nowhere. This would make Tomoe Princess of Nowhere, although this is an affectation rather than an official title, and she could take a number of alternatives (Princess of Nothing, Princess of Loss, Princess of Remembrance) or simply call herself "Princess" as she is doing now. She would not call herself Princess of Imperial Blood, as this would identify her as a fourth rank descendant and she is quite proud of her status, lost fief or no. If she ever marries, her spouse will abandon their family name and take her title.

Tomoe's title of address is "Her Imperial Majesty," and it is still how she is introduced in court, but few nobles will bother using such a lofty title for a third-rank descendant of the fallen dynasty when addressing her in person, and pushing it will generally not be very well received.

 

[Omicron]

V. Memory Cast in Amber

Here they come, the cohort of the dead; the lady-companion's robes flow like wax and so does her flesh, her jaw unhinges like a snake's. A hundred feet rush down corridors and through rooms to surround you. You only have a spear.

No. You only have a spear and yourself.

"Three things do the Heavens abhor," you say, thrusting your naginata to push back the ghost defending Lady Aoi. The lady-companion closes in behind you, but you immediately bring your spear back in a thrust of the haft and she backs down. "Three things does the priest abjure, three things may not cross the threshold of the righteous." Eyes erupt from the walls. Hands slide through the ground. Shadows lengthen. You swing your blade, and they recoil.

"Flesh without blood
Soul without heart
Spirit without understanding."

They hiss. They writhe. The lady-companion and the ghostly guard lurch forward, their fingers now long claws with too many joints. You duck to the side, avoiding a swipe, and they meet each other in the middle of the corridor; you grasp your haft in both hand and ram it into the both of them, an iron bar slamming their bodies against the wall. The guard fades through the floor, the lady-companion melts away like dew.

"O Black Dragon Who Spins the Wheel of Our Fates, though your wheel be fallen from the skies, though your body lay broken under it, the wheel still spins; Fate endures."

The faceless horde surges through the corridor. Bird-ghosts, one arm a wing and one arm a claw, mouths turned to hungry beaks. They must think your weapon too long to use in a corridor. You hold it in one hand, and with the other you draw broken halves of supplication mudras; where ghosts stare at your hand their eyes fill with fear. You smile and back down towards the radiant Concubine, curved blade sweeping the air, cutting a face, an arm, thwarting the horde. One of them extends his arm, and you stab it into the wall; one of them crawls beneath the horde and swipes at your feet, cutting your ankle. Fresh blood spills to the ground, and the horde hollers; but you slash the impudent's limb off and back down with your spear holding back the rest.

It cannot last forever.

"O Black Dragon, O ever-spinning wheel, I implore you; through me open a path for those who have lost the way. I am your servant under the sun, I am steward of your Creation; through me the will of Fate is enacted."

They come out of the walls on each side of you, two at once, their feathers turning to cutting steel. You raise the haft above your head, and the sturdy wood takes on both blows, quaking in your grip. You step back, feint, your blade curves through the air and you perform the fisherman's hook: slipping between a ghost's guard you stab at his throat in an ascending motion, then hurl him bodily into the other one. Both slump to the floor, blocking the hallway to the horde.

Too many. You can't keep all your openings covered.

"O Dead, your flesh is but the thinnest of air, your spirit is but memory, you are but a soul trapped in its delusion. See through me your allotted path, see through me your final rest; let go of your earthly tethers."

You lower your naginata, then thrust it at the ground. The tip of your blade pierces the wooden planks, and you draw. It is the heaviest brush you've ever lifted; it is the ugliest character you've ever drawn; but you have held a brush since you first knew how to walk, and yours are the words of all Creation from Heaven to Hell.

"Rest," says the glyph you have engraved into the floor. And the ghosts before you wail; they scream, flailing their arms but not reaching you; they kneel, and weep on their fallen state.

You turn. Before you Lady Aoi has become a thing of divine radiance, her crystal-and-gold skull hovering at the core of a shape of divine light. She extends her arm towards you, and they are fingers of searing radiance. Your flesh sizzle, and you ignore the pain.

It is as if she has not even heard your prayers. Either she is a ghost of terrible power, or she is no ghost at all.

