I think I'm going to bow out. I've got a lot going on, right now, and I'm having a hard time getting into the game.
Sorry...
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Mitsuryuu is about 5’6” tall, with a strong, swordsman’s build. He has long black hair, usually worn in a ponytail, and dark brown eyes. He usually wears a when outdoors. His clothes are finely made, if relatively plain. He has a tattoo on his right arm of seven dragons in a chain, the one behind biting the tail of the one before. The dragons are wildly different, and appear to be made by entirely different artists. He carries little save his daisho.
I'm back online. Sorry for the disturbance.
Mitsuryuu, having nothing to add to any conversation, waits quietly until the rest have retired.
just an FYI. My computer is crashed, and it's not going to be fixed before the weekend. This will be my last post for a while. Feel free to NPC me as necessary to keep the story moving.
"I am called Mitsuryuu," Mitsuryuu says after a moment, his face composed and expressionless, "a swordsman. I traveled from Blest to fight the evils that seem to spring from the soil here on the mainland to poison all, including my homeland. I have been asked to seek a weapon of great power, lost long ago, in the hopes that it will aid in turning the tide of darkness that sweeps across the world."
"Of course I will stand with you," Mitsuryuu replies, while considering the problems that this caravan will create for him if they get to the pyramid first. Possibly, he will have to go without sleep tonight, so as to be there before them. Waiting for days while they do whatever they've come to do seems an irritation he'd prefer to avoid.
Mitsuryuu takes more tea, drinking slowly as they all let their dinner settle, "My needs," he says, "Honored Elder, have been seen to with great honor. I thank you. You spoke of some information that might interest me. I would find it gratifying to know what this might be, as I have only just arrived at the Well, and there was no-one who knew of my coming."
I follow... this is more what I'm familiar with.
Mitsuryuu bows to the old man, and joins him for tea. "Thank you Shiri-san," he says after an appropriate silence, "I must apologize for appearing here unannounced. I had been given to believe that I was being led to some sort of teahouse. I have only just arrived from Blest, and wished to find food, a bath and lodging. I had thought to seek work, but by the feeling of this place, I think work will seek one such as me."
I follow.
Mitsuryuu returns to boy's bow, and says, as he moves to wash his feet, "It is an honor to meet you, young Hiro, and good to see something and someone familiar so far from home. I am called Mitsuryuu. I have travelled far, and was told that I could find a bath and food here. It would also be pleasant to find a place to stay and somewhere, in this vast multitude, where I may have a few moments of privacy."
I humbly and respectfully decline their offers, and continue one my way.
Looking somewhat uncomfortable, Mitsuryuu accepts the embraces of this entire family. The women make him no more or less uncomfortable than the men. He tries to put as good a face on as possible. "Other peoples, other customs," he thinks to himself, silently wondering if perhaps he should be a little more himself after this - already, he's feeling that he's taken himself too far out of his comfort zone. If too many people get the impression that he's approachable, he loses an edge he cannot afford. When all the hugging is done, he bows to the old man, his face composed and serene.
Ummm... I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but a dopplganger with a level of rogue is a 9th level character (1 rogue +4 monster HD +4LA (for special abilities).
It's kind've summed up here: From page 172 of the Dungeon Master's Guide: Add a monster's level adjustment to its Hit Dice and class levels to get the creature's effective character level, or ECL. Effectively, monsters with a level adjustment become multiclass characters when they take class levels. Characters with more than 1 Hit Die because of their race do not get a feat for their first class level as members of the common races do, and they do not multiply the skill points for their first class level by four. Instead, they have already received a feat for their first Hit Die because of race, and they have already multiplied their racial skill points for their first Hit Die by four. Use ECL instead of character level when referring to Table 3-2: Experience and Level-Dependent Benefits in the Player's Handbook to determine how many experience points a monster character needs to reach its next level. Also use ECL with Table 5-1: Character Wealth by Level to determine starting wealth for a monster character.
Mitsuryuu remembers this game from when he was a child. He stares back for a bit, looking as bored and stoic as he can, then he pulls the silliest face he can come up with. When that doesn't work, he sighs, blinks, and bows very deeply, saying "I am defeated. As the victors, you have earned some of these sweet sticks you spoke of, but only if you give me your word that you will save them until after your next meal." He pauses dramatically, continuing with, "Of course, you understand that it is wrong and dangerous to give a warrior your word and then go back on it, yes? Now," he looks at his original guide, "as I do not wish to impose on your family's meal time, "if you will all accompany me to the stall of someone who sells sweet sticks and direct me to Salara and to Shirishan, we can conclude our contest."
