Killing with Silence
A Legend of the Five Rings / Exalted Quest
Rokugan is the land of a...
A Legend of the Five Rings / Exalted Quest
Rokugan is the land of a...
Killing with Silence (L5R/Exalted)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
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Character Creation Pt.1
- Location
- London, England
Killing with Silence
A Legend of the Five Rings / Exalted Quest
Rokugan is the land of a thousand gods. Every stone has a spirit, every river a patron, and the people who dwell among them pay homage to each in turn. They honour them with sacrifice and praise them with grand celebrations, they pay heed to the monks and follow the dictates of the priests, for they live in a land blessed by heaven and they have much to be thankful for. So pious are they that the very structure of their society has become intertwined with their faith, with divinely ordained castes unified in service to a divine Emperor, the Son of Heaven. Treachery is blasphemy, filial piety a sacred duty, the passage of time marked by feast days and holy rites.
There is one exception.
Onnotangu, Lord Moon, Father of the Kami and Highest of the Gods, is not worshipped. There are no shrines in his honour, no priests that serve in his name, no sacred rites that the peasantry must observe to pay him due honour. There is but one day accorded to him in the theological calendar, a single night in the very depths of winter, and it is a time for silence and thoughtful contemplation in place of anything that might draw his wrath. To earn the attention of Lord Moon is to be cursed with madness, to bear his mark is to be shunned by all of civilised society, to actively invoke his name the act of a fool one step short of suicide. Lord Moon disdains the world his children built, finds their honour and their civility amusing when it is not insulting, and favours only those who would tear it down with tooth and claw.
He is the god of madness, iconoclasm and the outcast... and he has chosen you.
-/-
Welcome to my latest quest, a crossover work between the worlds of Legend of the Five Rings and Exalted. You play one of the Lunar Exalted, divinely chosen champion of the most feared and respected of all of Rokugan's Gods. The setting is Rokugan, but it is my intent to make the quest easy to follow and understand even if you only know about Creation... or, for that matter, if you know little about either! If you are new to Exalted in particular, the two things worth knowing about the protagonist's capabilities are these:
- Lunar Exalted are superhuman demigods, blessed with physical and mental prowess that can place them head and shoulders over merely human peers. Their gifts tend to take the form of raw power rather than skill or particular insight: a Lunar warrior might be strong enough to punch through a brick wall or fast enough to dodge falling raindrops, but in terms of actual knowledge and technique their understanding of the martial arts may very well be the same or inferior as a purely mortal combatant.
- Lunar Exalted are shapeshifters, capable of claiming the form of any human or beast they have specifically hunted and overcome for that purpose. Upon claiming a shape (which might involve killing the target), they gain the ability to mould themselves into a perfect copy thereof, and may also steal a portion of the target's memories or acquired skills into the bargain. They also have a more flexible form of shapeshifting by default, able to alter minor details of their appearance such as height, weight, hair colour and sex pretty much at all.
There are nine options below: this first round operates via APPROVAL VOTING - choose as many as you would like, and the three most popular will go forth to a second, more traditional round of voting.
-/-
Who are you?
[ ] The Bandit Chief - They made you who you are. When the great armies of the Clans marched to war, when they spilled each other's blood for honour and glory, it was your people who paid the price. Your children conscripted, your harvest stolen, your village sacked and burned. You turned to banditry to survive, but it is the thought of revenge that keeps you warm at night. Now you have the chance to seize it. (Full Moon)
[ ] The Shinobi. For a peasant to strike down a samurai means death for that peasant's entire family. But when a shinobi does it, what evidence is left? When a ghost slips into town and cuts the throat of a corrupt magistrate, or burns the home of a cruel lord, or reclaims the tax shipment that a village needs to survive, who do you blame? Ninja, after all, do not exist. (Full Moon)
[ ] The Ronin. You are a samurai without a lord, a contradiction that many see as a violation of the natural order. The nobles of the Clans see you as little better than dirt, the farmers fear you have come to take what they have made, the merchants hand you filthy coin and revel in their power, but you... you are free, as no one else can be, and you will never give it up. (Full Moon)
[ ] The Geisha. By law and custom, you do not exist, a non-person who simply happens to talk and think. Because you are not real, it is no disgrace for a samurai to display emotion in your presence, to take delight in your music and admire your beauty... to confide in your their fears. It is a fragile kind of power, but it is yours, and it is all that you have. (Changing Moon)
[ ] The Actor. The greatest playwrights are samurai, the leading roles in any production given to those nobles who seek mastery of the art, but then there are people like you. Unnoticed, unremarked, capable of taking a hundred different roles and wearing a thousand different faces, and never once showing the truth within your heart to any save the silent Moon above. Not so silent now, it seems... (Changing Moon)
[ ] The Broker. No one notices the servant cleaning halls, the gardener pruning flowers, the farmer planting rice. The common folk see much and hear more, and in the quiet hours they pass what they know to you, in exchange for coin and what protection you have it within your power to give. You will keep them safe, all of them, for as long as you can... even if you have to bleed every samurai in Rokugan to see it done. (Changing Moon)
[ ] The Speaker. The dead are no strangers to you, for you see them whenever you close your eyes. They tell you their secrets, teach you their magic, protect you from your foes. In exchange, you pass on their wishes to the living and tend to the places where they died. It is blasphemy for any not of the samurai caste to do as you do, but what of it? You will not let the law stand in the way of what is right. (No Moon)
[ ] The Monk. Born a peasant, you were given to the monastery at a young age, and though you walk the land and tend to the spiritual needs of the people you find yourself increasingly doubting the wisdom of what you teach. Can it truly be holy, to bow before the sword? Can there be anything sacred in upholding an order that cares more for birth than virtue? And if not... what are you going to do about it? (No Moon)
[ ] The Merchant. Money is filthy in the eyes of samurai, commerce a wretched necessity best left to peasants. They do not see what you see, as you travel across the land. They do not know what you know, gleaned from friends and debtors in a hundred minor towns. They do not hear the people weep, safe in their perfumed castles as they are, but you do... and you intend to do something about it. (No Moon)
-/-
Remember - round one of character creation works on APPROVAL VOTING. Choose as many from the above as you like, and I will take the most popular options and make them into a second round of elimination voting.
Style, Panoply and Form Mechanics
- Location
- London, England
MECHANICS
(parts of the below write-up have been cribbed from @EarthScorpion, but he stole them from me in the first place so it's ok)
Experience (XP)
As is typical for the SV Exalted Questing Universe, this is a narrative quest, where the mechanics serve to quantify and define story variables.
Improving your capabilities will depend on the allocation of XP, which can be obtained in three primary ways:
There are therefore three broad categories of things XP can be spent upon:
Styles
As Exalted as a setting draws heavily from wuxia, rather than having distinct "traditional" skills, your talents are instead represented as Styles - broad, "job-like" descriptions of the character's talent. L5R tends to represent these as 'schools' - a student at Kyuden Bayushi might be taught the Crimson Falling Leaves style, that combines martial excellence with courtly etiquette and an understanding of blackmail, for example.
Note that skills mechanised as styles are things that have narrative weight. If you're fond of tea, you don't need to put XP in a Style to know how to brew a good cup of tea - but if you know how to brew certain herbs into something that can cure sickness or help a man recover from poison, then this would be mechanised here. You begin with a handful of skills representative of what you learned in your mortal life, and will almost certainly acquire new ones as the quest progresses.
Charms are what supernatural beings develop as their essential nature shapes how their talents manifest. As a Lunar, your Charms are rooted in both your Styles and your Forms (see below), and will tend to be themed around mercurial prowess, maddened insight and bestial instinct. Later Charms will tend to build on the initial themes, whether directly or within the same conceptual space.
You acquire a new Charm at a rank of Disciple, and for every rank past that. If the Style is associated with your Caste, you instead gain your first Charm at Initiate. Such caste-appropriate Styles (for example, a manipulative social style for a Changing Moon or a flexible duelling style for a Full Moon) will be marked.
The XP cost is the amount of XP that must be spent to reach that level.
Panoply
You are a hero out of legend, a monster from the darkest of children's tales, and such beings are invariably possessed of more than just their skin and native talents. They might wield a sword that brings hurricanes, invoke pacts to bring the honoured dead into battle on their side, or wear masks that strike dead any who dare look upon them. Such things are represented in this quest as parts of your Panoply, and will largely be handled on a case by case basis.
As a general rule, mastering a specific power from an artefact in your possession costs 400xp - such possessions will have the list of possible powers noted alongside them on your character sheet, but are also fertile ground for homebrew and reader suggestions.
(Note - Sorcery and other forms of structured magic will be learned through styles, with charms generally representing complimentary abilities and particular insight rather than a distinct spell. New spells can be learned for 400xp each, provided they are in-theme for the occult style in question).