"Lady Aoi!" You shout, raising your hand, palm open towards her. "The Heavens have fallen long ago. He-Who-Brings-The-Downpour fell to earth, a radiant star, and was never seen again; you have no consort. But I am Tomoe, Imperial Princess! My blood is the blood to which was bequeathed the earth! If there is one shred of you that remembers your consort, you will look upon me and know that I am a guardian of his Creation!"

The fingers burn; the leather of your armor glows red with heat. She comes closer, burning brighter, and then - she stops, as if hesitant.

"In my name; in the name of the Emperor, who is fallen; in the name of your consort, who put the Empire in our keeping; in the name of all the lost souls trapped in this castle, repeating an endless dance as if the world had not crumbled… In all these names and more, Aoi Suzume, I ask you to…" The words fail you. To stand down? To surrender? To see the truth?

You breathe haltingly, spear held low. The radiance shivers.

"I ask you to speak to me," you say softly. "I am not memory to be consumed. I am not a dancer in your endless celebration. I am not a mysterious stranger come to visit you. I am just… Tomoe, princess of nowhere. And I want to speak with you."

There is silence, for a moment.

Then the lanterns dim, the tapestries decay, the paintings fade, the flowers in the vases wither. The lights of the gala wink out, and there is only moonlight streamed through rain, and the ghosts fade like so much smoke.

The golden skull hovers down, and the radiance resolves into a single woman sitting on the ground, her eyes staring at the empty castle.

"Why?" she asks, her voice far away. "Why couldn't you let me dream?"

"Because," you say, and your throat tightens, "there is an order, a path for all things. Whatever happened to you, whatever befell this castle, it is all gone now. It is time to rest. You cannot hang on forever."

She stares at you, and tears rip through her white make-up. She smiles, the saddest smile you've ever seen.

"But I cannot rest. To know the peace of death, I should first have ever been alive."

You stare at her, befuddled, and the glow spreads out from her again; the walls of the castle are gone, you see the sky and the stars, beautiful and quiet. And then you see the light, and the tear in the sky; you see the moment Heaven came apart at the seams, the fire hurled down below. A light brighter than you could imagine, tearing across space like the jagged light of lightning, but never reaching the ground, always above.

And in your vision you see one shooting star, falling from that tear, and it becomes all you can see. It falls, it falls towards the earth, towards the Land of Four Seasons, towards this castle as it celebrates some forgotten event - and it smashes into its roof, tears through its upper levels, shakes the castle and fills it with heat and smoke and burning dust, and there are screams of agony and death, and then the castle is silent.

And you see the star, resting where it struck; and it is no rough stone, no molten iron bolt. It is a golden skull, covered in a lattice of crystal.

"I never visited this castle; I never knew these people. I died in fire and hate, and fell from the skies; and my fall was death. They did not deserve this. I never meant any harm."

She looks at the walls, at the cracked stone, at the empty balcony. You step closer, put one knee to the ground, try to find your voice.

"It was not fair," you say gently, "but nothing was in the fall. The wheel must turn; the dead must find rest, lest they one day outnumber the living."

"But I am not dead," she says with that sad smile. "I never lived. I am not Lady Aoi. I am a book; I am a Dragon's gift to himself. I am the fear and sorrow of a mortal's frailty; I am beauty cast in amber. He made a cage of gold around his consort's mind, so that all her memories would be preserved; and when she died he could take this cage, and peering into it revive all their moments of joy and love. Wherever Suzume's soul went, I cannot say; I am only the cage."

You look into her eyes, and you see that it is true. This is the craft of Heaven's masters, skill without conscience; the lives of mortals a theatre for them to watch. Oh, they weep with our sorrows, they laugh with our joy; but when the play is over they sigh and go home, while we lay in the dirt.

"What year is it?" the skull asks.

"It is 18 after the fall, one thousand six hundred and seventy-three after the first Emperor."

The Concubine's image wipes a tear.

"I try… So hard… To keep them alive. I killed them all; it is only fair. I caught their images in the moment of their deaths, and I replay them over and over, so that this last night of their lives never end, so that they always dance and laugh and play tiles. But I was not meant for this; every year I lose a little more of the past. Every time I try to record a new thing, a thing from after the fall, from after the death, I have to erase something from before."