Having had enough of vile smelling boat captains, Mitsuryuu thanks One-tusk and gets off at the first stop, and moves into the milling masses. He looks around at the obvious war preparations going on, especially finding the chariot-riding Egyptian cavalry quite interesting. He appears casual and relaxed, while at the same time ready for trouble.
actually... warmages come out of the gate knowing every warmage spell (even the ones that are too high-level for them to cast.) They can cast any warmage spell that's within their level. They just have a certain number of spells per day.
ready
Hmmm... divine, I think. Seems more in line with the "Mystical Japan" kind of thing I've got going on.
It's magic
Valegrym - I took a couple of magic items - a +1 Katana, and 3 potions of cure light wounds. I then figured that after the gear I had, and the few items I took, the rest of my cash was subsumed by the items you gave me.
I posted that as a single post, twice, and neither one showed up. I'm assuming that there's a character limit on the size of a post.
The Legend of Mitsuryuu (part 2.2) Spoiler: Finally, he took up the thread of his story. “All was quiet, as I rode into the fief. Too quiet. There were no peasants working the fields, and no bushi patrolling the road. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know just how wrong. I kicked my horse to a gallop and sped home. What I saw there… it is difficult for even a samurai to stomach some things. It seems that my father had found aid, but he didn’t understand the cost until it was too late and he no longer cared. A great Oni demon from the mainland had offered to help my father make his fief safe from the devilfish, as well as any other threat that might arise. The payment for this aid was small at first, but as the Oni’s aid continued to be necessary, the demands it made grew more and more perverse. They finally drove my father – a man of law and rigid honor – insane, which was, of course, the plan all along. My father’s madness culminated in the sacrifice of every non-warrior in the fief – several hundred souls, including my mother – to power a ritual that would ensure the safety of the fief. It never occurred to my father, in his maddened state, that with no people, there really wasn’t a fief. I rode in just as he finished the ritual, plunging a dagger into my mother’s heart. At that moment, all of the samurai and bushi in the fief shuddered, then screamed, then fell writhing to the ground. Within moments, their skeletons had ripped themselves free of their flesh, and begun efficiently taking up their arms and armor and returning to positions of attention. My father began to give them orders to kill anyone or anything that might threaten the fief. I saw the weakness in his orders, and began to warn him that he would cause these undead warriors to move across the land, killing demons, devils, and people, alike. One look into his mad eyes, and I realized he knew what he was doing, and reveled in it. I looked down on my dead mother, drew my sword, and did the only thing possible. I killed the monster that had been my father. As he fell, I whirled, prepared to fight the undead he had created until, as was most likely, I was killed. I was surprised to find them slowly kneeling, and offering me their swords. It seemed that part of their creation included some sort of “obey the clan lord” failsafe. With the death of my father, I have become Lord of my clan, what there was of it. I countermanded my father’s invasion orders, went into the house, and brooded for three days. After that, I returned to the courtyard, where hundreds of bodies had begun to putrefy, and ordered my ‘vassals’ to bury the dead. My mother and father, I buried with my own hands. When the burials were done, I ordered the undead warriors to patrol the fief, kill any devils or demons they saw, and, if people tried to settle there, allow it. Then, I left. I couldn’t look at any part of that cursed land without feeling sick. I gave up my name, and traveled the land fighting evil. I killed monsters, fought bandits, and when I found someone under the influence of demons, I killed him. Each of these dragons symbolizes a truly wicked man. I will not recite the litany of their vile deeds for you, but nothing you can imagine will beat the evils they committed. After the third one, I was given a new name – Mitsuryuu. I will keep it, no matter how many dragons I wear.” At this point, he stopped, and actually watched as the finishing touches were added to his fifth dragon. When the tattoo was finished, we parted and I think it unlikely we will meet again. I am informed that a ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien killed one of the Shogun’s councilors and then took ship to the mainland. I hope he finds some peace there, but I think he will continue his war on evil until he has no place left to put a dragon. I have also learned that the fief of the Hachidori (a minor clan of little consequence) is currently overrun with undead warriors. It is also, if rumor is to be believed, one of the few places in all of Blest that has no real devil troubles. I think I will go there and see for myself.
