Sukh, Ginjo, and their band—comprised of on-loan sohei and a few seasoned mercenaries—resolved to return to the cavern lair of the wicked men. This time, they came not as trespassers but with a demand: to know what had become of their missing comrade, Irak.
They were received with unsettling hospitality. The red-and-black robed men welcomed them into the cavern with smiles and gestures of goodwill. Yet behind this show of civility stood scores of undead: reanimated skeletons and corpses that lingered silently, their hollow eyes fixed and obedient. It was clear who held the true power in this place.
The cultists praised the “gifts” Sukh and Ginjo had provided—many of the undead were fallen bakemono, some recognizable as recent foes cut down by the party’s own blades.
The cult’s leader, a gaunt man with a high brow and a lilting voice, confirmed that he had Irak in his possession. She was unharmed, he claimed—and he had plans for her. As he gestured grandly to the silent ranks of undead lining the cavern walls, his smile widened.
“This is all your handiwork,” he said, his tone oily and reverent. “Your blades. Your decisions. You’ve made a generous offering to death—and we are merely stewards of what you began.”
But—he was willing to negotiate.
He did not ask for money. What he wanted was simple: life for life. Four living bakemono, freely offered, in exchange for the honorable monk.
Sukh and Ginjo agreed. But they had a different plan in mind.
They returned to the shrine at their old campsite—the one tended by the peaceful bakemono who venerated the fallen warrior Gunjar. When the four bakemono emerged to greet them, Sukh and Ginjo explained the situation. They needed help—not as bait, but as allies. They promised no betrayal. The mission was to negotiate for Irak’s release and, if necessary, to fight. No one would be left behind.
Moved by the honor shown to them—and perhaps by Gunjar’s lingering spirit—the bakemono agreed.
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