The Great Bowl (Setting)

A setting post inspired by Sekiro, the Three Kingdoms, and Japanese and Chinese mythology.

Sit down, my son. You are now of age, and I must tell you what my mother told me, and her mother told her, and so on until the first days when we arrived in the great bowl. Your mother passed early defending our village, so it falls to me. I hope I will do her story justice, as she did for me so many times.

The world in which we live is the great bowl (太元). Our village elders believe it was an ancient lake created by the gods in their strife, which has dried up in the ages that have passed since the years of the wise emperors. In those days gods and men were not so different, and one could know the histories of things merely by asking the divinities within them. Now the gods are remote, and rule by onerous written laws and vast celestial courts. It is known that they define our fates by actuarial tables and arithmetic. It is hard to talk to them, and harder still to plead your case. The merciful listener goddess who keeps the west safe for the lotus-path followers has herself been placed under divine arrest. She cannot help us now.

So, what is in this great bowl? You have seen most of it. There are villages, built along the old Yi River (易江) which runs from west to east, starting above the rim of the bowl and running down into the cavernous courts of hell which pull the land into shadow around them. You would do well to stay away from those parts of the valley, for they are where the echoes come at night.

In this bowl the greatest monuments are four sacred cardinal temples (四象廟). They are larger than our houses and halls. They are larger than anything we could build today. The story goes that they were built by great emperor Shengzu of the Li dynasty (立聖祖), the last of the good and wise kings, who sought to leave the bowl and forge a great empire. He built them to honour the many gods and the cardinal divinities, and they in turn gave him four sacred treasures with which he killed his rivals and conquered the land. They are as follows, remember them well:

To the north, the Black Turtle-snake Xuanwu (玄武), who gave Shengzu his sword after Shengzu made the correct offerings. The pale snakeblade, it is said, grants the wielder invincibility in battle, but only while they are holding it.

To the east, the Azure dragon Qinglong (青龍), who gave Shengzu his crown after Shengzu presented a great speech. The dragon-blessed mianguan has sixteen braided cords made of dragon whispers and pearls from the sea-king's palace, and gives the bearer total knowledge of the past and future.

To the south, the Ruby phoenix Zhujue (朱雀), who wrote Shengzu's writ of kingship after Shengzu wooed them with song and archery. On the writ it is written that he who bears this scroll will claim all eight corners of the world under a single roof, and thereby make the whole realm his abode. For it is well known that beyond our bowl the realm is a square.

To the west, the White tiger Baihu (白虎), who never yielded to Shengzu's bribery, martial prowess, and flattering words. They say that the frustrated Shengzu used the pale snakeblade to slice off one of Baihu's marble paws, and crafted the first imperial seal out of it. This ancient wrong - and it is a wrong, even though Shengzu won the fight - is why the tigers in the west still hunt us.

The temples still stand today, protected by the divine laws and ancient rites, but they are old and out of repair. Perhaps in our time there will be a great storm, and then the final protections of Shengzu will fail and we too will die.

What did you say? Yes, we once were a mighty people, who ruled lands far beyond this tiny bowl. We had a great and mighty empire that united many tribes, and we marched across the desert to find rival empires which we engaged in trade and war. But our emperors were unwise and capricious, and in time they squandered the riches the generations past gave us. Our fertile fields they desecrated with war and famine, our great archives they desecrated with lies, our noble people they desecrated with rapacious taxes, and our great gods they desecrated with foul and unspeakable deeds. Till at last the heavens turned against us, and the last of the emperors was incinerated by lighting in a great storm, and the great lords arose in revolt. That was when we fled the royal city and returned to the bowl from whence we came. 

Alas... Yes, alas for fate, which brings time and decay. Still, my son, it is hard for a heart to escape the dictates of fate. And to speak the truth, I am sparing you many stories of the imperial days, and they are not glorious ones. Perhaps it was for the best that what was united by evil forces came to divide once more.

And for you? Well, if you wish to stay in the bowl, there is much for you to do. We hold back echoes and ghosts from the caverns of hell at night. By day we negotiate with the other villages for food and other necessities. Every now and then someone gets it in their head to become the next Shengzu, and we have to beat them back. Every year we must undertake a pilgrimage to all four of the cardinal temples, to complete annual rites and remember the past. But I sense that your heart lies beyond these walls.

