The Emperor (and Great Khan)summoned the representatives from Zipang to a private audience within the Forbidden City. Among them was Gwinch, whose reputation as both diplomat and fighter had reached the court.
The Emperor explained that an important visitor from Zipang
would soon arrive—a mission of delicate political significance—and he intended
to host a grand banquet in their honor. Because Gwinch understood the customs
of Zipang but was not yet entangled in its factional rivalries, the Emperor
entrusted him with a subtle task: to devise the seating plan. Each arrangement
would signal honor or insult; Gwinch’s choices could set the tone for an entire
season of diplomacy.
During these preparations, Gwinch became acquainted with Cair
and Myrrha, who were themselves still adjusting to the strange blend of
hospitality and surveillance that defined life in the Forbidden City. Gwinch
found that Cair and Myrrha spoke a language that while crude, almost childish, was
to him completely intelligible; for their part, Cair and Myrrha understood at
least some of what he said in Alyan. Thus, they were able to converse freely in
front of Cair and Myrrha’s handlers.
Gwinch learned of Cair’s kinship with the late Lord
Jourdain and the pair’s quiet ambition to secure wealth enough to leave
Khanbaliq. Cair, in turn, spoke with interest about Gwinch’s invitation to
participate in the coming martial arts tournament—an imperial contest of
strength and discipline held once every few years. He offered to provide a
minor enchantment, a subtle ward or charm to quicken reflexes and steady
breath.
Gwinch accepted.
The tournament opened on the steps of the Hall of
Heavenly Balance, beneath banners of red and white silk. The first test was
endurance: each competitor was required to stand motionless through a series of
ceremonial speeches that stretched well into the afternoon heat. Dozens
faltered; a few collapsed. Gwinch endured, silent and still, the faint gleam of
sweat on his temple the only movement.
Next came the test of reflexes—dodging a flurry of
blunted arrows fired from mechanical bows. He moved lightly through them,
letting the shafts pass close enough to ruffle his sleeves. Observers murmured
that the foreigner from Zipang fought as if guided by an unseen rhythm.
When the true bouts began, politics entered the arena.
Gwinch’s first opponent was Uesugi Kenchu, a former retainer of Sato
Masoko, who had once been Gwinch’s ally and mentor in Zipang. The match was
more than sport—it was an act of vengeance.
Kenchu was a seasoned samurai, disciplined and proud, and he
fought with a speed that betrayed his own magical aid. Yet Gwinch, strengthened
by Cair’s charm, met him blow for blow. The contest was brief and
brutal. Dust rose around them; spectators gasped as the outlander drove his
rival to his knees.
The Emperor (and Great Khan)summoned the
representatives from Zipang to a private audience within the Forbidden City.
Among them was Gwinch, whose reputation as both diplomat and fighter had
reached the court.
The Emperor explained that an important visitor from Zipang
would soon arrive—a mission of delicate political significance—and he intended
to host a grand banquet in their honor. Because Gwinch understood the customs
of Zipang but was not yet entangled in its factional rivalries, the Emperor
entrusted him with a subtle task: to devise the seating plan. Each arrangement
would signal honor or insult; Gwinch’s choices could set the tone for an entire
season of diplomacy.
During these preparations, Gwinch became acquainted with Cair
and Myrrha, who were themselves still adjusting to the strange blend of
hospitality and surveillance that defined life in the Forbidden City. Gwinch
found that Cair and Myrrha spoke a language that while crude, almost childish, was
to him completely intelligible; for their part, Cair and Myrrha understood at
least some of what he said in Alyan. Thus, they were able to converse freely in
front of Cair and Myrrha’s handlers.
Gwinch learned of Cair’s kinship with the late Lord
Jourdain and the pair’s quiet ambition to secure wealth enough to leave
Khanbaliq. Cair, in turn, spoke with interest about Gwinch’s invitation to
participate in the coming martial arts tournament—an imperial contest of
strength and discipline held once every few years. He offered to provide a
minor enchantment, a subtle ward or charm to quicken reflexes and steady
breath.
Gwinch accepted.
The tournament opened on the steps of the Hall of
Heavenly Balance, beneath banners of red and white silk. The first test was
endurance: each competitor was required to stand motionless through a series of
ceremonial speeches that stretched well into the afternoon heat. Dozens
faltered; a few collapsed. Gwinch endured, silent and still, the faint gleam of
sweat on his temple the only movement.
Next came the test of reflexes—dodging a flurry of
blunted arrows fired from mechanical bows. He moved lightly through them,
letting the shafts pass close enough to ruffle his sleeves. Observers murmured
that the foreigner from Zipang fought as if guided by an unseen rhythm.
When the true bouts began, politics entered the arena.
Gwinch’s first opponent was Uesugi Kenchu, a former retainer of Sato
Masoko, who had once been Gwinch’s lord in Zipang-- until they became lethal enemies. The match was
more than sport—it was an act of vengeance.
Kenchu was a seasoned samurai, disciplined and proud, and he
fought with a speed that betrayed his own magical aid. Yet Gwinch, strengthened
by Cair’s charm, met him blow for blow. The contest was brief and
brutal. Dust rose around them; spectators gasped as the outlander drove his
rival to his knees.
When the match ended, Gwinch saluted his fallen opponent
with formal respect. The crowd roared approval, and for that moment at least,
the mysterious stranger was no longer an outsider.
________________________________________________________________________
We played this session as a mashup of Princes’ Kingdom and D&D. The mechanics of The Princes’ Kingdom do a better job than D&D with non-lethal physical challenges. The tournament began with a series of speeches that doubled as test for stamina, weeding out the less qualified contestants. Instead of rolling a couple con checks, the players played from a pool of dice, calling on their previous experiences as the hours of speechifying wore on. I used the rules again for the test of speed and the test of reflexes. Rolling a dex check just doesn’t work for bringing out the drama of dodging a volley of arrows. And while the module I was using exhorted the DM to fully describe the events, it’s a much better tactic to ask the players to do some of the work of describing what they do and what happens to them. Another advantage was that my (then) six-year-old son could join as Bucko, a street urchin who did surprisingly well in the tournament.
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