She extends a hand, brushing your cheek. "With your memories I could have gone a little longer, I could have remembered the name of the Emperor and his progeny, the place of my birth, the night of my first love. But what would be the point? I would only have forgotten again in time…"

You catch her hand, hold it briefly, a gesture of compassion. She smiles again, looking to the balcony, where the rain still pours at the same patter, unchanging, indifferent to your battle and her woes and her sorrows.

"My spring can never end, and my husband can never come home; I wait and wait and the heavy rains never cease. Oh, they rain not on my fields; only in my heart…"

You stand alone in the ruins of the castle. There are no lanterns, there is no crackling fireplace. You hear no music, you see no dancers.

On the ground before you, sitting at an odd angle like an object tossed out of hand, is a skull of gold laced with blue-white crystal.

[ ]Leave the skull in the castle, where it can forget you ever came and replay the memory of Aoi Suzume and the forlorn dancers until they fade away at last.
[ ]Take the skull, a relic of the fallen Heavens, to offer as a gift to Summer's Dragon lord. There it can find peace as an object of study and a relic to be preserved.
[ ]Smash the skull, consecrate the ruins, and bring the recorded memory and the trapped ghosts a true, final rest.

 

[Omicron]

VI. Release

You stare at the skull for a long time, reflecting upon what you've seen and heard.

This is not a just fate. To replay one final day endlessly, without ever forming new memories, without ever growing beyond the remembrance of that one day, losing even all other memories in time… It is no life; it is the sickness of the old, the true ancients who sit in their chairs staring at a world only they can see, forgetting all that they've ever known. And to do this, out of guilt, this memory, this record of a dead woman, is trapping dozens of souls in that delusion, a gesture of misguided kindness.

It is not kindness to allow this.

You take the skull in your hands, holding it up to your face, staring into it - but Aoi's image is truly gone, for now at least; it is only a piece of beautiful jewelry. You sigh, resigning yourself, and brandish your spear. You strike with the haft, one swift blow to end it quickly.

The spear bounces back, quivering in your hands, and the skull sits pristine.

You frown and try again, harder this time, yet to no more effect. You pick up the skull in your hands, pushing against it to crush it, and achieve nothing. Of course. It withstood a fall from the heavens to the earth. It was a relic made to endure the test of the time. Your mortal strength will not break it. You take the item under your arm and descend back into the courtyard, moving through stairs and corridors full of shadows and cold stone, the illusion fully dissipated.

You place the golden skull in the center of the courtyard, and push yourself up into the hatch of your bunraku. Rain soaking the pavement, you raise your steel titan, stepping out of the protective walls, and stand with all its might in the middle of the yard. Your body tenses against the strings of your puppet; you form your fingers into a claw-like grip, sliding them slowly across your chest, and deep within the limbs of your armor heavy cogs shift, unlocking its full strength, a striking power that cannot be sustained without damaging your frame. You grasp the immense naginata, its tree-trunk haft in both hands, and raise it high to the moon. Under your breath you whisper a wordless prayer, a string of syllables whose meaning is long forgotten. Then you strike.

The curved blade catches moonlight and for a moment it seems as if a crescent moon itself. Then it falls, putting truth to the name of your frame, a Falling Mountain.

The golden skull shatters into a hundred fragments. In that same moment comes a tidal wave of golden light, a crushing pressure that knocks you into your seat, and your vision goes blank. No, not blank. It is a blinding light which resolves itself into…

You are sitting upright in your bed, staring wide-eyed as your mother tells you the story of the daring young mortal who stole a star from the sky. She is tired - she works herself to the bone - but she is smiling at how awed you are by such a simple story. You try your hardest to commit it to memory, to never forget it.

You are sitting in the street, watching as richer men and women pass, hawking your wares with your still-childish voice. A dozen of hair pieces patiently carved out of wood and painted to attract the eye, butterflies and beetles and flowers. When the day ends you collect your earnings and you go bribe one of the servants of the old preceptor so that he'll let you curl up beneath his window and listen to the stories. You never forget a word of them.

You are sitting in court, smiling at your success, reciting all the stories you have spent these years memorizing in a voice as smooth as a river in summer. They listen to you, and you know that for now at least you will not want for food or a roof over your head. In the crowd your eyes catches that of a handsome man whose smile is a little too knowing to your taste; for a second his eyes glow with something not human, and your heart skips a beat.