The Legend of Mitsuryuu (part 2.1) Spoiler: I was in the village of Shensuto, plying my trade as a storyteller when who should walk past, but the ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien that had saved the daughter of the owner of the Teahouse of the Dancing Salamander. He was walking as if injured, and as I watched him, for what is a storyteller who does not see such characters and closely observe them, he left a small bit of blood from what looked like a sword-cut on his thigh. I immediately concluded my tale, much to the consternation of my listeners, gathered up the meager offerings I had garnered for a day’s work, and followed him, for I hoped that his story would give me something new and wonderful to share with the world, and, in truth, I was a little ashamed that the last time I saw him, I had done nothing to either help the girl, or the help the ronin (not that he much needed the help of the likes of myself.) We walked for some small time until, at last, he strode into a tattoo shop. I, having no fear (some would say no native intelligence,) followed him inside. He sat down in front of the artist, an ancient, withered old man with more the look of a failed monk than of a legitimate businessman, rolled up the sleeve covering his sword arm, and exposed a most curious tattoo. It was a chain of dragons, in number, four, starting at his wrist and climbing upward, each dragon biting the tail of the one above it. All were masterfully done, but each was of a distinctly different style – obviously done by completely different artists. The tattoo was beautiful and terrible, and I sensed that the story it told was one I needed. The ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien said to the artist, “I need a dragon added to this chain. I have been told that you are the best tattoo artist in the region – a master. I would be honored to carry your dragon on my arm.” As the artist examined the tattoo, making small noises of consideration, I stepped forward – only a single step, mind you; and with an oddly fluid twist, the ronin warrior drew his katana, with his left hand, and without looking at me, and leveled it at my chest. It is a credit to the professionalism of that tattoo artist that he never even looked up, just began sketching the dragon that he would add to the chain. “You followed me for some time,” the ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien said, “Tell me what you want.” “Ah! Great warrior,” I began, but seeing his flash of disapproval at my tone, I finished with, “I saw you fight bandits once, a year ago. To see you again can be no mere coincidence, and I feel that perhaps the Kami have decided that I should tell some small part of your tale.” The ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien sheathed his sword, and seemed to ignore me. He was silent for such a long time that I though perhaps he was ignoring me, but as I turned to leave, he said, “I remember you. Perhaps what you say is so.” And so, to the gentle tapping of mallet to needle, he told me this tale. “I was not always a ronin,” he began, slowly, as if he had not much spoken in quite a while, “Once, I was the heir of one of the minor clans. My father was, in addition to being a Lord and having loyal samurai retainers, administrator of five villages, and sworn to the Shogun, himself. I was not a good son. I was willful and uninterested in becoming a paper samurai, as I saw him, who spent more time with a brush in his hand than a sword. I spent my time away from home, much to his embarrassment, drinking and adventuring. Things were not good in our small, coastal fief. We were often beset by devilfish, and there was little my father could do to stop them. People were dying, and the Shogun had no men to spare. Things were just as bad everywhere else, it seemed. My father tried to bring in allies from the mainland, or even to hire mercenaries, but he couldn’t find any. When I say everywhere, even the mainland was beset by evil. My mother took me aside and asked me to go to the mainland and seek allies that were beyond my father’s reach. She said it would help the fief, which would please my father and bring honor to my family, and at the same time, it would allow me the freedom I craved and fought so hard to attain. She gave me a small amount of money, some items of great clan value, and begged me to go. I was gone two years. I found that things were worse on the continent than we had been led to believe. I fought monsters. I made friends. But there was no aid to be had. After those two years, I felt a great need to go home. I arrived in time to witness horror.” He paused, staring at, but not really seeing, the dragon forming on his arm, and I could only imagine what scene was playing out behind his eyes. For long minutes there was only the “tap, tap, tap” of the tattoo mallet.