Forms
Forms represent the various shapes you have learned to take, generally through killing something appropriate and eating its heart, and are mechanically represented as Styles by another name. You start with one Form, that most closely associated with your spirit and self-image, and will doubtlessly obtain others throughout the quest. Note that human forms simply grant conventional styles rather than a Form, and that holding multiple different shapes associated with a given species will still result in a singular form... albeit with more experience. Killing five wolves will grant you the ability to look like any of them, but only one "Wolf Form".
Charms associated with your Forms can be used in any shape, and more importantly are associated with the idealised legend of the shape in question rather than any physical capabilities the mortal beast might possess. A Lunar who raises Shark Form to Master rank might learn to pick a murderer out of a crowd by the smell of blood on their hands, for example, even if the deed was committed years ago.
(parts of the below write-up have been cribbed from @EarthScorpion, but he stole them from me in the first place so it's ok)
Experience (XP)
As is typical for the SV Exalted Questing Universe, this is a narrative quest, where the mechanics serve to quantify and define story variables.
Improving your capabilities will depend on the allocation of XP, which can be obtained in three primary ways:
- Achieving story-based goals and objectives, generally to do with overcoming a particular foe or realising a particular ambition. This xp will be given at the end of an update and will be assigned via plan-based voting.
- Writing omakes, drawing fan-art, making particularly useful/insightful posts and generally making the thread more interesting to visit for me as an author. This xp will be given directly to the poster responsible, and allocated as they desire.
- Murder. You are a face-stealing demon, and that has certain advantages. If you hunt down a slay a duellist from the Kakita school, in addition to his face and a handful of memories you will also gain some understanding of his signature iaijutsu style, represented by xp. Similarly, hunting wolves in the woods will make you a better tracker and pack-based hunter.
There are therefore three broad categories of things XP can be spent upon:
Styles
As Exalted as a setting draws heavily from wuxia, rather than having distinct "traditional" skills, your talents are instead represented as Styles - broad, "job-like" descriptions of the character's talent. L5R tends to represent these as 'schools' - a student at Kyuden Bayushi might be taught the Crimson Falling Leaves style, that combines martial excellence with courtly etiquette and an understanding of blackmail, for example.
Note that skills mechanised as styles are things that have narrative weight. If you're fond of tea, you don't need to put XP in a Style to know how to brew a good cup of tea - but if you know how to brew certain herbs into something that can cure sickness or help a man recover from poison, then this would be mechanised here. You begin with a handful of skills representative of what you learned in your mortal life, and will almost certainly acquire new ones as the quest progresses.
Charms are what supernatural beings develop as their essential nature shapes how their talents manifest. As a Lunar, your Charms are rooted in both your Styles and your Forms (see below), and will tend to be themed around mercurial prowess, maddened insight and bestial instinct. Later Charms will tend to build on the initial themes, whether directly or within the same conceptual space.
You acquire a new Charm at a rank of Disciple, and for every rank past that. If the Style is associated with your Caste, you instead gain your first Charm at Initiate. Such caste-appropriate Styles (for example, a manipulative social style for a Changing Moon or a flexible duelling style for a Full Moon) will be marked.
The XP cost is the amount of XP that must be spent to reach that level.
- Untrained (N/A) - You may have some basic or impromptu knowledge of the techniques, but nothing that can be counted reliably in your skillsets.
- Student (100xp) - You are the rankest amateur - a novice, nothing more. There are people at this level of this skill who are quite unaware of how much they have left to learn, but that's just a sign of their ignorance.
- Initiate (200xp)- This is the level of skill common among mortals in their wage-earning profession. Suitable for them - but for one of the Exalted, it is the mark of a dabbler.
- At this level, you acquire your first Charm for Styles aligned with your Caste.
- Disciple (400xp) - The basic understanding imparted by training has been reinforced by practical experience and personal specialisation, allowing you to use the skill absent error even under pressure or outright attack.
- At this level, you acquire your first Charm for Styles which are not aligned with your Caste.
- Adept (800xp) - Your technique has been refined to a point beyond simple training, including the personalised moves and individual techniques that mark your Lunar Charms.
- Master (1600xp) - For a human to reach such a level of skill, they must open their chakras and reach enlightenment, developing their own Charms. Such exceptional beings might even be the peers of a Chosen - at least in that one singular field.
- Grandmaster (2400xp) - Your students speak your name with pride, gods nod in acknowledgement and the common folk look up at you with awe... or possibly fear. Most spirits will struggle to break this boundary.
- Heroic (3600xp) - You have risen beyond the level of what any mortal could do, and tales of your prowess are spoken by hushed voices in teahouses and shared by idle peasants in the fields. Even among the gods, one with skills at this level is worthy of respect and a healthy degree of caution.
- Champion (5400xp) - Even your enemies grudgingly attest to your prowess, and even among the legends of Rokugan there are few who can hope to call themselves your superior. You stand out among the monsters of history as an exceptional specimen.
- Infamous (7500xp) - If it can be done, you have done it; if you cannot do it, it cannot be done. You are the master of this style, and the meeting of two such exemplars in battle is something more akin to a natural disaster in motion than anything resembling an actual fight. The Five Elemental Masters and the proudest among the Honoured Dead might have mastered their signature style to this level.
- Rumour exists of greater prowess still, almost certainly beyond the scope of this chronicle...
Panoply
You are a hero out of legend, a monster from the darkest of children's tales, and such beings are invariably possessed of more than just their skin and native talents. They might wield a sword that brings hurricanes, invoke pacts to bring the honoured dead into battle on their side, or wear masks that strike dead any who dare look upon them. Such things are represented in this quest as parts of your Panoply, and will largely be handled on a case by case basis.
As a general rule, mastering a specific power from an artefact in your possession costs 400xp - such possessions will have the list of possible powers noted alongside them on your character sheet, but are also fertile ground for homebrew and reader suggestions.
(Note - Sorcery and other forms of structured magic will be learned through styles, with charms generally representing complimentary abilities and particular insight rather than a distinct spell. New spells can be learned for 400xp each, provided they are in-theme for the occult style in question).
Forms
Forms represent the various shapes you have learned to take, generally through killing something appropriate and eating its heart, and are mechanically represented as Styles by another name. You start with one Form, that most closely associated with your spirit and self-image, and will doubtlessly obtain others throughout the quest. Note that human forms simply grant conventional styles rather than a Form, and that holding multiple different shapes associated with a given species will still result in a singular form... albeit with more experience. Killing five wolves will grant you the ability to look like any of them, but only one "Wolf Form".
Charms associated with your Forms can be used in any shape, and more importantly are associated with the idealised legend of the shape in question rather than any physical capabilities the mortal beast might possess. A Lunar who raises Shark Form to Master rank might learn to pick a murderer out of a crowd by the smell of blood on their hands, for example, even if the deed was committed years ago.
Character Creation Pt.2 - Elimination Vote
- Location
- London, England
Ok, first Vote is Called. The winners that get to go ahead to the run-off are... Ronin, Geisha and Speaker. Alright, time for some additional lore on those, and then a final elimination vote!
The Ronin
The word samurai literally means 'one who serves', and many in Rokugan find the idea of a samurai without a master to be inherently contradictory. And yet, Ronin unquestionably exist - some are born Ronin, to parents likewise bereft of masters, while others are left adrift when their lord dies without an heir and still others willingly abandon the strictures of a Clan for the freedom of the open road. Legally speaking they are still samurai, entitled to all the same rights and respect as any other, but without a lord to avenge their mistreatment these privileges are a poor shield indeed, especially against those samurai who believe ronin to be inherently sinful and worthy of death.
The stereotype of a ronin is that of a landless criminal, shaking down peasants and stealing from merchants to survive, and this has some basis in truth - a freshly made ronin has generally never had to work for their food before, and has few skills outside of applied violence to secure it. Often lords who hear of ronin in town assume them to be bandits or criminals, and order their immediate arrest... or, if they are of a more pragmatic mind, have them pressed into service as mercenaries and sacrificial pawns. Yet the wave-men also count wandering heroes, noble souls and warrior-pilgrims in search of martial perfection among their ranks, and many have earned their status as romantic protagonists of any number of Rokugani stage-plays.
In this quest, the Ronin is the "Full Moon" path - they gain inherent benefits to strength and speed, are difficult to scare, and gain an xp discount on all styles most prominently associated with raw physical prowess (which includes most combat abilities).
