Pasar had grown quiet.
By the time Ginjo and Sukh returned to the Blue Water Wine
Hall to investigate the Black Flower hideout, it had already been abandoned.
Though there were clear signs of recent activity, nothing pointed to specific
individuals, motives, or future plans. The trail had gone cold.
Ginjo: “We had chased Black Flower out of town so it was
time to get paid. We met the farmers because we started a drug store.”
The “drug” Ginjo referred to was Rowche, a mild but
addictive stimulant made from a grass native to the region. Brewed into a tea,
Rowche was widely consumed in Pasar and neighboring settlements and exported both east and west on the Spice Road. The best
strains came from the Rowche Valley, a fertile region about half a day’s
journey east.
Ginjo: “The farmers asked us to get their jade leaf statue
back from the bakemono. And we agreed to help them so the Rowche would keep
coming—so we could sell it.”
According to the farmers, the bakemono—strange,
twisted humanoids—had long troubled their valley, occasionally stealing
chickens or goats. But recently, they had raided in force and taken something
sacred: the Jade Leaf, a statue said to ensure the valley’s warm rains
and gentle sunshine. The villagers believed this statue was the source of their
prosperity.
The bakemono had holed up in an abandoned temple on
the ridge above the valley.
Ginjo agreed to help—but Sukh declined.
So Gin-jo made some inquiries and encountered Gunjar, a wandering white
shaman from the far-off Land of the Five Fires. Gunjar had no interest in
stimulants or trade—but the desecration of a temple roused his deep
sense of spiritual justice.
So Ginjo and Gunjar set out for the Rowche Valley.
The villagers greeted them with quiet gratitude. Early the
next morning, the two adventurers, joined by seven local farmers, began the
climb up the mist-shrouded ridge. By noon, the mists had lifted, and the ruined
temple’s peaked roof was visible above the canopy.
As they reached the forest’s edge, they heard guttural
laughter. In the clearing below, they saw a dozen creatures—vaguely humanoid,
but grotesquely distorted. Some were horned, others winged. Many had tails.
Their ears and noses were oversized; their skin tinted shades of blue, green,
and purple. Two of them, blindfolded, were engaged in a vicious stick-fight
while the others cheered.
Gunjar stepped forward, calling on the spirits to transfix
the largest of the creatures. His prayer was answered. As the leader
stiffened in place, Ginjo led the farmers in a charge. The remaining bakemono
were killed, and the paralyzed one was bound and dragged into the woods.
Inside the temple, they found more bakemono—just as
disorganized, but more numerous. The initial assault was successful, but when
the fighting spread, the inexperienced farmers faltered. Three were
killed, and several others fled in panic. The bakemono pursued them, and only a
few brave or lucky survivors remained with Gunjar and Ginjo.
On the upper floor, the bakemono were larger, better
armed, and better organized. But they had not reckoned with the shaman’s
fury. Gunjar delivered a blistering sermon, denouncing the bakemono for
their violent ways. His words—terrible in their truth—struck many dead where
they stood. Ginjo engaged the leader in single combat and killed him with
his own hands.
With the enemy broken, the Jade Leaf was reclaimed.
That night, there was a subdued celebration in the village.
Of the seven farmers who had gone to the ridge, only two returned with minor
wounds:
- Howzaa,
who had fled the main battle downstairs but later ambushed and killed one
of the pursuing bakemono, claiming the creature’s weapon.
- Li
Po, who had stayed near Ginjo during the fiercest fighting and learned
what it meant to fight with courage.
In the days after the battle at the temple, Pasar returned
to its usual rhythm. Barges came in from across the lake, heavy with fish and
salted reeds. Traders from the mountains brought furs and Rowche; caravans from
the east brought silk, glass, and gossip. At the city’s center, the market
buzzed as always—with haggling, laughter, the slap of butcher knives on
chopping blocks, and the sizzle of oil in blackened woks.
Ginjo returned to his shop near the canal, where tea smoke
and Rowche steam curled into the humid air. Gunjar lingered at the lakeshore
shrine, his hands never still—scratching symbols into the sand, watching the
water for signs. Sukh watched from afar.
But something was wrong in the hills.
Howzaa and Li Po returned to the Rowche Valley as minor
heroes. It was they who first brought the stories: of fresh tracks in the ash
near the ruined temple; of livestock disappearing from high pastures; of
torches seen flickering on distant ridgelines. The elders whispered of an old
canyon, once a refuge of hermits, lined with caves carved into the sandstone by
wind and centuries. A place where monks and pilgrims once sought wisdom… and
where others went mad.
Now, it seemed, the caves had new inhabitants.
A shepherd found a pig-nosed corpse snagged in a ravine,
torn by arrows and half-eaten by crows. A boy who followed goat tracks too far
returned pale and trembling, claiming he saw "a man with lizard eyes and a
voice like a drum." The rumors came slow, then faster, like the breath
before a storm.
The bakemono had not scattered. They had gathered.
And so, one morning not long after the temple victory,
Gunjar stood beside Ginjo in the dry light of dawn. Neither spoke. They were
watching the far hills.
Somewhere beyond them was a canyon, and within it, a darkness worth facing.