The Legend of Mitsuryuu (part 2) Spoiler: I was in the village of Shensuto, plying my trade as a storyteller when who should walk past, but the ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien that had saved the daughter of the owner of the Teahouse of the Dancing Salamander. He was walking as if injured, and as I watched him, for what is a storyteller who does not see such characters and closely observe them, he left a small bit of blood from what looked like a sword-cut on his thigh. I immediately concluded my tale, much to the consternation of my listeners, gathered up the meager offerings I had garnered for a day’s work, and followed him, for I hoped that his story would give me something new and wonderful to share with the world, and, in truth, I was a little ashamed that the last time I saw him, I had done nothing to either help the girl, or the help the ronin (not that he much needed the help of the likes of myself.) We walked for some small time until, at last, he strode into a tattoo shop. I, having no fear (some would say no native intelligence,) followed him inside. He sat down in front of the artist, an ancient, withered old man with more the look of a failed monk than of a legitimate businessman, rolled up the sleeve covering his sword arm, and exposed a most curious tattoo. It was a chain of dragons, in number, four, starting at his wrist and climbing upward, each dragon biting the tail of the one above it. All were masterfully done, but each was of a distinctly different style – obviously done by completely different artists. The tattoo was beautiful and terrible, and I sensed that the story it told was one I needed. The ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien said to the artist, “I need a dragon added to this chain. I have been told that you are the best tattoo artist in the region – a master. I would be honored to carry your dragon on my arm.” As the artist examined the tattoo, making small noises of consideration, I stepped forward – only a single step, mind you; and with an oddly fluid twist, the ronin warrior drew his katana, with his left hand, and without looking at me, and leveled it at my chest. It is a credit to the professionalism of that tattoo artist that he never even looked up, just began sketching the dragon that he would add to the chain. “You followed me for some time,” the ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien said, “Tell me what you want.” “Ah! Great warrior,” I began, but seeing his flash of disapproval at my tone, I finished with, “I saw you fight bandits once, a year ago. To see you again can be no mere coincidence, and I feel that perhaps the Kami have decided that I should tell some small part of your tale.” The ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien sheathed his sword, and seemed to ignore me. He was silent for such a long time that I though perhaps he was ignoring me, but as I turned to leave, he said, “I remember you. Perhaps what you say is so.” And so, to the gentle tapping of mallet to needle, he told me this tale. “I was not always a ronin,” he began, slowly, as if he had not much spoken in quite a while, “Once, I was the heir of one of the minor clans. My father was, in addition to being a Lord and having loyal samurai retainers, administrator of five villages, and sworn to the Shogun, himself. I was not a good son. I was willful and uninterested in becoming a paper samurai, as I saw him, who spent more time with a brush in his hand than a sword. I spent my time away from home, much to his embarrassment, drinking and adventuring. Things were not good in our small, coastal fief. We were often beset by devilfish, and there was little my father could do to stop them. People were dying, and the Shogun had no men to spare. Things were just as bad everywhere else, it seemed. My father tried to bring in allies from the mainland, or even to hire mercenaries, but he couldn’t find any. When I say everywhere, even the mainland was beset by evil. My mother took me aside and asked me to go to the mainland and seek allies that were beyond my father’s reach. She said it would help the fief, which would please my father and bring honor to my family, and at the same time, it would allow me the freedom I craved and fought so hard to attain. She gave me a small amount of money, some items of great clan value, and begged me to go. I was gone two years. I found that things were worse on the continent than we had been led to believe. I fought monsters. I made friends. But there was no aid to be had. After those two years, I felt a great need to go home. I arrived in time to witness horror.” He paused, staring at, but not really seeing, the dragon forming on his arm, and I could only imagine what scene was playing out behind his eyes. For long minutes there was only the “tap, tap, tap” of the tattoo mallet. Finally, he took up the thread of his story. “All was quiet, as I rode into the fief. Too quiet. There were no peasants working the fields, and no bushi patrolling the road. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know just how wrong. I kicked my horse to a gallop and sped home. What I saw there… it is difficult for even a samurai to stomach some things. It seems that my father had found aid, but he didn’t understand the cost until it was too late and he no longer cared. A great Oni demon from the mainland had offered to help my father make his fief safe from the devilfish, as well as any other threat that might arise. The payment for this aid was small at first, but as the Oni’s aid continued to be necessary, the demands it made grew more and more perverse. They finally drove my father – a man of law and rigid honor – insane, which was, of course, the plan all along. My father’s madness culminated in the sacrifice of every non-warrior in the fief – several hundred souls, including my mother – to power a ritual that would ensure the safety of the fief. It never occurred to my father, in his maddened