The Geisha
Daughters of the 'Floating World', Geisha are part of Rokugan's society yet also held apart from it. They are legally hinin, non-people, the same as corpse-handlers and those who work with filth, but by their unique occupation gain access to skills, possessions and prestige many nobles will struggle to ever obtain. Often sold to a geisha house in their youth, a geisha is effectively an indentured servant, entertaining clients to bring in the coin necessary to pay off the debt incurred by her years of training and lodging. They learn to sing, dance, make great works of art and most critically of all to listen - as non-people, there is no shame in allowing a Geisha to see one's tears or smile or genuine anger. A samurai goes to a Geisha house to relax, to be human for a small window that the stressful demands of their life do not usually allow, to unburden their souls... and then they leave, going back to their lives, and the Geisha is left behind.
Geisha are not prostitutes - sexual service is not something that they offer, and while many see their contracts bought by noble lords or prosperous merchants in search of a concubine with courtly skills, any who touches one without their consent will frequently find themselves thrown headfirst out of the house's front door. That said, Geisha are still human, and ones in a trade that encourages and demands that they get to know their clients on a close emotional level. Illicit romances and affairs are far from uncommon, and most madams are willing to look the other way so long as the Geisha and her lover remain discreet. In Rokugan, the perception of truth is the truth, both morally and legally, and it is considered the height of bad manners to acknowledge anything you might hear occurring on the other side of a paper-thin wall. More than one Geisha has risen to the position of spymistress in all but name because of this, a frightful power they must use sparingly to avoid consequence.
In this quest, the Geisha is the "Changing Moon" path - their words hold a hypnotic allure, they have a gift for going unnoticed, and personal grudges or bias are temporarily suppressed when in their presence. They gain an xp discount on all styles that rely on social acumen, including most artistic and manipulative techniques.
The Speaker
Rokugan is a land in love with death. Every house contains a shrine to a family's ancestral spirits, the bulk of new stories and plays are concerned with heroes of the past, and samurai on the losing side of a battle will fight duels for the right to stay and die valiantly in a rearguard holding action. This is no mere cultural tradition, for the ghosts of the departed do remain, and they do guide their descendants with sage counsel and prophetic omens at the appropriate moments... at least, they do when appropriately honoured, and when the manner of their death was not enough to twist them into vengeful revenants. Propitiating such spirits is generally left to the Shugenja, scholar-priests trained in the rites necessary to honour the departed and invoke the elemental spirits of the land in displays of grand magical power, but Shugenja are rare and it can be weeks before one comes to investigate reports of a haunting or spectral disturbance.
When a peasant is born with a gift for speaking to the spirits, they are generally claimed by the nearest samurai family as a matter of course, under the principle that they are clearly samurai in spirit and simply born in the wrong place by some cosmic fluke. Those who slip the net, or worse yet refuse to accept the place ordained for them in the Perfected Hierarchy, are branded heretics and users of evil magic, best hunted down and slain before they can do something foolish and irreversible. Such renegades live life on the very edge, lying about their patronage and collecting what scraps of lore and wisdom they can, but often find a receptive ear in the spirits of the land... both human and not.
In this quest, the Speaker is the "No Moon" path - their identities are cloaked in anonymity, they can track and teleport to places of spiritual significance in the nearby area, and they have an inherent gift for magic and sorcery. They gain an xp discount on all styles that rely on mental acuity, including virtually all scholarly and esoteric pursuits.
The Ronin
The word samurai literally means 'one who serves', and many in Rokugan find the idea of a samurai without a master to be inherently contradictory. And yet, Ronin unquestionably exist - some are born Ronin, to parents likewise bereft of masters, while others are left adrift when their lord dies without an heir and still others willingly abandon the strictures of a Clan for the freedom of the open road. Legally speaking they are still samurai, entitled to all the same rights and respect as any other, but without a lord to avenge their mistreatment these privileges are a poor shield indeed, especially against those samurai who believe ronin to be inherently sinful and worthy of death.
The stereotype of a ronin is that of a landless criminal, shaking down peasants and stealing from merchants to survive, and this has some basis in truth - a freshly made ronin has generally never had to work for their food before, and has few skills outside of applied violence to secure it. Often lords who hear of ronin in town assume them to be bandits or criminals, and order their immediate arrest... or, if they are of a more pragmatic mind, have them pressed into service as mercenaries and sacrificial pawns. Yet the wave-men also count wandering heroes, noble souls and warrior-pilgrims in search of martial perfection among their ranks, and many have earned their status as romantic protagonists of any number of Rokugani stage-plays.
In this quest, the Ronin is the "Full Moon" path - they gain inherent benefits to strength and speed, are difficult to scare, and gain an xp discount on all styles most prominently associated with raw physical prowess (which includes most combat abilities).
The Geisha
Daughters of the 'Floating World', Geisha are part of Rokugan's society yet also held apart from it. They are legally hinin, non-people, the same as corpse-handlers and those who work with filth, but by their unique occupation gain access to skills, possessions and prestige many nobles will struggle to ever obtain. Often sold to a geisha house in their youth, a geisha is effectively an indentured servant, entertaining clients to bring in the coin necessary to pay off the debt incurred by her years of training and lodging. They learn to sing, dance, make great works of art and most critically of all to listen - as non-people, there is no shame in allowing a Geisha to see one's tears or smile or genuine anger. A samurai goes to a Geisha house to relax, to be human for a small window that the stressful demands of their life do not usually allow, to unburden their souls... and then they leave, going back to their lives, and the Geisha is left behind.
Geisha are not prostitutes - sexual service is not something that they offer, and while many see their contracts bought by noble lords or prosperous merchants in search of a concubine with courtly skills, any who touches one without their consent will frequently find themselves thrown headfirst out of the house's front door. That said, Geisha are still human, and ones in a trade that encourages and demands that they get to know their clients on a close emotional level. Illicit romances and affairs are far from uncommon, and most madams are willing to look the other way so long as the Geisha and her lover remain discreet. In Rokugan, the perception of truth is the truth, both morally and legally, and it is considered the height of bad manners to acknowledge anything you might hear occurring on the other side of a paper-thin wall. More than one Geisha has risen to the position of spymistress in all but name because of this, a frightful power they must use sparingly to avoid consequence.
In this quest, the Geisha is the "Changing Moon" path - their words hold a hypnotic allure, they have a gift for going unnoticed, and personal grudges or bias are temporarily suppressed when in their presence. They gain an xp discount on all styles that rely on social acumen, including most artistic and manipulative techniques.
The Speaker
Rokugan is a land in love with death. Every house contains a shrine to a family's ancestral spirits, the bulk of new stories and plays are concerned with heroes of the past, and samurai on the losing side of a battle will fight duels for the right to stay and die valiantly in a rearguard holding action. This is no mere cultural tradition, for the ghosts of the departed do remain, and they do guide their descendants with sage counsel and prophetic omens at the appropriate moments... at least, they do when appropriately honoured, and when the manner of their death was not enough to twist them into vengeful revenants. Propitiating such spirits is generally left to the Shugenja, scholar-priests trained in the rites necessary to honour the departed and invoke the elemental spirits of the land in displays of grand magical power, but Shugenja are rare and it can be weeks before one comes to investigate reports of a haunting or spectral disturbance.
When a peasant is born with a gift for speaking to the spirits, they are generally claimed by the nearest samurai family as a matter of course, under the principle that they are clearly samurai in spirit and simply born in the wrong place by some cosmic fluke. Those who slip the net, or worse yet refuse to accept the place ordained for them in the Perfected Hierarchy, are branded heretics and users of evil magic, best hunted down and slain before they can do something foolish and irreversible. Such renegades live life on the very edge, lying about their patronage and collecting what scraps of lore and wisdom they can, but often find a receptive ear in the spirits of the land... both human and not.
In this quest, the Speaker is the "No Moon" path - their identities are cloaked in anonymity, they can track and teleport to places of spiritual significance in the nearby area, and they have an inherent gift for magic and sorcery. They gain an xp discount on all styles that rely on mental acuity, including virtually all scholarly and esoteric pursuits.
Article: This is the second round of the character creation vote. Choose One of the above options:
[ ] The Ronin
[ ] The Geisha
[ ] The Speaker
Explanations for why you have chosen a particular option or what you hope the story to include will be of great use to me as a QM, writing my notes for the upcoming plot arcs.
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I. A Gift of Filth and Purpose
- Location
- London, England
They caught you half a mile from Shimomura, fleeing northwards after a run-in with a Kuni-led hunting party in the northern reaches of the Crab lands. You thought you would be safe here; with winter barely even a fortnight past, the tiny handful of samurai who dwell in the rural regions shouldn't have been nearly enough to properly secure the border. You suppose there must have been a spy, someone among the peasantry who turned you in. It doesn't really matter now.
You had no chance. They came with the dawn, a hunting party of black-masked warriors led by a shrouded priest, swords held ready and arrows set to bows before you could even blink the slumber from your eyes. They scattered your tools, broke your talismans, snapped your oakwood staff in two, banished your familiars with murmured prayers. Then they dragged you from your lodgings, bound you hand and foot, and brought you to the banks of the nearest river.