You are sitting in a chariot pulled by a flock of sparrows, riding over the clouds, trying not to shriek in terror. At your side, your consort is still smiling that same smile as on the first day. Then you see them, filling your sight all at once: the glittering towers of Heaven, the dragons coiling across the skies, the stars and the moon and the sun all in the sky at once. You forget your fear then, and open your mouth in awe.

You are sitting in the tea room facing your beautiful garden. Your husband has left once again, and you keenly feel the walls around you. He means no ill will, does not intend to keep you prisoner, but sees no reason to arrange for you a visit to the human world. You sit, fanning yourself with a gold-laced fan, brushing imaginary dust off a silken kimono, sipping tea out of a porcelain cup, attended by countless servants; but your eyes are cast on the walls of your garden, and you long to hear new stories.

The deluge of visions ceases, and the world returns as you blink. The castle is gone; the radiance that washed over you has replaced it with a magnificent mansion of a style of architecture unknown to you, a building never meant to face war, all paper walls and gracile wooden beams and multi-tiered roofs, with a divine gate in the front of its alley and an orchard in its garden, a place as beautiful as a dream. Beyond that mansion are the shadows of glittering towers, flying contraptions, serpentine shapes crossing the air…

Then the image dissolves into motes of golden light. You watch as they dance across your armor, painting bright lines as if drawing the most intricate of tattoos on the steel giant's skin; and then that too fades away, and you are returned to the silent night. Even the rain soon ceases its patter.

You dig a hole in the middle of the courtyard and bury the shards of the skull in it. With your bunraku's naginata, you trace a command of rest over that tomb, then on the wall over the main door of the castle itself. In your experienced hands even the armor's clumsy controls manage to use it with the grace of a brush, its blade digging into stone and earth as long as you put in enough force. When that is done you climb down and go through every room in the castle, reciting prayers of rest for the dead while dipping your fingers into what's left of your small beer and flicking it to the ground in libation, over and over.

At last, you sit down on your mat in front of the cold fireplace. Looking around you, you can almost feel as if the dancers would materialize once again to resume their party… But no, there is only the quiet of the night, and your own thoughts hurtling through your head.

You take a long sip of sake, and collapse onto your mat.

[Resolve rank is: DETERMINED]
[Acquired character trait: A Memory of Heaven]

***​

You've been walking for two days now, and you know you are getting closer to your goal. Yesterday you spotted bandits, riding along the hills and observing you from afar, but they did not dare to approach a bunraku with their limited numbers. Later you saw a village on the horizon, but it was too far off your route to make a stop, and so you kept going, following the river always. Other than this there is little to break the monotony of the march, or to distract you from your bleak thoughts.

Now, more and more patches of fertile land are appearing, strange islands of greenery in the beaten earth of the warlands. The transition between enclaves and battlegrounds is usually more straightforward, but here it's as if both terrains were encroaching upon each other and creating a broken patchwork - and you see no human being anywhere you look, even though you are beginning to see more patches that would be big enough to sustain farms.

A tower stands off the road as if in silent greeting. You raise your armor's arm and shout out a greeting, but receive no answer. As you approach you see these are slender buildings of stone and wood, perhaps a little too slender to make good fortifications, and from their windows float - stained and frayed at the bottom - a banner sporting three stalks of wheat inside a sun at the zenith; the mon of the city of Summer.

This, then, must have been the outer perimeter controlled by the city until recent times. Why it lost that ground, you could not say; but you know now that the city is very close, a few hour's walk only. You might be there by sunset if you push yourself a bit, probably more in the early night.

Looking around you to confirm your suspicions, you see indeed a second watchtower a great distance away to the east, across the river. And looking to the west, where the hills rise like soft waves… You do not see a watchtower. Instead, you see something stranger; a faint glow over the horizon, coming from some kind of artificial structure, a building or complex of some kind whose details you can't make out. That building would have been inside the perimeter controlled by the towers when they were manned, although some fair distance off to the west.

You ponder whether you've had enough of wandering off into the supernatural unknown with that castle, and whether you can afford to delay any longer. You've run out of food (with fish an unreliable addition at best), of drink other than water, and are looking more ragged every day, not a great first impression when introducing yourself to a lord. If you take a detour, you will certainly put another day between you and your arrival. And you'll probably learn why the city had to pull back when you get there. That said, there is a faintly glowing man-made structure only a couple hours away, and who knows what could be there?

