Rowche Rumble

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.