The bodies of the weaver and his family, guilty only of sharing hospitality with a travelling stranger, they left on display. A warning, most likely, a silent reminder to all who bow at their feet the price of even unwitting defiance.
"So," their leader says, a warrior in black and red, his mouth and nose hidden behind a smiling mask of painted wood, "you are the one they call Yasu. Yasu the Pilgrim, Yasu the Wanderer. Yasu the Defiler."
You have nothing to say to him. The hate in your heart is a cold thing, an old and familiar friend, but it leaves you little room for speech. It collars the fear, quiets the rage, reminds you to stay still, to live up to the name you chose. You despise this man and everything he stands for, but what does that matter? You knew what you were doing was against the law, that it would get you killed some day. Now that day has arrived, and you will not disgrace yourself with tears, you will not give them the satisfaction of watching you roar.
"You know," the samurai says thoughtfully, nudging your kneeling form with a single sandaled foot, "I truly expected more. When I heard that the great Yasu, the wandering heretic that had given our cousins to the south so much trouble, was coming to the lands of the Scorpion… why, I expected some kind of scheme was afoot. I thought you were here to accomplish something, to steal some mighty treasure or conscript some powerful ghost into your service. But that wasn't it at all, was it, Yasu? You weren't here because you wanted to be here, you were here because you were running."
Are all Scorpions this chatty? It seems rather pointless, not to mention out of character. Most samurai would never deign to speak even a dozen words to you, but this man, this masked killer and hunter of fools, he seems downright enthusiastic. Is he expecting you to talk back? Is he trying to goad you into giving him an excuse for violence, or does he just want you to know the sting of failure? It doesn't matter. You will give him nothing.
"A quiet one, then? That's good. That will make things easier," the samurai says, almost cheerfully. There is a symbol on his armour, a scorpion backlit by shining waves, but you don't know enough heraldry to understand what that means. It might be his family mon, a personal symbol or even the badge of the school that trained him. "Let me tell you what is going to happen next, silent one. A boat is coming to meet us here, and when it arrives we are going to board. It will take us weeks to reach the Soshi lands, but don't worry, we have plenty of supplies. Once we get there, we'll hand you over to them, and be on our merry way."
You shift slightly, the dull ache in your shins forcing you to move. The frozen ground has long since stolen any warmth from your limbs, numbing the pain of your wounds, but it is far from comfortable. The samurai, of course, takes it as a sign that his words are getting to you.
"Oh, don't worry, Little Yasu," he says with a mocking kind of warmth, "they're not going to kill you. They're not even going to hurt you. No, shugenja like yourself are far too valuable to discard so lightly. They are going to teach you, to train you. Maybe they'll let you take their name, maybe you'll stay a nameless ronin, but one way or another… you will serve the Scorpion Clan."
You lift your gaze, and without thinking spit the words that burn against your tongue. "I would rather die."
There is a flash, a gleam of sunlight on metal, and suddenly the tip of the samurai's katana is resting against your throat. You barely even saw it move, can scarcely even feel the pressure of it against your skin, but then you have no mind for any of that. You are looking the samurai in the eyes, and what you see there is more fearsome by far.
"Are you sure of that?" He asks, voice mild, and his eyes there is nothing at all. No hate, no anger, no joy or satisfaction. He's not incapable of such things, there are lines around his eyes that tell of laughter or sorrow or perhaps both, but they are absent all the same. "If you are, I suppose I will save the Soshi the trouble."
You are nothing to him. If you give him reason he will cut your throat and dump your body in a ditch and feel nothing. You always knew that there were samurai like this, that even the noblest of them would see you as barely even human by merit of your birth, but to see it so plainly written in a man's eyes like this…
You lower your gaze, and the samurai hums approvingly.
"I thought not. Now, just sit there for a bit, will you? The boat will be here soon."
You stare at the ground, at the frozen mud churned up by feet and hooves. There is a puddle there, still and silent, and in it you can see yourself. Your form is slight and marked with bruises, your cloak is old and patchwork, your face is thin and hollow… you will not weep, you will not, they don't deserve to see you weep, what do they know of hunger, of the stress that made you like this, they don't… they…
Your reflection winks at you.
You blink in shock, glancing up at your captors for a moment. They are distracted, busy talking amongst themselves in low voices that you cannot clearly make out, and so you return your gaze to the pool. For a moment you think you must have imagined it, but no, your reflection is smiling at you now. It makes a beckoning gesture, glancing from left to right in conspiratorial fashion, then seems to fade into the background. A moment later it is replaced, this time by the image of something large and dark and shaped vaguely like a wolf, slinking from one puddle to the next.
You swallow. Your knowledge of spiritual entities is a patchwork thing, a collection of self-taught lessons and stories gleaned from campfire tales over the course of years, but you don't know what this is. You don't know why it is here, or what it can do, save perhaps for a general understanding that nothing capable of changing its shape or walking through reflections can possibly be any kind of safe, but…
Oh. It's moving through the sword, now, creeping its way along the reflection caught in the polished steel of the man who would have killed you with a smile. You lick your lips, watching… and then clear your throat.
"Let me tell you what happens next," you say roughly, your voice made coarse by stress and pain, just loud enough to catch the attention of the samurai in their little group. "You are all about to die."
There is a pause, a quiet moment as the samurai look at each other, faint amusement in their posture as they struggle to comprehend your words. Who are you, that you would dare to threaten them? What madness has possessed you, to think that you have anything left to offer but quiet obedience and submission to their whims? What should they do with you, to teach you the error of your ways?
A moment passes in silence, and then the wolf rises from the sword and eats a man alive. After that, there is only screaming.
You bow, pressing your head to the frozen earth, and so you hear everything. You hear the screams, the gurgling roar, the snap of steel and the wet tearing of flesh. You smell the blood and the thick stench of voided bowels, all but drowned out by the reek of soiled fur. You feel the searing heat of gore against your back, the puffs of warm breath against your neck, and the iron grip of fingers on your chin. Your head is lifted, absent choice or will, and you gaze upon your saviour.
You had nightmares, as a child, once you learned what you were. Samurai featured prominently in most, shadowy warriors with silver swords and burning coals for eyes, come to drag you away to hell. The thing before you is your terror come to life, perfect in every detail, and you cannot help but shake like a leaf before the storm as it studies you. Every breath sends gusts of stinking mist wafting across your face, while every motion shakes free drops of blood and fragments of gore to splash against the frozen earth.
"You know me." It is not a question, and you do not answer. You could hardly speak, shivering as you are, but it is not necessary. To look upon this monster is to know its name better than your own.
"Good," speaks Lord Moon, the only god that done dare appease. "I have a gift for you."
You know the gifts of Onnotangu, every child does. They twist the mind, break the body, drag thinking men down to the level of snarling beasts, and yet that might be the better option. There are no stories of what happens to those who reject the generosity of Lord Moon; the foolish horror of the idea is all too evident.
"I name you my Oracle," the god says, releasing your chin and rising to his feet, looming over you like a mountain. "You will speak with my voice, act in my name. Forget your name, forget your face. You are mine, now and always."
Some part of you, some small and insolent spark, pushes past the terror and takes control of your jaw. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you will live," the god replies, his burning eyes staring down at you without pity or remorse, "never to be more than you are now. A scavenger, a wanderer, a twig adrift on the river of life. Your fate is a miserable one, Yasu the Pilgrim."
He touches one arm with the claws of his other hand, and sacred blood falls like rain. You cup your hands and raise them, catching the divine ichor before it can strike the ground, and though it melts your skin and chars your bones you know it would be worse to let the blood touch the dirt. "Drink, and leave that destiny in the grass. Drink, and forge yourself anew, a prophet of stars and silver flame. Drink, and punish Rokugan for all its sins."
You hesitate, your thoughts racing in every direction at once, a million doubts and fears bubbling up beneath the surface of your mind. Then you think the samurai, of his hidden smile and his empty eyes, of the touch of steel against your throat.
You bow your head and drink.
It is the worst thing you have ever done. It is foulness and corruption, impurity made manifest, and it burns holes through your neck as it slides slowly down your throat. It is wretched and filthy, a sin that will never leave you, but you do not stop. Let your soul be damned, let your name be cursed, let whatever happens happen. You have made your decision, and you will not doubt.
You drink the blood of Lord Moon, and you will never be clean again.
What happens next, you have no words to fairly describe. The blood pools in your gut, soaks deep into your soul, and all that you are or ever were burns to ash in an argent flame. You scream and thrash, reason lost beneath the pain, as your muscles bulge and your thoughts expand, as your skin turns black and your feet twist themselves into claws. You lose yourself in fear and pain, and fly the air on ashen wings.