[ ]Ignore the structure and head directly for Summer.
[ ]Head for that unknown place to investigate it.

 

[Omicron]

VII. Shidao's Stand

If nothing else, this might be a chance to find something valuable to bring to the dragon lord, so that he might hold you higher in his favor than some disheveled ronin. You turn your bunraku towards the glow and leave the river behind you.

You cross through patches of wild wheat, fertile land oddly defined. Years of war leveraging ever-more deadly weapons and intense spiritual power have plagued the heartlands of the Empire, creating these blackened warlands where vegetation struggles to grow. Maintaining the fertility of one's lands is one of the most vital task any lord must oversee. But here, there are pockets of green, fertile earth in which sprout healthy trees and wild weeds in the middle of an otherwise tainted earth, a decidedly unnatural sight.

The structure stands on a hilltop, at the ouskirts of the forested hills which mark the frontier of Summer's territory. At first, you think it's a castle; but as you get closer you realize it is more a temporary fort, a construct of wood and earthen ramparts quickly put together to hold territory before the city could afford the time and resources to create true fortifications. That fort failed in its task, evidently - it has crumbled, beams jutting out of earthen heaps like scattered bones in a scavenger's den. The blue-green glow seems to emanate from these ruins. As you try to determine how old that collapse is, you realize that there are vines and shrubs sprouting from the ruins, even though the place doesn't look that old.

In front of that destroyed fort is something more interesting: a small camp, made up of a handful of tents and a hastily-built wooden palisade. In the middle of that camp flies a tattered standard - three stalks of wheat in a sun at the zenith, the mon of Summer. Caution on your mind, you close the hatch of the bunraku, turning your world to an oppressive darkness. Slipping your right hand out of its glove, you lower the telescopic apparatus and rest your head against it; it shifts to accommodate the specific shape of your forehead, and the mirrors offer before you the landscape as seen through the eyes of your armor. You feel much taller suddenly, towering over the tall grass and scrawny, sparse trees that surround you.

As you approach there is a flurry of activity in the camp. People jump out of their tents, quickly grab bows and climb onto their palisade, holding their arrows towards you. You can make two dozen people facing you, with a few more behind them. One of them, wearing lamellar armor and a helmet sporting a coiled dragon, raises one hand and shouts at your approach: "Halt!"

You eye the ragtag group in front of you and politely stop, although not without one last earth-shaking step that makes the eyes of the soldiers wide with fear. Your bunraku is taller than their palisade, and their bows are small compound bows, not samurai's yomi. They may pierce your outer shell if the men wielding them are skilled, but will not damage any internal component of your armor - to put it simply, there is nothing these men can do to harm you.

"Greetings," you say, and your voice is carried through ingenious wind-tubes to come out of Harvest's maiden-mask, a howling tone like the wind on a battlefield. "I am Princess Tomoe, a masterless warrior and puppeteer. I come to you without ill intent."

At the word "princess," a few of the men look to each other, lowering their bows slightly. Their leader seems more interested in the "masterless" part, and frowns under his helm.

"What brings you here, ronin?"

"I have come to offer my services to the lord of Summer. From your standard, I wager you are his men?"

The man nods curtly. "I am Shidao, a sergeant of Summer and a servant of He-Who-Reads-The-Stars. But what brings you here?"

If the man could see your face you would affect a bemused look. "The place glows, sergeant. I was simply following the river towards Summer, but well, I could hardly let pass such an interesting sight on my way to a lord famed for his… Esoteric interests."

The sergeant scoffs, which draws your interest. Most men of his rank would be deferential to a noble - even a ronin, and especially one of imperial blood. Looking at his men more attentively, you can see that they look tired, their light armor is damaged in a few places, and two sport bandages from recent wounds. It seems exhaustion has worn out their sense of decorum.

"If you truly intend to offer yourself to the lord of Summer, ronin, then I formally request your assistance for me and my men."

You ponder this for a moment, then nod your armor's head. "Very well. But I hope we can discuss this assistance around a meal. I ran out of food days ago."

***​

You sit in the middle of the camp, tearing through a bowl of unseasoned rice, your armor standing at attention nearby. There are no bows pointed at you now, although the men are still wary; Shidao is the only one sitting with you.

