A private roleplaying game campaign set in an emergent world of autumn-shrouded mountains, musty wooden corridors, and moonlit blood-feuds. Unless you find your username in the cast below, please do not post in this thread. Privates Messages or Discord messages are preferred. I will request moderation to delete off-topic posts and posts made by those uninvolved. Please and thank you.
Dramatis Personae
Kuratomo, Oznerol
| Cool 0 | Hard +2 | Hot 0 | Sharp +1 | Weird -1 |
Unharmed
Light skin, Battered old armor, Fanciful clothing, Aristocratic face, Raging eyes, Hard body
Long sword (4-harm) of unusual metal, with an inlaid hilt and razor sharp edge
Short sword (2-harm) with an ivory hilt and a slender blade
Bow & arrows (3-harm, at range, specialized, 2-handed)
Laced scales, greaves, arm guards (1 armor, 2 armor against arrows)
The path is steep, and the soil beneath your worldly feet shifts and slips. The mountainside curves downwards behind you, and sleet surrounds you. A deluge has come upon Mount Henjō, melting its snow-laden slopes into frigid, icy mud. You can hear rushing rapids in the distance, between the storm’s claps and splashes.
Kuratomo, what god, demon, or beast does this new year belong to?
The mountain does not want you to reach its summit, perhaps. You pass under another of the red gates nonetheless, driving further yet beyond sacred boundaries. Perhaps it tests you. You know hardship well, don’t you, Kuratomo? You notice how the crimson paint is faded, dark like lacquered leather in this provincial winter. You are glad for the tightly-fitting boots on your feet, thick leather trimmed with the fur of great bears.
At the top, you know, is a great shinsha. A place of gods. Why do you go here? What do you seek there? You know there to be a family of priests and priestesses there, practitioners and defenders of the mountain. The warrior tribes in the valleys below never bat an eye to their whims and omens. After all, they hold the blood of gods, do they not?
What is it you seek, someone or something? Is it real, or abstract, or both? What drives you to climb this mountain in the depths of winter?
Last edited by Dirty Chai; September 12, 2018 at 12:10 AM.
The gods of wind are howling, and their cries are not exactly those of defiance: maybe they mourn the death of life itself, suffocated in the long embrace of winter's cold arms. It was said that their metallic feathers provoke sparks that light up the sky, causing lightning. Whatever truth did those words of tale and lore hid, it was not known. Or maybe the wrathful god of storms, brother to the Sun, was waving his ten-fists-long sword, making wind swirl and clouds be torn open in his blind rage. Whatever the cause, the weather was horrid and the whole world was blurred, the borders eroded and the vision obscured by rain and wind. The leathered hand rested for a little in the gate's pillar.
Maybe, only maybe, the climb would be worth it. The priests that made their abode at top were not only spiritual guides for the scattered communities in the surrounding lands and vale, but also were lords of the earthly, being the major propietaries of land, river, wood and rock in the region. Through hundreds of years of enlightened piety their wealth was increased and in turn the poor villagers only asked for guidance and protection. A sword was maybe needed, or maybe he could find some solace in the brazier-lit shrine and halls of the lord-priests of the mountain. Long had he wandered, from hall to hall, a manor to the next, seeking shelter in temples and inns all across the Northern half of the country. It was such a contrast with the warmer, placid halls of his forebears, but their delicate pabillions, high walls and storied keep were long lost. Sighing was not advisable in such a chilly climate, but noneless breath scaped his mouth, for much was the sorrow inflicted upon his heart by many. Grudges could be washed, but not forgotten. The touch of the inlaid hilt reassured him. Passed by from father to son in an unbroken line, the sword was unmoving, unfliching, eternal, a reminder of old times and lifes lost; it was both a memento and a tool, a symbol and a weapon.
He wrapped himself more tighly in the furry cloak, bracing himself for the long way to the still distant manor and shrine that topped the surrounding world, a whole cosmos surrounded by the high walls of the mountains, veiled by snow and rain. It was remote enough to not be bothered and give some respite to his wandering soul.
Last edited by Oznerol; September 01, 2018 at 07:56 AM.
You're careful to protect that symbolic long sword in weather such as this. Instead of wearing it openly, you make sure that its handle and sheath are protected by the length of your cloak. You hide much under its thick protection, including the unstrung staff of a bow and a small bundle of arrows.
A pinch at the back of your neck halts your progress. You balk, one foot behind the other still. You look around for the source of the threat, suppressing a tremble in your lungs. You find it. Two hazel eyes glow at you, through sleet and darkness, wide and judgmental. They belong to the body of a great red wolf, perched on a bank above you, overlooking yet another of the red gates in your path. The forest thickens just behind its motionless tail. It holds you in its gaze for many breaths before, without rhyme or second thought, it turns and continues on its way, slipping back into the frosted foliage.