Reason returns slowly, the gradual retreat of madness a veil lifted layer by layer from across your eyes, and for a time you cannot clearly tell where your thoughts end and the world begins. Hours pass, you think, before you regain the sense to see the clearing around you, master the thoughts to recognise it as somewhere far from the clearing and the bodies.
You think it some mad fantasy, at first, until you run a hand through your hair and find it wet with scorpion blood.
"I," you say, when at last you can trust your voice to be your own, and not some avian shriek, "am Yasu. I am a pilgrim, a speaker for the silent. I… am the Oracle of Onnotangu."
All of which would be of considerably more use and comfort if you had any idea what the words mean. Is an Oracle some kind of sworn agent? A puppet that Lord Moon can control at will? Something greater or lesser still? You feel stronger, you know that much, your thoughts clearer and more precise, but without some form of further guidance you…
No sooner has the thought crossed your mind than the music starts. Distant, trembling notes at first, growing slowly into a melody. No, not one melody… three, at least, and more beyond hidden beneath each one. There is meaning to them, you think, a pattern there to be discerned, but the shape of it is lost to you. All you know is that you must pursue. Or… could pursue? There seems to be no great compulsion, merely invitations carried upon the wind, but…
Enough of this. You rise, steadying yourself as best you can, and after a moment's thought choose one and set off towards it, the others fading slowly into the background as you go. If this is madness, better to let it take you, for neither salvation or destruction will be found in the depths of some forgotten clearing so very far from home.
Halfway to your destination, you discover with some surprise that you can turn into a bird.
You had no chance. They came with the dawn, a hunting party of black-masked warriors led by a shrouded priest, swords held ready and arrows set to bows before you could even blink the slumber from your eyes. They scattered your tools, broke your talismans, snapped your oakwood staff in two, banished your familiars with murmured prayers. Then they dragged you from your lodgings, bound you hand and foot, and brought you to the banks of the nearest river.
The bodies of the weaver and his family, guilty only of sharing hospitality with a travelling stranger, they left on display. A warning, most likely, a silent reminder to all who bow at their feet the price of even unwitting defiance.
"So," their leader says, a warrior in black and red, his mouth and nose hidden behind a smiling mask of painted wood, "you are the one they call Yasu. Yasu the Pilgrim, Yasu the Wanderer. Yasu the Defiler."
You have nothing to say to him. The hate in your heart is a cold thing, an old and familiar friend, but it leaves you little room for speech. It collars the fear, quiets the rage, reminds you to stay still, to live up to the name you chose. You despise this man and everything he stands for, but what does that matter? You knew what you were doing was against the law, that it would get you killed some day. Now that day has arrived, and you will not disgrace yourself with tears, you will not give them the satisfaction of watching you roar.
"You know," the samurai says thoughtfully, nudging your kneeling form with a single sandaled foot, "I truly expected more. When I heard that the great Yasu, the wandering heretic that had given our cousins to the south so much trouble, was coming to the lands of the Scorpion… why, I expected some kind of scheme was afoot. I thought you were here to accomplish something, to steal some mighty treasure or conscript some powerful ghost into your service. But that wasn't it at all, was it, Yasu? You weren't here because you wanted to be here, you were here because you were running."
Are all Scorpions this chatty? It seems rather pointless, not to mention out of character. Most samurai would never deign to speak even a dozen words to you, but this man, this masked killer and hunter of fools, he seems downright enthusiastic. Is he expecting you to talk back? Is he trying to goad you into giving him an excuse for violence, or does he just want you to know the sting of failure? It doesn't matter. You will give him nothing.
"A quiet one, then? That's good. That will make things easier," the samurai says, almost cheerfully. There is a symbol on his armour, a scorpion backlit by shining waves, but you don't know enough heraldry to understand what that means. It might be his family mon, a personal symbol or even the badge of the school that trained him. "Let me tell you what is going to happen next, silent one. A boat is coming to meet us here, and when it arrives we are going to board. It will take us weeks to reach the Soshi lands, but don't worry, we have plenty of supplies. Once we get there, we'll hand you over to them, and be on our merry way."
You shift slightly, the dull ache in your shins forcing you to move. The frozen ground has long since stolen any warmth from your limbs, numbing the pain of your wounds, but it is far from comfortable. The samurai, of course, takes it as a sign that his words are getting to you.
"Oh, don't worry, Little Yasu," he says with a mocking kind of warmth, "they're not going to kill you. They're not even going to hurt you. No, shugenja like yourself are far too valuable to discard so lightly. They are going to teach you, to train you. Maybe they'll let you take their name, maybe you'll stay a nameless ronin, but one way or another… you will serve the Scorpion Clan."
You lift your gaze, and without thinking spit the words that burn against your tongue. "I would rather die."
There is a flash, a gleam of sunlight on metal, and suddenly the tip of the samurai's katana is resting against your throat. You barely even saw it move, can scarcely even feel the pressure of it against your skin, but then you have no mind for any of that. You are looking the samurai in the eyes, and what you see there is more fearsome by far.
"Are you sure of that?" He asks, voice mild, and his eyes there is nothing at all. No hate, no anger, no joy or satisfaction. He's not incapable of such things, there are lines around his eyes that tell of laughter or sorrow or perhaps both, but they are absent all the same. "If you are, I suppose I will save the Soshi the trouble."
You are nothing to him. If you give him reason he will cut your throat and dump your body in a ditch and feel nothing. You always knew that there were samurai like this, that even the noblest of them would see you as barely even human by merit of your birth, but to see it so plainly written in a man's eyes like this…
You lower your gaze, and the samurai hums approvingly.
"I thought not. Now, just sit there for a bit, will you? The boat will be here soon."
You stare at the ground, at the frozen mud churned up by feet and hooves. There is a puddle there, still and silent, and in it you can see yourself. Your form is slight and marked with bruises, your cloak is old and patchwork, your face is thin and hollow… you will not weep, you will not, they don't deserve to see you weep, what do they know of hunger, of the stress that made you like this, they don't… they…
Your reflection winks at you.
You blink in shock, glancing up at your captors for a moment. They are distracted, busy talking amongst themselves in low voices that you cannot clearly make out, and so you return your gaze to the pool. For a moment you think you must have imagined it, but no, your reflection is smiling at you now. It makes a beckoning gesture, glancing from left to right in conspiratorial fashion, then seems to fade into the background. A moment later it is replaced, this time by the image of something large and dark and shaped vaguely like a wolf, slinking from one puddle to the next.
You swallow. Your knowledge of spiritual entities is a patchwork thing, a collection of self-taught lessons and stories gleaned from campfire tales over the course of years, but you don't know what this is. You don't know why it is here, or what it can do, save perhaps for a general understanding that nothing capable of changing its shape or walking through reflections can possibly be any kind of safe, but…
Oh. It's moving through the sword, now, creeping its way along the reflection caught in the polished steel of the man who would have killed you with a smile. You lick your lips, watching… and then clear your throat.
"Let me tell you what happens next," you say roughly, your voice made coarse by stress and pain, just loud enough to catch the attention of the samurai in their little group. "You are all about to die."
There is a pause, a quiet moment as the samurai look at each other, faint amusement in their posture as they struggle to comprehend your words. Who are you, that you would dare to threaten them? What madness has possessed you, to think that you have anything left to offer but quiet obedience and submission to their whims? What should they do with you, to teach you the error of your ways?
A moment passes in silence, and then the wolf rises from the sword and eats a man alive. After that, there is only screaming.
You bow, pressing your head to the frozen earth, and so you hear everything. You hear the screams, the gurgling roar, the snap of steel and the wet tearing of flesh. You smell the blood and the thick stench of voided bowels, all but drowned out by the reek of soiled fur. You feel the searing heat of gore against your back, the puffs of warm breath against your neck, and the iron grip of fingers on your chin. Your head is lifted, absent choice or will, and you gaze upon your saviour.
You had nightmares, as a child, once you learned what you were. Samurai featured prominently in most, shadowy warriors with silver swords and burning coals for eyes, come to drag you away to hell. The thing before you is your terror come to life, perfect in every detail, and you cannot help but shake like a leaf before the storm as it studies you. Every breath sends gusts of stinking mist wafting across your face, while every motion shakes free drops of blood and fragments of gore to splash against the frozen earth.
"You know me." It is not a question, and you do not answer. You could hardly speak, shivering as you are, but it is not necessary. To look upon this monster is to know its name better than your own.
"Good," speaks Lord Moon, the only god that done dare appease. "I have a gift for you."
You know the gifts of Onnotangu, every child does. They twist the mind, break the body, drag thinking men down to the level of snarling beasts, and yet that might be the better option. There are no stories of what happens to those who reject the generosity of Lord Moon; the foolish horror of the idea is all too evident.