state, that with no people, there really wasn’t a fief. I rode in just as he finished the ritual, plunging a dagger into my mother’s heart. At that moment, all of the samurai and bushi in the fief shuddered, then screamed, then fell writhing to the ground. Within moments, their skeletons had ripped themselves free of their flesh, and begun efficiently taking up their arms and armor and returning to positions of attention. My father began to give them orders to kill anyone or anything that might threaten the fief. I saw the weakness in his orders, and began to warn him that he would cause these undead warriors to move across the land, killing demons, devils, and people, alike. One look into his mad eyes, and I realized he knew what he was doing, and reveled in it. I looked down on my dead mother, drew my sword, and did the only thing possible. I killed the monster that had been my father. As he fell, I whirled, prepared to fight the undead he had created until, as was most likely, I was killed. I was surprised to find them slowly kneeling, and offering me their swords. It seemed that part of their creation included some sort of “obey the clan lord” failsafe. With the death of my father, I have become Lord of my clan, what there was of it. I countermanded my father’s invasion orders, went into the house, and brooded for three days. After that, I returned to the courtyard, where hundreds of bodies had begun to putrefy, and ordered my ‘vassals’ to bury the dead. My mother and father, I buried with my own hands. When the burials were done, I ordered the undead warriors to patrol the fief, kill any devils or demons they saw, and, if people tried to settle there, allow it. Then, I left. I couldn’t look at any part of that cursed land without feeling sick. I gave up my name, and traveled the land fighting evil. I killed monsters, fought bandits, and when I found someone under the influence of demons, I killed him. Each of these dragons symbolizes a truly wicked man. I will not recite the litany of their vile deeds for you, but nothing you can imagine will beat the evils they committed. After the third one, I was given a new name – Mitsuryuu. I will keep it, no matter how many dragons I wear.” At this point, he stopped, and actually watched as the finishing touches were added to his fifth dragon. When the tattoo was finished, we parted and I think it unlikely we will meet again. I am informed that a ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien killed one of the Shogun’s councilors and then took ship to the mainland. I hope he finds some peace there, but I think he will continue his war on evil until he has no place left to put a dragon. I have also learned that the fief of the Hachidori (a minor clan of little consequence) is currently overrun with undead warriors. It is also, if rumor is to be believed, one of the few places in all of Blest that has no real devil troubles. I think I will go there and see for myself.
The Legend of Mitsuryuu (part 2) Spoiler: I was in the village of Shensuto, plying my trade as a storyteller when who should walk past, but the ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien that had saved the daughter of the owner of the Teahouse of the Dancing Salamander. He was walking as if injured, and as I watched him, (for what is a storyteller who does not see such characters and closely observe them), he left a small bit of blood from what looked like a sword-cut on his thigh. I immediately concluded my tale, much to the consternation of my listeners, gathered up the meager offerings I had garnered for a day’s work, and followed him, for I hoped that his story would give me something new and wonderful to share with the world, and, in truth, I was a little ashamed that the last time I saw him, I had done nothing to either help the girl, or the help the ronin (not that he much needed the help of the likes of myself.) We walked for some small time until, at last, he strode into a tattoo shop. I, having no fear (some would say no native intelligence,) followed him inside. He sat down in front of the artist, an ancient, withered old man with more the look of a failed monk than of a legitimate businessman, rolled up the sleeve covering his sword arm, and exposed a most curious tattoo. It was a chain of dragons, in number, four, starting at his wrist and climbing upward, each dragon biting the tail of the one above it. All were masterfully done, but each was of a distinctly different style – obviously done by completely different artists. The tattoo was beautiful and terrible, and I sensed that the story it told was one I needed. The ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien said to the artist, “I need a dragon added to this chain. I have been told that you are the best tattoo artist in the region – a master. I would be honored to carry your dragon on my arm.” As the artist examined the tattoo, making small noises of consideration, I stepped forward – only a single step, mind you; and with an oddly fluid twist, the ronin warrior drew his katana, with his left hand, and without looking at me, and leveled it at my chest. It is a credit to the professionalism of that tattoo artist that he never even looked up, just began sketching the dragon that he would add to the chain. “You followed me for some time,” the ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien said, “Tell me what you want.” “Ah! Great warrior,” I began, but seeing his flash of disapproval at my tone, I finished with, “I saw you fight bandits once, a year ago. To see you again can be no mere coincidence, and I feel that perhaps the Kami have decided that I should tell some small part of your tale.” The ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien sheathed his sword, and seemed to ignore me. He was silent for such a long time that I though perhaps he was ignoring me, but as I turned to leave, he said, “I remember you. Perhaps what you say is so.” And so, to the gentle tapping of mallet to