You have no time to reflect. The mountain howls. The pit in your chest growls. Old wounds sting and burn. You are close. So close. Only three more of the red gates arch your ascent, the last one notably unfaded - a brilliant red clashing against the white and brown beneath and beyond it. The summit is here, suddenly flat, turning into the fenced grounds that wall off this pocket of sacred soil from the rest of the world of the reed beds. You can see the grand hall beyond, through a path bordered by smaller pavillions and gabled roofs and stone markers and little shrines. Some lone braziers light the way, maybe one in five. You do not see anyone in sight.
In a humid weather like that... a sword should only be bathed in oil and blood, both thicker and more dense than water. And the sword should be preserved at all costs: it was all that remained from a previous life, when he did have much more than a meager koku of rice to his name, the sword was not only a tool of trade but also an unequivocal symbol of status. However, his thoughts about blades and past grievances were interrupted by another presence, one that sent shivers down his spine. The wolf was motionlessly menacing, its natural authority, its imposingly threatening presence was felt almost physically; a beast to rule the forest. The eyes were haunting, like ponds of molten copper, deep and inscrutable. He held his breath for a moment, but never ocured to him to wield his sword, this was something that transcended a mere encounter with a wild animal: this felt like a portent, like an omen, the nature of which he could not ascertain. It lasted what seemed a lifetime, but the moment was broken and the wolf stepped again into the wilderness.
Whatever the nature of the encounter with such a beast, it was unwise to remain in the open for a long period of time, not only the weather was worsening but who knows what lurked among the shadows. He had no intentions of spilling any blood that day, least so his own, so he hurried himself towards the shrine and the promise of heat and food among the lordly priests of the shrine. Light-footed he tried to the comforting safety of the fenced enclosure, sacred soiled, many times over blessed by the resident deity.
An inner-wall cuts off the rest of the grounds from a larger heart - this wall is high, and made of rammed earth and has finely curved roofs which block everything out of view except for the towering gables of the great hall and the many conifers laden with white and black against the sky. Approaching the gate, it seems much larger than you had expected, and it is adorned with an enclosing rope - curling round and round and hung with zig-zagging strips of paper which blow and shake in the weather alongside the beautiful tassels of the rope. It seems to extend, although smaller and less grand, on both sides of the gate along the two lengths of wall you can see until, in the distance, they turn corners. One you can see, the other seems to disappear into the darkness and obscurity of the mountain's forest.
As you step up - landing onto stonework for the first time in a long while - another alarm halts your progress. This time, however, it is more expected - and possibly encouraging. A man's voice breaks through the wind and rain, and you can see the light of his fire dancing on the woodwork above the gate and beyond.
There is silence for a breath, then the wooden gate opens - one of the two doors creaking backwards, inwards. On the other side, looking through, is the lantern's source and a man's wrinkled face. A black cap rises from his head. He stares at you, his eyes darting to your getup and your swords for a moment. He seems very surprised to see you, perhaps he'd expected a servant or monk.
He backs up a step, and the door widens further. "Only the pure may stay in these halls," he states, not necessarily as a refusal.
He paused, eyeing Kuratomo, stubborn and standoffish. He seemed wary of a dreary warrior in mid-winter. After a moment, he steps backwards even more, and the door widens enough for the visitor to pass the threshold.
"Then, you may enter," he says, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, "but you must leave your tools of violence at the doorsteps of the temple's halls."
"I will hand you my sword, but it is not to be harmed in any way, take care of it"
He said, protective. The man openned the furry cloak and unfastened the belt and scabbard. His clothes were fine and surprisingly well-kept, unusual for a man without master or property to call his own.
"This is not a mere too, but a heirloom. I do deliver it into custody for the sake of gaining entrance, but woe the one who tries keep me from regaining it or damages it somehow"
He pauses, standing there in the rain, staring back at Kuratomo, as if digesting what was said. After a moment, he gives a slight, solemn nod.
"It will be cared for, and carefully stored. It will not be hidden."
The servant suppresses a frown and his eyes glance at Kuratomo's waist, at the fine folds of your suikan, though it looks more like a fanciful hitatare with the sleeves restrained and hemmed for travel. The servant wears a similar garment, though his sleeves are not folded back - his hands only emerging from them when he's holding something or raising his arms - and the sleeves are sewn to the torso at the shoulders. And of course, it is much less fine, with no ornamentation or flowery design, made of black silk-substitute.
"Do not warriors carry two swords, sir?" he asks with a tilt of his head to the side.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Okay, let's try out one of the moves. If you want to lie to him about your sword and/or press his appearance disadvantage into deference, or anything in between, let's do this..
When you try to seduce, manipulate, bluff, disorient, or lie to someone, tell them what you want them to do, give them a reason, and roll+hot.