"I name you my Oracle," the god says, releasing your chin and rising to his feet, looming over you like a mountain. "You will speak with my voice, act in my name. Forget your name, forget your face. You are mine, now and always."
Some part of you, some small and insolent spark, pushes past the terror and takes control of your jaw. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you will live," the god replies, his burning eyes staring down at you without pity or remorse, "never to be more than you are now. A scavenger, a wanderer, a twig adrift on the river of life. Your fate is a miserable one, Yasu the Pilgrim."
He touches one arm with the claws of his other hand, and sacred blood falls like rain. You cup your hands and raise them, catching the divine ichor before it can strike the ground, and though it melts your skin and chars your bones you know it would be worse to let the blood touch the dirt. "Drink, and leave that destiny in the grass. Drink, and forge yourself anew, a prophet of stars and silver flame. Drink, and punish Rokugan for all its sins."
You hesitate, your thoughts racing in every direction at once, a million doubts and fears bubbling up beneath the surface of your mind. Then you think the samurai, of his hidden smile and his empty eyes, of the touch of steel against your throat.
You bow your head and drink.
It is the worst thing you have ever done. It is foulness and corruption, impurity made manifest, and it burns holes through your neck as it slides slowly down your throat. It is wretched and filthy, a sin that will never leave you, but you do not stop. Let your soul be damned, let your name be cursed, let whatever happens happen. You have made your decision, and you will not doubt.
You drink the blood of Lord Moon, and you will never be clean again.
What happens next, you have no words to fairly describe. The blood pools in your gut, soaks deep into your soul, and all that you are or ever were burns to ash in an argent flame. You scream and thrash, reason lost beneath the pain, as your muscles bulge and your thoughts expand, as your skin turns black and your feet twist themselves into claws. You lose yourself in fear and pain, and fly the air on ashen wings.
Reason returns slowly, the gradual retreat of madness a veil lifted layer by layer from across your eyes, and for a time you cannot clearly tell where your thoughts end and the world begins. Hours pass, you think, before you regain the sense to see the clearing around you, master the thoughts to recognise it as somewhere far from the clearing and the bodies.
You think it some mad fantasy, at first, until you run a hand through your hair and find it wet with scorpion blood.
"I," you say, when at last you can trust your voice to be your own, and not some avian shriek, "am Yasu. I am a pilgrim, a speaker for the silent. I… am the Oracle of Onnotangu."
All of which would be of considerably more use and comfort if you had any idea what the words mean. Is an Oracle some kind of sworn agent? A puppet that Lord Moon can control at will? Something greater or lesser still? You feel stronger, you know that much, your thoughts clearer and more precise, but without some form of further guidance you…
No sooner has the thought crossed your mind than the music starts. Distant, trembling notes at first, growing slowly into a melody. No, not one melody… three, at least, and more beyond hidden beneath each one. There is meaning to them, you think, a pattern there to be discerned, but the shape of it is lost to you. All you know is that you must pursue. Or… could pursue? There seems to be no great compulsion, merely invitations carried upon the wind, but…
Enough of this. You rise, steadying yourself as best you can, and after a moment's thought choose one and set off towards it, the others fading slowly into the background as you go. If this is madness, better to let it take you, for neither salvation or destruction will be found in the depths of some forgotten clearing so very far from home.
Halfway to your destination, you discover with some surprise that you can turn into a bird.
Article: You can hear three major calls echoing out over the landscape. Which do you pursue?
[ ] Summer's Kiss. The road to the west leads from Kyuden Bayushi to the southern border of the Scorpion lands, and is always free and clear, untouched by snow even in the depths of winter. The divinities responsible will shelter and train you, demanding no price, but are bound in ways you cannot hope to understand.
[ ] Wolf's Echo. To the north is Red Lake, so named for the colour it turned after a dreadful battle long ago. The spirits of fallen warriors could lend you great strength and replenish your lost resources, but most are feral and monstrous, and the remainder will demand service in kind for their aid.
[ ] Shadowed Boughs. To the east lies the Kitsune Mori, an impenetrable woodland dominated by trickster fox-spirits and their mercurial allies. They know more than most could about your new status, but convincing the cruel and mischievous spirits to share their knowledge will be an ordeal.
The Hunt Begins (Winged Knight)
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
The Hunt Begins
Smell is the first thing that greets you, the sickly sweet scent of freshly butchered meat. Next comes the sound of low chanting as you approach the river, followed by the soft wetness of feet treading on mud. After hearing comes sight, and before you stands ten figures in black and red armor with spears in hand. Between them, a long scroll set before him, sits a young man with his hands on his knees, palms up as if in entreaty.
It would be impressive if they weren't standing amidst a charnel field.
Two men and a woman pick through the detritus of what used to be human beings, their tattered clothing becoming even dirtier as they do their best to arrange rent limbs with their original owners. None of the samurai acknowledge they exist, which does not surprise you. What does surprise you is that the bodies have not yet been burnt and the ashes collected for proper burial.
You honestly expected more from the Scorpion. You truly did. But then again, you suppose it's not every day one comes across the torn corpses of their fellows out in the middle of nowhere. Unless they're of your Clan, of course, but certain allowances have to be made for those who do not understand how the world works.
Despite his youth you cannot deny the skill of the man meditating amongst the bodies. You can see the air dancing in time with his words, whispering in his ears such that you can't make out what is being said. He's handsome too, from what little you can see behind that garish fanged maw painted on the mask covering his mouth and nose. With his hair tightly bound in a tail he reminds you of a drawn blade. Alas, you've no taste for men only a few years from their Gempukku. Not enough experience, either with life or in bed.
"Greetings," you call out, stepping into their line of sight. "My, but what a mess we have here."
Immediately every spear is leveled in your direction, and you find your opinion of these samurai rising. They might not have noticed your approach, but they react quickly enough. You give them a grin and bow, which considering your size and the face paint you wear likely brought no comfort. Your wild mane of dyed red hair only adds to this effect, but these are merely the sacrifices one must make for fashion.
Ah, well. It's not as if you came here to make friends.
You rise and lift a hand, and from the undergrowth comes your entourage with bows drawn. That makes the Scorpion samurai pause. They outnumber you, but at this range more than a few will drop to arrows before they can get close. And that isn't even counting there may be more of you still hidden.
Your smile widens, and you say, "There's no reason we can't be polite, yes?"
"Kuni Hikaru-sama," the young man says, rising to his feet. He waves one hand and the Scorpion samurai settle back, placing their spears at rest. You make the same motion, and suddenly everyone is getting along fine. "You're a long way from home."
"I felt the need to stretch my legs a bit," you reply. "When you get to my age it's important to keep your strength up."
"You're a young man yet, Kuni-sama," the Scorpion says. "I am Soshi Jiro, and as you can see I'm a little busy-"
"Oh yes, that's obvious," you say, leaning to look past him and at the scene of slaughter. "Seems your people ran into some trouble."
Soshi Jiro takes in a deep breath, visibly composing himself after your interruption. "Yes, they did. Now, I don't assume you have travel papers and I don't really have time to-"
"My papers are entirely in order. Signed by the Lord of the Kuni herself. Delightful woman, my lord. My cousin is married to her brother." You step forward to better take in the scene. "I take it you were asking the wind if it saw what happened here?"
"I… Yes, Kuni-sama," Jiro replies, and you can almost hear his teeth grinding. "We were to meet with these samurai and something has gone awry."
"You suspect maho-tsukai, then?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow as the young man's face expression turns stoic. "We're well aware Yasu the Wanderer was fleeing toward Scorpion lands from our own, but we saw no signs they partook of blood magic. In any event, I assume you were to transport them upriver?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't," you reply. "Well, has the wind revealed any answers?"
Jiro is silent for a time, observing you. You, in turn, lean on your jade-studded staff and grin at him. He really does have pretty eyes, and you enjoy looking at them. It's such a shame he's so young, though. If he were a few years older he might actually know what to do with all your teasing.
Well, you can still have some fun with him. This young Soshi is nice enough to look at, and his reactions amusing. Even still, you hope you can find some real companionship on this trip. It's been so long since you've ventured out from Crab lands, and you've found yourself starved for variety.
"No," he says at last. "It hasn't."
"I'm not surprised," you say. "There's a strange pressure lingering here, as if a giant hand reached out and pressed down upon the world. If the local kami witnessed anything, then I doubt they'll reveal what they know so easily. But you can at least rest assured there are no kansen lingering about."
"How can you be so sure?"
You give him a wry look, which just so happens to accentuate your face paint. His brow furrows, whether in irritation or embarrassment you cannot say for certain. Regardless, you don't spend much time considering the matter as you stride forward into the mass of corpses. The burakumin flinch back, and you offer them a gentle smile. It doesn't do much to ease their fear, but at the very least they're not tripping over themselves to get away from you.