needle, he told me this tale. “I was not always a ronin,” he began, slowly, as if he had not much spoken in quite a while, “Once, I was the heir of one of the minor clans. My father was, in addition to being a Lord and having loyal samurai retainers, administrator of five villages, and sworn to the Shogun, himself. I was not a good son. I was willful and uninterested in becoming a paper samurai, as I saw him, who spent more time with a brush in his hand than a sword. I spent my time away from home, much to his embarrassment, drinking and adventuring. Things were not good in our small, coastal fief. We were often beset by devilfish, and there was little my father could do to stop them. People were dying, and the Shogun had no men to spare. Things were just as bad everywhere else, it seemed. My father tried to bring in allies from the mainland, or even to hire mercenaries, but he couldn’t find any. When I say everywhere, even the mainland was beset by evil. My mother took me aside and asked me to go to the mainland and seek allies that were beyond my father’s reach. She said it would help the fief, which would please my father and bring honor to my family, and at the same time, it would allow me the freedom I craved and fought so hard to attain. She gave me a small amount of money, some items of great clan value, and begged me to go. I was gone two years. I found that things were worse on the continent than we had been led to believe. I fought monsters. I made friends. But there was no aid to be had. After those two years, I felt a great need to go home. I arrived in time to witness horror.” He paused, staring at, but not really seeing, the dragon forming on his arm, and I could only imagine what scene was playing out behind his eyes. For long minutes there was only the “tap, tap, tap” of the tattoo mallet. Finally, he took up the thread of his story. “All was quiet, as I rode into the fief. Too quiet. There were no peasants working the fields, and no bushi patrolling the road. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know just how wrong. I kicked my horse to a gallop and sped home. What I saw there… it is difficult for even a samurai to stomach some things. It seems that my father had found aid, but he didn’t understand the cost until it was too late and he no longer cared. A great Oni demon from the mainland had offered to help my father make his fief safe from the devilfish, as well as any other threat that might arise. The payment for this aid was small at first, but as the Oni’s aid continued to be necessary, the demands it made grew more and more perverse. They finally drove my father – a man of law and rigid honor – insane, which was, of course, the plan all along. My father’s madness culminated in the sacrifice of every non-warrior in the fief – several hundred souls, including my mother – to power a ritual that would ensure the safety of the fief. It never occurred to my father, in his maddened state, that with no people, there really wasn’t a fief. I rode in just as he finished the ritual, plunging a dagger into my mother’s heart. At that moment, all of the samurai and bushi in the fief shuddered, then screamed, then fell writhing to the ground. Within moments, their skeletons had ripped themselves free of their flesh, and begun efficiently taking up their arms and armor and returning to positions of attention. My father began to give them orders to kill anyone or anything that might threaten the fief. I saw the weakness in his orders, and began to warn him that he would cause these undead warriors to move across the land, killing demons, devils, and people, alike. One look into his mad eyes, and I realized he knew what he was doing, and reveled in it. I looked down on my dead mother, drew my sword, and did the only thing possible. I killed the monster that had been my father. As he fell, I whirled, prepared to fight the undead he had created until, as was most likely, I was killed. I was surprised to find them slowly kneeling, and offering me their swords. It seemed that part of their creation included some sort of “obey the clan lord” failsafe. With the death of my father, I have become Lord of my clan, what there was of it. I countermanded my father’s invasion orders, went into the house, and brooded for three days. After that, I returned to the courtyard, where hundreds of bodies had begun to putrefy, and ordered my ‘vassals’ to bury the dead. My mother and father, I buried with my own hands. When the burials were done, I ordered the undead warriors to patrol the fief, kill any devils or demons they saw, and, if people tried to settle there, allow it. Then, I left. I couldn’t look at any part of that cursed land without feeling sick. I gave up my name, and traveled the land fighting evil. I killed monsters, fought bandits, and when I found someone under the influence of demons, I killed him. Each of these dragons symbolizes a truly wicked man. I will not recite the litany of their vile deeds for you, but nothing you can imagine will beat the evils they committed. After the third one, I was given a new name – Mitsuryuu. I will keep it, no matter how many dragons I wear.” At this point, he stopped, and actually watched as the finishing touches were added to his fifth dragon. When the tattoo was finished, we parted and I think it unlikely we will meet again. I am informed that a ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien killed one of the Shogun’s councilors and then took ship to the mainland. I hope he finds some peace there, but I think he will continue his war on evil until he has no place left to put a dragon. I have also learned that the fief of the Hachidori (a minor clan of little consequence) is currently overrun with undead warriors, and no living person (including all members of the Hachidori clan) can be found. It is also, if rumor is to be believed, one of the few places in all of Blest that has no real devil troubles. I think I will go there and see for myself.