For NPCs: on a 10+, they’ll go along with you, unless or until some fact or action betrays the reason you gave them. On a 7–9, they’ll go along with you, but they need some concrete assurance, corroboration, evidence, or show of good faith first.
So, make an account on Orokos.com, then use the Dice Roller to roll 2d6+Hot and link it in your post.
He waves a hand majestically, like dismissing his concerns.
"Fate has been unkind to me of late. My short sword lays broken, lodged in the throat of a vagrant I found on the road; he tried, most unsuccessfully, to assault me"
It was a blatant lie, but a man should not be wholy disarmed, a short sword could always get you out of a hot spot, moreso if you were stepping into unknown territory. And a noble must always be armed.
"So, will you step aside?"
He crossed his arms. The garments had some sort of heraldic motif, specially on the chest, but the design was obscured by Kuratomo's own arms and the cloak. He was certainly commanding, his voice was of someone was used to be obeyed.
The servant bows his head from the neck and turns with a gesture, and shuffles out of the rain to the closest eaves. He stops again, and turns, standing on the first layer of the veranda, which was cleverly constructed of slatted pieces for water to drain through as it fell from the eaves above. Behind him were dark, simple, hardy storm shutters. He gestures with his hand.
"Come this way, master Kuratomo."
The guard begins to slide one of the storm shutters, carefully and quietly sliding it along a stubborn groove, leaving him and the guest a few feet to pass through. Inside was a dark second layer of the veranda, this one with smooth wooden flooring and protected by the eaves. Beyond were the paper sliding walls, and these were incredibly colorful, even in the dark.
You are lead not within the paper though, but down the corridor and around the corner, the must and dew permeating from the droning roof above and the whistling storm shutters at your right. He leads you silently for some long minutes, his lantern leading the way through the darkness. Your long sword is carefully held in his free hand. A heavy staff is strung across his back, bearing no killing edges.
At length, he halts and turns, his silk folds slipping smoothly on the wooden veranda to face a break in the shutters that leads farther into the complex - he widens the gap, and a covered, raised walkway narrows away with open sides into the distance. He gestures down the path and begins speaking again once they are away from the first building, the creaking and cracking of their feet on the wooden boards drowned out by the weather's din around them.
Kuratomo, you can see way more life abound now, perhaps what you had expected of a great shrine like this. Other figures with lanterns seem to stroll in the distance among other buildings, and you spot a few seated figures before a dark enshrinement through a set of opened shutters. You can see the incense floating above their heads.
The manservant speaks to you, but still hushed. "I will place you in quarters at the far end of the complex, and inform the priests of the gods of your arrival when they are unengaged."
He stops you about halfway down the roofed walkway, and he gestures to a small alcove with a sacred forked roof of its own - a basin surrounded by hanging paper swirls and entwined rope.
"Purify your body and mouth, and we may continue to your sanctuary," he says, still seeming to watch you carefully.
Last edited by Dirty Chai; September 11, 2018 at 05:18 AM.
He said, apparently with a hint of approval, maybe to stroke the guardsman's ego or to strengthen the man's subservience to himself.
"Gods be praised, I will follow your steps"
The complex within the enclosure was mostly as expected from such a place. The buildings did show some good craftsmanship and the sacred nature of the place was almost physical, piety could be sensed in every corner, acompanied by the well-rounded wealth it provided to its owners. But such was the reward for being the link of humankind with the gods in their heavenly abode, such was the custom of the land. To be freed of the storm's bothersome embrace was good enough, to be sheltered from wind and rain, even if he left a watery trail on his wake, for his furry cloak was soaked and dripping. Kuramoto inspects everything carefully, taking note of the surroundings and the possibilities around him. He nods once in the small alcove.
"So be it"
He proceeds with the expected ritual, washing his limbs in ceremonial ablution and taking small sips of water, later to be spit, to cleam his gums and teeth. Kuramoto conducted it without a hurry, silently, but orderly and precise, like someone who had done the very same thing over and over again through the years. Any lord had to be in contact with the heavenly, and rituals of purification were a rutine, considering the number of ceremonies a lordly life required.
Last edited by Oznerol; September 11, 2018 at 05:39 AM.
When you are finished, the temple guard finally leads you to the destination he spoke of. Along the way, once you round a corner, the pinnacle of the temple's structures comes sharply into your view as you pass by it: a three storied tower rises above the great hall, inner sanctum, with fenced-off white stories rising above it's double-roofed first floor. You can see great beasts carved of wood hanging from its columns and pillars. A great dark sword-like shape points to heaven at the top, barely visible from this angle. An arrester of demons, a harness of the storm. You continue onwards, and finally you reach another block of storm shutters.
This time, the servant pulls back the second layer and gestures within - for you, Kuratomo, to enter first. He takes you past the paper walls, and into a side corridor, and within moments, he halts at last and gives a graceful bow from his waist.