"I recommend going through the proper funerary rituals now," you say. "There's plenty of wood, and I assume you've enough oil and incense."
"With all respect, Kuni-sama," Jiro all but growls at you, finally losing his composure as his hands ball up into fists. "These are our people and they shall be given all due honor in a setting appropriate to their station. Your advice is not only unwelcome, but insulting."
"I'm trying to save you trouble, young man," you reply, waving a hand around the riverbank. "Something very strange happened here involving powerful spirits. That leaves a mark on the world, and great care should be taken these samurai find no obstacle moving on to their next lives. Better to see to the rites now and carry the ashes back for the full customary honors, lest their ghosts linger."
Jiro glares at you. It's becoming quite a habit with him at this point. You match his gaze, the wrinkles around your eyes crinkling with your amusement. The pressure along the riverbank, already heavy with the weight of the butchery that has taken place, seems to grow as he throws his will against yours.
Scorpion samurai shift in place, hands gripping their spears more tightly. Your own people come a little closer in response, pulling ever so slightly on their bowstrings. The burakumin, sensing potential conflict, huddle together for protection and try their best not to breathe so as to not draw notice.
Throughout it all you just smile. You like smiling. Samurai are not supposed to reveal their emotions so freely, but it's something you've always had trouble with. After all, what's the harm in showing you're human? Thankfully, your position and calling allow you a certain amount of leeway.
Something Soshi Jiro realizes too, if the narrowing of his eyes is any indication.
"One of these days you will run into trouble you will not be able to talk your way out of," he says, his voice so soft it can barely be heard. "I hope I am there to see it."
"Almost certainly," you reply, letting some mirth escape into your voice as you withhold a chuckle. "But I doubt it will be what kills me."
"I suppose we shall see." Jiro turns to the burakumin and claps his hands. "Collect wood and set the bodies atop the pyres! Quickly now, or I shall see you flogged!"
"Yes, samurai-sama," one of the men says, bowing so low his face rests in the bloody mud. The other two quickly follow suit. "Of course, samurai-sama."
Jiro stalks off to the boat moored nearby, half of the Scorpion samurai following after him. The burakumin scurry to follow his orders, hunching low to avoid any attention that might see them killed. With a few quick strides you stand before them, giving a shallow bow.
"My thanks for your service," you say. "With your help we shall see these people to their rest."
The burakumin stare at you, eyes wide with fear. Finally, the same man as before mumbles "It is a pleasure to serve, samurai-sama," and rushes off into the undergrowth, his companions close behind to collect the wood necessary for the funeral pyres.
You sigh as they leave, an old twisting sensation making itself known in the pit of your stomach. But there's nothing you can do about that, save showing what courtesy you can and refraining from cruelty. Going any further will likely only bring more hardship.
A chill breeze passes over you, and you shudder. Drawing your dark blue hanten more tightly around yourself, you look up as the sun makes its way toward the horizon. There will be no moon in the sky tonight, a time that has always made you wary for reasons you cannot properly explain.
It is perhaps an ominous beginning to your hunt, but you cannot control omens. Your lot in life is merely to read them, and with their guidance perhaps ensure the best results possible for as many people as you can manage. To ask for anything more would be arrogance.
"Yasu the Wanderer," you mutter, settling your staff on one shoulder and brushing strands of crimson hair out of your eyes. "Let's see where you take me."
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II. A Shining Mirror's Shore
- Location
- London, England
You experiment as you travel north, of course. How could you not? That Lord Moon can change his face and shape is one of the few common threads in every story you have ever heard concerning him, but for him to bestow the gift upon you is generous enough that already you find yourself searching for the trap. There is a sting in the tail, there has to be, nothing the Moon gives to mortal kind is ever exclusively beneficial or entirely malignant, but the first few possibilities that cross your mind turn out to be unfounded.
There is no pain when you transform, for one, or even any great effort required. You simply will yourself to be different, and a moment later you are, birth form discarded with the same casual ease as you might shrug free a coat. There is no delay or condition to turn back either, which banishes your immediate fears of being trapped as a crow for however long Lord Moon deems appropriate, and careful examination of your image in a forest pool suggests that there is no lingering mark of the transformation at all. In the end you are forced to abandon the hunt for the drawback entirely, lest it drive you insane with worry, but the thought lingers at the back of your mind like a persistent thorn.
Still, you cannot deny that the ability to shed your human skin for a crow's feathered wings makes your journey vastly easier. It would normally take weeks for you to cross the north-eastern regions of the Scorpion provinces and enter the foothills, sticking to back roads and skirting around anywhere likely to host a population of samurai, but instead you can simply take a straight path above the trees and paddy fields and cover the distance in scarcely more than a day. A night spent sleeping under the stars, your bloodstained coat scrubbed thoroughly in a small river and hung from the branches to dry, and you are on your way again, following the music every onwards.
It gets louder as you approach the mountains, the low beating of drums joined by rough voices raised in chorus and the steady tramp of marching feet. How often has Rokugan heard such things before? Every year for eleven centuries at least, you think, for the samurai are warriors and every summer they march to spill another's blood. The thought should leave you bitter, but with the wind beneath your wings and the echo of Onnotangu's flame in your heart it all feels so appallingly trivial. The samurai could kill each other for a thousand years and you would not care, you think, were it not for all the others they invariably killed in their misguided zeal and hunger for glory.
It is close to dusk when you arrive, having stopped briefly at a small village to trade a bare handful of your remaining coins for a bowl of rice and some hot tea. The sun has dropped below the mountains, staining the sky in hues of red and gold that reflect in the shining lake below, and as you ride a rising wind you note that this is fortunate. Dusk is a good time for your trade, a liminal space that draws the worlds of life and death steadily closer together. Boundaries and borderlands are places of power in general, you find, though rarely for the same reason or in quite the same way. Territory contested for centuries will bear the marks of repeated bloodshed, while the threshold to a tomb is the easiest place to reach beyond the veil and speak to the dead souls beyond. You have done so more than once.
In truth, now that you think about it, all of your best and most lasting relationships have been with people long since departed from the mortal plane. It is the nature of the dead to only care about a handful of things, the sands of Meido slowly grinding away all but the most precious and heartfelt beliefs, and so your birth is rarely a concern. They have trained you, taught you, given you guidance and advice… is that why Onnotangu chose you? For your knowledge and understanding of the dead? You would not have thought so, the cycle of reincarnation is the domain of Emma-O, but maybe Lord Moon has some interest in the area unknown to mortal man? Or perhaps he simply finds your transgression against the will of the samurai appealing in some fashion. Attempting to understand the motive of someone like Onnotangu is a sure path to madness.
You land on the shore, descending as a crow and rising as a priest, and search your memories for clues as to your current position. You are somewhere in the Spine of the World, the mountain range that bisects Rokugan from east to west, but that alone is of little help. Instead you must look to history, to stories of old tragedies and your memory of tales told around campfires, and… yes, this must be the famous 'Red Lake', whose waters ran thick with blood for days in the aftermath of a great battle. Now that you look, you can already see the flickering torches of the invading army on the far shore, rank upon rank of them marching down the narrow pass that leads to the lands beyond.
Would such things be visible to most mortals? You do not think so, not until the hour of the battle arrives, and even then it would likely be imperceptible save for a handful of lights and the odd fading echo. Still, you are not most mortals, or perhaps even mortal at all of late, and though you know little of war you have learned enough to look for the scouts. Yes, there they are, faint shadows creeping along the banks or floating softly across the surface of the water, retreading the land of their death in search of anything that might have changed. You typically avoid battlefields when seeking an ancestor's aid, for the strong memories and martial spirit of the deceased are often more trouble than you can easily resolve, but the Scorpion have left you with little option.
You wait for a time, letting the slow thoughts and sharp eyes of the dead take your measure, then turn and approach the nearest at a slow and reverent pace. Your first thought is to bow, to approach as a mortal medium as you ever have, but… you're not just a wandering priest anymore, are you? You have no way of knowing if such things are visible to the dead, but it would be best to avoid the mistake of deception here, and so you focus your thoughts on the faint sense of heat in your core. Nothing happens at first, but then… ah, of course. It was not a gift of flame that Onnotangu blessed you with.
You think of blood, the taste of the divine upon your lips, and the world ignites in silver light.
"My lord," the dead scout says, its outline flickering like smoke as it drops into a bow, "I have a report."
You hesitate, for the scout is doubtless a samurai, and even with the loss that comes with death you have never met a noble soul so willing to bow to you. You can only assume that it is mistaken, senses dulled by centuries of toil, perhaps mistaking you for some form of commander. Well, so be it.
