Dramatis Personae
Ginjo – A self-exiled warrior from the Zhou Empire.
Level-headed and dependable, with a growing reputation as a local leader.
Co-runs a Rowche tea shop in Pasar. Known for his cool command under pressure.
Gunjar – A white shaman from the Land of the Five
Fires. Practices an older, spirit-driven tradition separate from the monastic
Two-Fold Path. Merciful, mystical, and unsettlingly powerful when the spirits
speak through him.
Sukh – A fellow exile from the Valley of the Five
Fires. A rugged fighter and sometime rival to Gunjar. Though he declined to
join the first temple raid, Sukh has stood by Ginjo since their joint
investigation into the Black Flowers. He prefers action to ritual, and carries
the weight of unspoken battles.
Sentra – A disciplined monk of the Monastery of the
Two-Fold Path. Speaks little, observes much. Occasionally travels beyond
monastery walls when duty demands. Respected by both peasants and monks.
Howzaa & Li Po – Rowche farmers turned reluctant
adventurers. Survivors of the temple raid, now part of the expedition's
vanguard.
Shek & Sheng – Former caravan guards, rescued
from bakemono captivity. Now armed, armored, and loyal to Ginjo’s leadership.
Into the Caves
A few months had passed since the battle at the temple.
Ginjo and Gunjar had returned to Pasar as quiet heroes, but it was the Rowche
farmers who carried the most urgent news. The bakemono had not
disappeared—they had multiplied.
At first, it was small things: tracks near burned ground,
vanished animals, unearthed graves. Then came raids—on livestock, on carts, on
lone travelers. The bakemono no longer acted as isolated bands but as a growing
force. Their movements pointed to one place: a slot canyon, little more
than a narrow tear in the hills, riddled with caves. Old farmers called it a
place of ghosts—once a hermitage for monks, now twisted by something deeper and
crueler. Dark tunnels leading to still darker places of disharmony, corruption,
and discord. Or, as some would say, chaos.
Howzaa and Li Po, braver than most, followed the trails.
What they saw—crude symbols, bones, flickering fires—was enough to send them
back to Pasar, pale and resolute.
Ginjo and Gunjar answered the call. With the monks of the Two-Fold
Path, they recruited a handful of warriors and volunteers, including Howzaa
and Li Po. Their goal: not defense, but purification. They would strike into
the canyon and root out the bakemono before their corruption spread any
further.
They chose to enter through a low cavern mouth on the
southern wall, half-hidden by vines and shadow. The air inside was still and
damp. Within moments, the party encountered their first foes: half a dozen
blue-green, pointy-eared bakemono, the same kind that had desecrated the
temple. But this time, the heroes held the advantage—discipline, courage,
and steel.
Ginjo led the charge. Gunjar invoked the spirits. The
bakemono, caught off guard, were overwhelmed.
Deeper in, they found a cramped chamber made to
resemble a throne room, pitiful in its pomp. A larger bakemono sat there,
fanged and howling. He commanded his underlings to attack—only for Gunjar to
step forward and deliver a scathing sermon, condemning them for their
cruelty. The spirits answered. The air grew thick. The bakemono collapsed. Most would never rise again. But there were a few who rose and fled screaming, horrified by their own wickedness.
The group pressed on, ascending narrow stairs and winding
tunnels. The deeper they went, the stronger the resistance: larger
bakemono, better-armed and less easily cowed. Still, Ginjo’s leadership
held them together. Gunjar tended wounds with quiet devotion. And when they
entered a prison chamber, they found survivors.
A wealthy silk merchant, his wife, and two guards.
Captured on the road and held for ransom—or worse. The heroes escorted them to
safety. The merchant, once returned to Pasar, offered Ginjo a generous
reward through the Silk Guild.
His two guards, Shek and Sheng, outfitted with fresh
gear, pledged their blades to the cause.
New Allies, New Plans
The battle had begun in earnest.
With evidence mounting of a large and organized bakemono
presence, the party began assembling a broader force. The silk merchant’s
influence helped. So did the quiet authority of the monks.
Sentra, a monk of the Two-Fold Path, and Sukh,
the warrior from Gunjar’s homeland, agreed to join the next raid. Gwinch,
an elder at the monastery, sent five additional sohei. In total, the expedition
now
numbered a dozen fighters—sohei, caravaners, farmers, and four
proven leaders.
They established a camp in the canyon—a central base
from which to raid and regroup. They would strike in turns: one team would
attack, the other defend the camp and tend the wounded.
The first strike had gone well.
But darker things lay deeper in the caves—and the bakemono
had begun to organize.
Sentra and Sukh’s Sortie
Sukh had declined the temple raid—but he had never left the
fight.
He’d been watching. Listening. The stories coming from the
caves sounded worse than those from the Rowche ridgeline. So when Ginjo
proposed a second sortie, Sukh agreed to lead it. He would go with Sentra,
the quiet monk, who had once spoken of peace with a tone so cold it sounded
like steel drawn from a scabbard.
They took with them a handful of sohei, plus several brave
farmers. Their target: a narrow tunnel on the northern side of the
canyon, half-hidden by brush and trees.
As they approached, it happened fast—a sudden rain of
spears. Half a dozen small bakemono-- half-rat, half-dog, half-lizard-- dropped from the trees,
shrieking and stabbing. One monk was run through and barely clung to life. Sentra charged into the fray, and swept two of the creatures aside with his staff. The ambushers fled into the underbrush, barking and hissing.
Sentra stabilized the wounded, wrapping
their wounds with calm precision. He insisted the wounded be returned to camp
immediately.
That decision may have saved lives.
Sukh and Sentra returned hours later to a larger cavern mouth,
higher on the canyon wall. The afternoon sun slanted into the opening. Inside,
the light revealed ranks of severed heads, lined in niches carved into
the stone. Human and bakemono, all grim trophies.
One niche was empty.
Sentra’s eyes narrowed. He had seen movement. A pig-nosed
head, twitching ever so slightly—then gone. Behind the niche, he found a
small tunnel. Throwing a torch inside, he glimpsed a parallel hallway,
hidden behind the rows of skulls.
"They saw us first," Sentra muttered.
Sukh nodded. “Then we move fast.”
They charged into the main corridor, seeking an intercept
point. They did not find the watcher—but they found four armed pig-faced
bakemono.
The battle was sharp and fast. The creatures were tough but
scattered. Sukh gutted two. Sentra crushed the windpipe of a third. The fourth
tried to flee—but never made it to the tunnel.
They followed signs of habitation deeper in—and soon came
upon the chief's lair.
He was bloated, bright red, with massive
tusks jutting from his mouth like daggers. He sat in a heap of cushions and
bones, surrounded by snarling bodyguards and several female bakemono.
The sohei and farmers squared off against the guards. Sukh
pointed his blade at the chief.
The duel was brief, brutal, and strange. The chieftain
fought with reckless strength—smashing, howling, lashing out blindly. But Sukh
was patient. He waited, deflected, retreated. When the chief overcommitted,
Sukh stepped in and struck low, then high—a clean kill.
The other bakemono panicked. Some tried to flee. None made
it out.
The heroes looted the lair and returned to camp.
They had found one lair—but the canyon was full of mouths.
And not all of them would be so clumsy.
The Drums from the Swamp