"Here you may rest and wait for the night. Nourishment will be brought to you. The hearth will be embered. The bedding is in the closet."
The paper to your left is pulled back, and you can see the interior, with a sunken hearth in a square beneath the folded rice-mats tiling the floor around it.
A formidable structure indeed. It was high and well-build, imposing even. He wondered who the temple was dedicated to, that, he did not yet know. Kuratomo enters the room and takes a seat, legs crossed, while nodding to the manservant, both as a thankful demonstration of courtesy and as farewell. Once alone, Kuratomo removes the cloak and the outer garments, which are left to dry near the hearth, the warmth of which is truly welcomed in such a foul weather. The short sword is removed from his back, the weight of the blade at his kidneys was comforting, but he could not openly wield it in the enclosure, so it would remain concealed for the time being. He tries to warm his hands over the fireplace, while in silent meditation. The room was comfortable, probably better than anything he had seen in several months, and if employement came as he expected, he could very well spend winter there. Kuratomo scratched his chin, the stubble was starting to grow again, so he would have to shave again in the morning, for he had sworn to not grow a beard either, as much as he had gave up meat and fish, not eating anything coming from animal.
As you begin to settle down for the evening, you feel your muscles relax and ache, ceasing their silence to finally tell you of their complaints. This, while your heart slows and calms to the sight of the low flames of the hearth beneath your hands, drawing long, soft shadows across a dusky room. The mountain thunders outside, howling and swirling yet still. You think the storm has gotten worse, and perhaps you have received shelter at the most welcome moment.
Eventually, you loosen your trousers, and pull the bedding out of the closet, piece by piece, until you can submerge yourself in several layers of clean comfort. How long has it been since you could do this, Kuratomo? Curl up in comfort, staring into the red flower of mankind's spark? Your great fur pelt, spotted and dark and regal like the ancient forests and primeval mountains your tread, is drying out above the flames, light illuminating the multiple layers of perhaps your most favored possession in winters like this.
You drift into sweet sleep, even in humble living such as this. On your mind, ever present, is your need to continue to forge forward, to something. You will need to make both ends of the rope meet for the season, lest you resort to..
Your eyes pull awake, opening wider and wider, and you find yourself in the usual mess of layers and limbs that sleep brings, staring at the ceiling. There is much more light now, even if dim, so you are quite confident it is morning. You hear a resounding din echo throughout the corridors and floor boards, the tolling of the temple's great iron bell.
Some more time passes, moments to yourself - and you chose to do with them as you see fit: finely shave the fuzz and fur from your face, meditate, groom and master your appearance, sleep more..
A clap comes from outside the room. Another. The paper wall is slid to the right to reveal a kneeling woman who prostrates before sliding in a tray carrying two small ceramic bowls - one with a foggy liquid, tea or soup perhaps, the other full of pale, bright substance like snow with steam rising like incense. She prostrates again. A servant woman, with no wrinkles you can see. No makeup, and her teeth were white. Her tightly folded dress was simple and restrained at the waist with a white sash.
"When you are ready, master Kuratomo, you are invited to the western wing. Exit this room, and keep right, and you will find it."
She waits to see if the warrior has anything to ask or request, though she keeps her eyes averted to the smooth wood beneath her.
Last edited by Dirty Chai; September 12, 2018 at 12:54 AM.
Kuratomo remembered, vividly, the last time that he could pass the night on a bed like that: five months and twelve days. It was, coincidentially, his mother's birthday, and by mere chance, or fortune, he was granted shelter by a lord, for a single night, after he had slayed a couple bandits in the road; the two men had been trying to rob, or brutalize in a way or another, a washerwoman who happened to have a liason with the own lord. The fireplace offered some glimpse of a flickering and uncertain future, maybe he could stay with the monks for few months or even a whole year, but in the end the road and a goal who could not be fulfilled would seek him again, pulling him from comfort and inaction. But, in the meanwhile, he could very well enjoy what the manor had to offer and give his bones some respite: he was already far enough from the place he once-called home and thus it was unlikely that the past would catch up, that fast, with him. Sleep came with a gentle embrace, the most repairing rest he had in a very long time: so, when morning entered the room, light traversing the windows, he was reinvigorated.
First, he shaved, for that was an oath he could not break, not as of yet. He dressed, meticulously arranging the layers of clothing so as to appear respectable, imposing. He rubbed the dirt of his pants and shoes and even polished the short sword for a time, before concealing it in the wide and multilayered robe. He spent minutes in prayer, his fingers caressing a wooden rosary in silent meditation, easing his troubled mind for a time, at least. The door being openned didn't take him by surprise, he had noticed faint, quick steps towards his room few moments before the woman interrupted his moment of solitude. He replied politely:
"Good. I will go in haste, nothing detains me here any longer"
He crosses arms over chest, both arms inside the wide sleeves of his outer robe.