"This place was supposed to be the vanguard of Summer's expansion," he says looking at the nearby ruins. "Forts and watchtowers to secure the perimeter, and then some kind of divine contraption our lord had retrieved from a blighted crater to return the warlands to fertility. We were going to have a wider territory, more food, and we'd push back the bandits that had been scouring the edges of our domain." He scoffs. "Look around you how well that worked out."

"We thought the bandits were a few disparate groups, easy to eradicate once we had some fortifications in the region. Turns out, their reaction to seeing us put down a fort and towers was to retreat further away, confer between themselves, and unite as a single force under some kind of 'prince.' They came out of the hills two weeks ago and besieged the fort. We held fast for a week, but this place was never meant to endure for so long. On the seventh night they managed to set fire to the main building, and our captain…" He sighs. "I don't know what he did. He took the relic and did something with it and just like that, the fire went out. We cheered - and then the entire structure started groaning and shaking around us, and the captain made a pale face, and next thing we knew the castle was collapsing in on itself with trees growing out of the ground or sommat. Most of us managed to escape - not all. Captain never had a chance, he couldn't even move, not even let go of that dumb relic. And then we were stranded outside our castle, having only just routed the bandits, with only the clothes on our back and a spear for every two men. So we made our way back to Summer as fast as we could - not fast enough. Bandits came back, harassed our group, took over half of our men. By the time we reached city, I was the highest ranking soldier left."

Your rice finished, your push your bowl aside and look at the man. There's something haunting in his eyes, and you feel a pang of compassion. You take your sake and two small cups and pour one for each of you; he gives you a grateful look and downs it in one gulp.

"What happened then?"

"Our lord wasn't happy we'd lost the fort, or the trinket, or that the captain had done some kind of damage to it. He told me I had to go back and retrieve his toy, and he gave me enough men for what he thought was a quick, "get there, lift some planks, grab the glowing thing and get out" mission."

Again, the sergeant looks at the ruins, but this time his gaze lingers specifically on the thick vines and twisting branches growing out of it.

"Except that didn't work. First thing, beams wouldn't let themselves move. Damned plants wrap around them, pull them down. Hack through them, more grow. Get them out of the way, others move into their place. Damned thing has a will of its own, 'cept it does not one thing but keep us from getting to the relic. Second thing? Bandits. We've had two attacks already, and I lost several men. And if I know anything from fighting these bastards for so long, they're gathering their strength for the final push, today, tomorrow, no later. We have to leave the place, except one that would be failing our mission, two they will kill half of us on the way home, again. So we're holed up in this useless heap of tents and sticks waiting for them to kill us all."

There's a moment of silence which you do not break, knowing where the man is going. Eventually, his face breaks into a nasty smile.

"'Cept now you're here, your majesty, and you got your armor with you. So how do you say we stand up to these bastards, with you on the front line - heck, with you being the front line - and take them to a dance they won't get up from?"

You finish your own drink, looking carefully at the camp around you.

"When you say 'in force,' what kind of force are we talking about?"

"A hundred men at least," the sergeant says dejectedly. "Most on foot, but some riders. Well-trained for bandits - but only for bandits."

You nod. Could you take on a hundred men? If your bunraku was at its peak, you would laugh at the very question. But you're tired, and Harvest has sustained battle damage and five days of marching. You might make it, but then again you might not. Looking at the camp, you try to get a better sense of the state of these troops. They're all tired and on edge, and several of them are wounded. If they assist you in the battle, some of them will certainly die, but your victory is assured. Once the bandits are routed, you'll have all the time you need to get the relic.

Then again, the point of this mission was never to defeat bandits. And you have no doubt your Falling Mountain could tear these ruins to pieces and fetch whatever broken relic is at their core, no matter what magic seeks to prevent it. And if the bandits try to harass Shidao's men while they're walking home with a bunraku for guardian, it's their funeral.

[ ]Tell the men to take shelter in the camp and face the bandits alone.
[ ]Tell the sergeant to gather his men and prepare to face the bandits with them.
[ ]Dig through the ruins for the relic so you can go directly home to Summer.

 

[Omicron]

VIII. The Iron Raven

Your decision is quickly taken.

"I will help you, sergeant. But you will need to follow my instructions."

A shadow passes over Shidao's face, but after a moment he bows his head.

"It will be as you ask, your majesty."