Ah... I wish I had known that you were generating a background for me. I usually prefer to do that myself. I had one, but the public background I posted didn't make that clear. Oh well... I guess I'll make it work. I'm not used to such a hands-on DM. This might take some getting used to.
rolls on demand (1d100=45, 1d100=75, 1d100=85, 1d100=98, 1d100=13, 1d100=9, 1d100=21, 1d100=30, 1d100=9, 1d100=42)
Japanese based. The Thousand and Myriad is what the Shinto call the Kami (which include all the Gods of the standard Japanese pantheon (and in Mitsuryuu's mind, all the other pantheons, as well), plus all the Kami of Place (waterfalls, trees, rivers), and the lesser divine beings that aren't exactly gods (the Thunders, and that sort of thing), but aren't bound to something (at least I read that somewhere... the Tomoe Gozen books maybe?) The Shinto believe that everything, even the tiniest pebble, has an immortal spirit.
Well of Life works for me. That's in the South?
The Legend of Mitsuryuu (part 1) Spoiler: Near the village of Takimora, about a half-day’s walk from the village, to be exact, there is a tea-house called “The Teahouse of the Dancing Salamander.” Now this teahouse, back when the father of the current owner was still alive, used to be a beautiful place, with a magnificent garden, polished wood everywhere, and the finest tea in all the land (or so it was said.) All of this was due to the owner, who was a pious man, and a master of Feng Shui. Alas for all travelers, he died, and his son, an unimpressive specimen, inherited the Teahouse. In a few short years, the wood lost some of its luster, the tea was just not as good, and the garden fell into ruin. That garden is where my tale truly begins. It happened that, a little over a year ago, there came to the Teahouse of the Dancing Salamander a ronin warrior of quiet demeanor and grim mien. He spoke little to the other travelers, took tea and food, and was politely obvious in his desire to be alone. He seemed to be recovering from an injury, but asked for no help, and invited no offer. He spent some days in the ruin of the garden, although no one could say why, as it had little to recommend it since the death of its master. Still, he spent most of his time there, either sitting quietly or practicing with his Bokken. As there were no other warriors currently staying there, there was no one to say if he was good or not. In truth, who would say such a thing to a ronin of quiet demeanor and grim mien? Now, as is often the case in out-of-the-way teahouses, there was a group of five ruffians who visited the Dancing Salamander from time to time, made a nuisance of themselves, roughly handled the serving girls, ate and drank too much and then left without paying, and those ruffians happened to visit while this ronin, who had, in a singular act of impoliteness, not given his name to anyone, was in residence. The ruffians did what they always did. They made a nuisance of themselves. They ate and drank too much. And they roughly handled the serving girl. But they didn’t leave. They stayed, and became more and more of a nuisance, and ate so much and drank so much that they began to handle the serving girl (who was the owner’s daughter) too roughly. The owner, having no hope of a messenger reaching the local magistrate before something unfortunate happened in his teahouse, went into the garden of his father, and knelt, hoping that the ronin of quiet demeanor and grim mien might allow him conversation. “This was once a magnificent garden,” commented the ronin, with an edge of accusation in his voice, “but now it is over-run by weeds, and the stream has jumped its bed.” He pointed to a place where a tree had fallen, blocking the stream’s natural path and causing it to take a new course. The owner, having no skill at gardening, did not see much difference between the two paths and could not tell what of the plants in the garden were weeds and what were not, and really, didn’t care all that much, what with ruffians in the main room assaulting his daughter, but he didn’t think saying any of that was quite right in this circumstance, and so instead, said, “Yes, indeed. It is a sorry thing now. Alas, that my father died and left me none of his skill with Feng Shui. It is a tragedy.” Then he said no more, hoping that the ronin would wonder why he was there. After a time, while the owner worried about what might be happening to his daughter in the main room, the ronin said, “You have come out here for a reason, man. Spit it out. It sounds as if you have things to attend to inside.” “Master,” the owner