"Then speak," you say shortly, for there is no etiquette you know that suits this situation even slightly.
"Our forces are advancing with speed, my lord," the scout reports in a faint voice, gesturing back towards the lanterns you can see approaching from the north, "but the Bayushi and Doji have allied, and their armies wait to the south. They will close on us like claws around our throat, should we advance."
You nod thoughtfully. Bayushi, Doji… samurai names, the ruling families of the Scorpion and Crane clans, you know that much. Which presumably makes the force from the north a Lion army, since nobody else has ever held that stretch of territory in any story you have ever heard. Why they have chosen to fight here, on the shores of this shining lake, is something you doubt you will ever know or understand. Probably some kind of vendetta or matter of honour, but that is not nearly as important as what the fact of the battle means for your work.
The dead are often trapped in their memories, contextualising everything that they see and feel in terms of events lost to living memory centuries ago. If you approach any of the three armies here tonight, the others will assume you to hold allegiance to that Clan, no matter the truth of the matter. Without food or sanctuary available anywhere nearby you cannot simply wait and approach the others on another night, so it seems your choice must be definitive.
There is no pain when you transform, for one, or even any great effort required. You simply will yourself to be different, and a moment later you are, birth form discarded with the same casual ease as you might shrug free a coat. There is no delay or condition to turn back either, which banishes your immediate fears of being trapped as a crow for however long Lord Moon deems appropriate, and careful examination of your image in a forest pool suggests that there is no lingering mark of the transformation at all. In the end you are forced to abandon the hunt for the drawback entirely, lest it drive you insane with worry, but the thought lingers at the back of your mind like a persistent thorn.
Still, you cannot deny that the ability to shed your human skin for a crow's feathered wings makes your journey vastly easier. It would normally take weeks for you to cross the north-eastern regions of the Scorpion provinces and enter the foothills, sticking to back roads and skirting around anywhere likely to host a population of samurai, but instead you can simply take a straight path above the trees and paddy fields and cover the distance in scarcely more than a day. A night spent sleeping under the stars, your bloodstained coat scrubbed thoroughly in a small river and hung from the branches to dry, and you are on your way again, following the music every onwards.
It gets louder as you approach the mountains, the low beating of drums joined by rough voices raised in chorus and the steady tramp of marching feet. How often has Rokugan heard such things before? Every year for eleven centuries at least, you think, for the samurai are warriors and every summer they march to spill another's blood. The thought should leave you bitter, but with the wind beneath your wings and the echo of Onnotangu's flame in your heart it all feels so appallingly trivial. The samurai could kill each other for a thousand years and you would not care, you think, were it not for all the others they invariably killed in their misguided zeal and hunger for glory.
It is close to dusk when you arrive, having stopped briefly at a small village to trade a bare handful of your remaining coins for a bowl of rice and some hot tea. The sun has dropped below the mountains, staining the sky in hues of red and gold that reflect in the shining lake below, and as you ride a rising wind you note that this is fortunate. Dusk is a good time for your trade, a liminal space that draws the worlds of life and death steadily closer together. Boundaries and borderlands are places of power in general, you find, though rarely for the same reason or in quite the same way. Territory contested for centuries will bear the marks of repeated bloodshed, while the threshold to a tomb is the easiest place to reach beyond the veil and speak to the dead souls beyond. You have done so more than once.
In truth, now that you think about it, all of your best and most lasting relationships have been with people long since departed from the mortal plane. It is the nature of the dead to only care about a handful of things, the sands of Meido slowly grinding away all but the most precious and heartfelt beliefs, and so your birth is rarely a concern. They have trained you, taught you, given you guidance and advice… is that why Onnotangu chose you? For your knowledge and understanding of the dead? You would not have thought so, the cycle of reincarnation is the domain of Emma-O, but maybe Lord Moon has some interest in the area unknown to mortal man? Or perhaps he simply finds your transgression against the will of the samurai appealing in some fashion. Attempting to understand the motive of someone like Onnotangu is a sure path to madness.
You land on the shore, descending as a crow and rising as a priest, and search your memories for clues as to your current position. You are somewhere in the Spine of the World, the mountain range that bisects Rokugan from east to west, but that alone is of little help. Instead you must look to history, to stories of old tragedies and your memory of tales told around campfires, and… yes, this must be the famous 'Red Lake', whose waters ran thick with blood for days in the aftermath of a great battle. Now that you look, you can already see the flickering torches of the invading army on the far shore, rank upon rank of them marching down the narrow pass that leads to the lands beyond.
Would such things be visible to most mortals? You do not think so, not until the hour of the battle arrives, and even then it would likely be imperceptible save for a handful of lights and the odd fading echo. Still, you are not most mortals, or perhaps even mortal at all of late, and though you know little of war you have learned enough to look for the scouts. Yes, there they are, faint shadows creeping along the banks or floating softly across the surface of the water, retreading the land of their death in search of anything that might have changed. You typically avoid battlefields when seeking an ancestor's aid, for the strong memories and martial spirit of the deceased are often more trouble than you can easily resolve, but the Scorpion have left you with little option.
You wait for a time, letting the slow thoughts and sharp eyes of the dead take your measure, then turn and approach the nearest at a slow and reverent pace. Your first thought is to bow, to approach as a mortal medium as you ever have, but… you're not just a wandering priest anymore, are you? You have no way of knowing if such things are visible to the dead, but it would be best to avoid the mistake of deception here, and so you focus your thoughts on the faint sense of heat in your core. Nothing happens at first, but then… ah, of course. It was not a gift of flame that Onnotangu blessed you with.
You think of blood, the taste of the divine upon your lips, and the world ignites in silver light.
"My lord," the dead scout says, its outline flickering like smoke as it drops into a bow, "I have a report."
You hesitate, for the scout is doubtless a samurai, and even with the loss that comes with death you have never met a noble soul so willing to bow to you. You can only assume that it is mistaken, senses dulled by centuries of toil, perhaps mistaking you for some form of commander. Well, so be it.
"Then speak," you say shortly, for there is no etiquette you know that suits this situation even slightly.
"Our forces are advancing with speed, my lord," the scout reports in a faint voice, gesturing back towards the lanterns you can see approaching from the north, "but the Bayushi and Doji have allied, and their armies wait to the south. They will close on us like claws around our throat, should we advance."
You nod thoughtfully. Bayushi, Doji… samurai names, the ruling families of the Scorpion and Crane clans, you know that much. Which presumably makes the force from the north a Lion army, since nobody else has ever held that stretch of territory in any story you have ever heard. Why they have chosen to fight here, on the shores of this shining lake, is something you doubt you will ever know or understand. Probably some kind of vendetta or matter of honour, but that is not nearly as important as what the fact of the battle means for your work.
The dead are often trapped in their memories, contextualising everything that they see and feel in terms of events lost to living memory centuries ago. If you approach any of the three armies here tonight, the others will assume you to hold allegiance to that Clan, no matter the truth of the matter. Without food or sanctuary available anywhere nearby you cannot simply wait and approach the others on another night, so it seems your choice must be definitive.
Article: There are two votes to be made here.
First, what Style does Yasu use for interacting with spirits in general and the dead in specific?
[ ] Reverent Descendent Style. Taught by a disgraced monk with a fondness for rice wine, this bastardised form of traditional Rokugani ancestor worship emphasises legacy, honour and the bonds of duty between living and the dead.
[ ] Impudent Apostle Style. The dead are proud and often obsessive, a fact that artfully humble peasants have used since time immemorial to steer them into favourable action through rumours, implied challenges and carefully chosen lies.
[ ] Ecstatic Devotee Style. In the underworld, one cannot rely on honour or humility to placate the hungry dead, and so must resort to giving them what they want instead - the sensation of being alive.
Second, the dead here are divided into three distinct factions, and though two of them are allied, each will require different methods to sway and offer different benefits if successfully recruited. Who, then, does Yasu approach?
[ ] Matsu. Famed for their berserk fighting style and ironclad code of honour, the Matsu are the greatest shock infantry in the Empire. Forging a pact with them offers unparalleled martial prowess and unwavering obedience, but failing to uphold your end of the bargain will lead to the dead turning on you immediately.
[ ] Bayushi. The rulers of the Scorpion are masters of deceptive warfare, and revel in their own sinister reputation. A pact with their ancestors generally requires only a modest price and offers an unmatched breadth of options, at the cost of reduced control. The Scorpion have always considered the spirit of the rule to trump the letter, and are prone to excessive dramatics besides.
[ ] Doji. The leading light of the Crane, the Doji are trend setters and rule makers across Rokugan, ardent adherents of beauty in all its forms… even death. They are the most willing of the three to offer you advice and guidance, and the most 'human' in thought and desire, but their price is likely to be highly specific and esoteric.