"Very well," you say, and pour each of you another cup. "First, you will need every man with a bow on the palisade to provide me support. Then…"

***​

They come from the northwest, cresting the wooded hills.

They are a motley bunch, an army of fortune: deserters still wearing scaled armor and flattened conical hats, scrawny peasants in thick fur mantles, light outriders with their straight-bladed spears, even a battle-couple of the Old People whose long coats bore matched geometric patterns; disgracefully you spotted in the crowd the descending helms of Autumn's levies - deserters from your own city. They bear no uniform, each man owning only whatever he could find before joining the bandits, but each one of them wears a white scarf, some kind of symbol of unity. They walk across barren earth, a hundred and twenty men marching, over twenty riders at their side, keeping them in formation.

"You said a hundred men and a few riders," you hiss to Shidao. You are standing in front of the camp, Summer's soldiers anxiously waiting bows in hand. Your hands itch in the thick leather gloves, the anticipation of battle running amok in your body.

"I said at least a hundred men and some riders! What, is this too much for an imperial puppeteer?"

A scoff is your only answer. The bandits stop at the foot of the hill two hundred yards away, and one of their horsemen breaks from the rank to cover half the remaining distance. For a moment you stare silently, a mountain of unmoving steel, then you take three steps forward, the butt of your spear hitting the ground with a tremor at each one.

The man is no mere light rider, you realize as you close in. His armor is heavier than that of the other bandits, lacquered leather with a few iron plates, and he wears a half-cloak of black feathers and an iron mask in the shape of a crow with its beak. At his waist hang two swords, long and short, a daisho. This is no mere bandit, but a samurai - and one bearing no standard. A ronin like you.

The man looks up at you, a speck in the front of your steel giant. Or perhaps it would be unfair to say that - on his horse he reaches halfway up your armor's chest. You look down, the maiden's face smiling indifferently, but the man does not flinch.

"I am Iron Raven of the Seven Mendicant Blades, servant of the Pauper Prince," he says in a booming voice. "I have been ordered to grant you a mercy: take these men, leave the fort, and you will not be harmed."

There is only silence.

After a moment, the ronin spurs his horse a foot forward. "I said-"

"You are nobody," comes the voice of Harvest, loud enough to spread to the camp and the bandits both, "member of no true order, servant of a glorified highwayman. I am Princess Tomoe, mistress of Hope for the Harvest, and this is my counter-offer: throw your two blades to the ground as a sign of your dishonor and turn back with your troops, or be that harvest."

"One bunraku cannot defeat a hundred and fifty warriors," Iron Raven says contemptously.

"That may well be, but I see no warriors before me."

He looks at you a moment longer, then turns his horse around. "Suit yourself," he says, before trotting back to his lines.

You know what comes next. As the bandits start marching again, you raise your nagina and hold it in a two-handed guard. With overwhelming numbers but an enemy split between one close-range bunraku and a few men behind fortifications, the opposing force will split in two: one group will attempt to pin you down while the other assaults the camp. If they can overwhelm and kill its defenders, they are then free to retreat and harass you at range until you retreat or exhaust yourself and die.

First come the shields. Long planks of wood, hastily bolted together - likely ripped from ruined houses somewhere in the warlands. These are not tools that can be wielded in battle, they only serve to shield the approach from archers. Holding them before them and above their heads, a hundred men advance against you like a wooden tide, a walking fortress. You let them come.

The first volley comes from your side, Shidao's men firing over your shoulders; their arrows strike the planks and the bandits flinch, but none fall. The second volley is an answer, coming from a hundred yards, too far for you to punish it; the bandits lower their shields to fire then quickly bring them up again. The distance and the angle protects most of Shidao's men, but you hear a few screams, whether of fear or pain you cannot tell. A dozen of arrows bounce against you; a few get stuck in your outer shell to no effect. At fifty yards, Shidao's men fire again, and this time find a handful of weakened spots in the formation. A few bandits scream and falter, holes in the fortress. They answer, and more of Summer's men are struck.

The last exchange comes at thirty yards, with more men struck on both sides. That is when the bandits begin to split in two, and the outriders spur their horses behind them. The ragtag horde drops their shields, taking their spears in both hands - curved naginatas and straight yari, differing lengths with little sense of standardization - and charge screaming.