replied, “There are bad men in my teahouse. They eat too much, drink too much, and are a great nuisance. And… they are roughly handling my daughter. Could you perhaps, if it is not too much trouble, make them leave? I cannot pay much, but you will always be welcome at my teahouse and will never pay for another cup of tea or a bowl of noodles here.” (This last, he said with little unhappiness, for the ronin was quite temperate in his eating and drinking.) “In addition,” the ronin replied, and the owner cringed, fearing some depraved request (having seen the habits of more than one samurai), “You will let me repair your father’s garden, and you will find someone to maintain it after I leave.” The owner was somewhat taken aback by the bizarre request, but a new outburst of raucous laughter from inside drove all other thoughts from his mind. “As you wish, Master,” he replied quickly, “Only help my daughter.” The ronin stood, took up his Bokken, and stepped into the teahouse. The ruffians were passing the girl from hand to hand, kissing and fondling her. It seemed that nothing more untoward had yet occurred. “Leave.” stated the ronin bleakly. “Leave, or I will kill you all.” The leader of the ruffians, a wild and dirty fellow named Taku, replied, “Perhaps it is you who will die.” He gestured to one of his followers, who stood quickly, grasping his iron kiseru with some skill. The ronin said not another word, and before Taku could say anything else, or his man could even move, thrust his Bokken into the throat of the standing ruffian, who dropped his pipe and began choking on his crushed voice box. The rest of the ruffians, knowing that to flee such a challenge would lose them all respect, leapt to their feet, and charged to attack. The ronin moved through them like a deadly wind, striking one ruffian in the spine with enough force to instantly paralyze him, and whirling his Bokken to thrust it into the eye of another, pulling free in a shower of blood and other messy fluids. The fourth ruffian, he struck on the top of his head – a blow so hard that blood ran from both his ears, and the Bokken shattered in the ronin’s hands. The ruffian’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the floor. Taku, seeing an opportunity, leapt to the attack. He fought with a sword of foreign design, straight, with two edges, and should have had some advantage, being able to strike in both directions against an unarmed opponent, but the ronin was apparently difficult to hit, and gracefully avoided every blow until, in short order, the drunken leader of the ruffians was winded and had to stop for a moment to breathe. It was then that the ronin drew his katana. Now, I am no warrior, and certainly no sword expert, but even I could see that the blade was the work of a master far beyond the means of a penniless ronin. It virtually sang as it left its scabbard. Taku, his cowardly core finally showing, threw down his sword and attempted to flee. The ronin stepped forward and his katana cut the air, but appeared to miss everything save Taku’s long, dirty ponytail, which fell to the floor as Taku ran out the door. He only made it a few steps before he stumbled, and then, in a fountain of blood, his head fell off, completely severed by the ronin’s single stroke. We all stared, with no consideration for station or propriety, at the ronin in astonishment. “His blood would have ruined the floor,” was all the ronin said as he sheathed his blade and went back to the garden. He spent several days working in the garden; removing weeds, repositioning plants, and putting the creek back in its course. When he was done, the garden felt… incredible. Then, without any other noteworthy actions, he left. After that singular incident, the owner took a greater interest in his establishment, and the wood began to shine with polishing. His tea improved, and if it was never as good as his father’s, it was still better than most. Finally, he hired a gardener to maintain the garden, so that if the ronin of quiet demeanor and grim mien ever came back, he would not have reason to deal severely with the owner.
Here's my character. I have him built at 5th, but he's easy enough to backward engineer if I need to. I'm planning on PRCing him into a Kensai (Complete Warrior) starting at level 7. His equipment is only roughly finished. Level 5 is 9000gp value of eq, but scarcity of magic items means I didn't know what to do about all the extra gold. I'm still looking for a better avatar, but non-bald oriental avatars are pretty much nonexistent.
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