At ten yards they are in your engagement range. You push your foot forward with a twist of your fingers and your Falling Mountain shifts from perfect stillness to sudden motion with the jarring, broken motion of a puppet. Faster than any of them could have imagined you close half the distance and lunge forward, a thrusting blow that sweeps right, and three men fall. The first rank starts in shock, but there are dozen more pushing behind them and they have no choice but to keep charging; you bring your spear back and sweep forward. Before their polearms can even touch your armor, five fur-clad peasants die in a spray of blood, staining their comrades. The men panic; to their credit - perhaps out of fear of what their masters do to those who fail - their fear only spurs them forward, gracelessly, their form breaking. Spears rake against your armor: shallow cuts on leather, long scratches on wood, harmless pings on steel. The bandits spread out, trying to surround you; you shift your foot back, swing your spear around and catch two deserters with a hooking blow. The rest try to push you with their spears, to push you off-balance - someone trained them in basic bunraku-fighting skills, it appears. You take two steps back and a defensive stance, your haft pushing back a dozen spears - then you bring it back and shatter three hafts.

At this moment you feel a blunt shock, three weak punches at once, and your surprise opens you to a lucky bandit who slices at your inner leg, damaging a strap. You reward him by laying him low with a blow of your haft, then feel three more impacts from a different direction. With surprise you see long shafts protruding out of your armor, and scan the battlefield beyond the rabble. Iron Raven is riding, two men by his side, and each of them is wielding a samurai's greatbow, taller than they are. They fire from horseback, three shots at once each time; you raise your hand in a parry and one arrow sticks in your gauntlet, but one other hits your chest - harmless - and the third one hits your shoulder. All of a sudden, you feel Harvest's left arm sag a little. One of the strings is not responding anymore.

"Enough of this," you spit between gritted teeth. You lift one foot and slam it into the ground, shaking the ground, and the first rank of bandits wavers; you bring your spear around, swing it in a whirlwind motion that aims to strike fear in the heart of unmotivated brigands, then you perform the wheat harvest cut. One blow slices off half a dozen spear hafts, you move one step against the enemy and the second blow brings down seven men in a crimson wave. Then in a reckless move characteristic of puppeteers, your right hand lets go off the naginata, you lean and catch a terrified soldier, and with all of Harvest's strength you hurl it at the three riders. The human projectile hits one of the bowmen like a meteor, and the other two scatter. The formation arrayed against you starts to break down, fear a more surefire weapon than even your spear. Half of them are dead, wounded or disarmed, and the rest start pulling back. You spare a look at your side; the second group is busy climbing the wooden palisade of Shidao's camp, being pushed back by spears. If you can rout your own enemies -

Then Iron Raven, his greatbow latched to his saddle and now holding his katana, comes around from your left flank. The twenty light riders who had been circling the edge of the fight fall in behind him and a thunder of hooves comes barrelling in on you. You take a wide-legged stance, blade close to the ground, and when the ronin reaches you you thrust to unhorse him; but the man is more experienced than you'd given him credit for. He leans into the saddle, makes an abrupt shift that only a veteran horseman could manage, and your blade goes wide. Then his cohort swarms you, two dozen spearmen with the force of their mounts behind their blows. There is a cascade of sparks, steel on steel, and you almost stumble. Glancing blows cut leather straps, weakening your armor. Dent after dent riddles your chestpiece. Two strings in your right leg give out.

You scream fury and bring your naginata down, an executioner's blow in the middle of the column. Two horse and their riders fall, broken in half. You sweep along the ground in an ascending blow and send three more down, mounts broken and falling on their riders. Before you can strike a third time the horsemen have scattered, dispering across the battlefield, but the harm is done; they have proven you weak and given the footmen time to regroup. The bandits fall back into formation and close in on you.

Distantly you hear Shidao scream orders. He is on the palisade, fighting hand to hand with scrambling bandits.

Iron Raven looks at you from behind his ranks, beaked mask inscrutable. His riders are slowly gathering for a second pass.

You need a strategy.

[ ]Defensive. Fall back against the palisade, remove some pressure from the soldiers to face the bandits as one united front against another.
[ ]Offensive. Meet the footmen head-on and carve through their ranks. If you rout them before the riders come back, you will be able to break their charge.
[ ]Focused. Break through the footmen's ranks and go straight for Iron Raven. If you can reach him and kill him before he evades you, all three formations will break.