The outside world is dangerous, my son. If you could find some vestige of the old blessings from the cardinal temples, perhaps you could leave. What is outside the bowl? To the west is a vast desert, beyond which they say strange and foreign peoples live. To the south is the ruins of our old capital, a vast and impenetrable maze of walls and gates. To the north a storm has raged for the last twenty years and more. And to the east after many miles of walking is the sea, where the mighty dragon they call the eastern sea-king sits.

It's best that you stay in the bowl. It is safer here. But if your heart is set, I have only one piece of advice for you: Forge your own path. Do not repeat the mistakes of the past.

The Herald of Woe (Enemy NPC)

They say that he rides in full black garb, even during the hazy midsummer months when the moon brings no coolness and the sun a baleful warmth. He is not armoured save his head, where he wears a dull grey helmet from some vanquished principality. He arrives always in public, during the day, when there are children playing in the town square and merchants hawking their wares in the market. None know where he retires once his work is done.

They say that his order is dead or dying, that no new initiate will replace him when he is gone, because his nation has been wiped from the earth and the adherents of his secret faith burned at the take. They say this and half-believe it, regardless of any evidence for or against these rumours, because they are terrified of him.

In the hidden isles they say that some mystics learned to commune with a nameless god. The domain of this god is most peculiar. The god does not rule over any element, or symbol, or land, or bequeath any form of magic. Instead, the domain of this god is the inner realm of a person's heart, their private moments, their whispered self-admonitions, the thoughts they think in the quiet hours of a very cold evening. The mystics called this god the Lord of Silence, and in communing with the Lord they learned to detect the innermost secrets of any whom they laid eyes on.

Wisely, these mystics kept to themselves, and mostly used their art to further their studies of the psyche. They did this in the hopes (some say) of ridding the world of shame and guilt, a noble goal indeed. Unfortunately, they came to admit a student to their ranks, who learned their arts and fled in the dead of night. The student, proud and cruel, used his skill to become a spymaster for a kingdom. Eventually he rose to absolute dominance within the kingdom, and became feared and loathed by the king and the nobles alike. Using his terrible knowledge he kept each angry party at bay, and spent their secrets to play them off against each other. His power was absolute... Till at last death, who accepts no gifts and fears no threats, came for him. 

But it was too late, death was too patient, the spymaster (whose name men swear never to speak) had already trained students of his own. These students learned lesser techniques, more crude approximations of the true mystic communion, but they were no less feared. They formed an inner cult to the Lord of Silence and kept a death-grip on power for four generations until the whole kingdom was annexed by the Empire in some war or another, and the flag suborned beneath the Cloth-and-standard Throne of His Revealed Excellency the Emperor at the Capitol Mount where He was borne. The cultists were scattered, the cult disbanded.

They say that he is one of the cultists, or someone who took on their mantle. He rides into town at midday and whispers secrets to men, secrets they would die rather than see revealed. No matter rich or poor, noble or citizen, each pays his dues to the herald of woe. Those who refuse to give in to blackmail are destroyed with a sentence, or a phrase, and often flee their homes never to be seen again. Sometimes he need not even say the phrase in public.

Some who hail from the isles themselves say that the Lord of Silence is not a figure of terror. They say that the Lord is a benevolent god, who sought to relieve the burden of torturous secrets and self-deceptions from those who had to live with them. How the Lord can then empower such agents of misery is unknown. Surely he would know the darkness of their innermost thoughts?

Then again, they say that after his death the king of that long-forgotten principality ordered the spymaster's head cut open to see what brain spawned such wickedness. They say that when he did so, he found his skull an empty shell.

Herald of Woe

2 HD, AC as leather, longsword (1d8)

After 1d4-1 rounds of observation he can whisper a secret to anyone in sight of him as an instantaneous action. Only they hear this secret. They must immediately make a morale save (or equivalent) or take 2d8 psychic damage. If he is allowed to speak in an uninterrupted manner for one round to a target, they must also make a morale save or enter a panicked fight-or-flight response. 

Depending on the number of secrets a person carries, he can keep doing this indefinitely. Those who are resistant to Fear take half damage and get advantage on such morale saves. The average person has 1d4-1 secrets. Add 1d4 per rank of nobility (knight, lord, duke, king...). For PCs, at character creation or when encountering the Herald each PC should roll 1d6 for any secrets they might have. If the Herald directs his attention at you, you take the damage, write down a secret, and give it to the GM. Secrets obtained in play or during adventures add to this total, rather than taking up an existing secret's place.

On death, drops a wooden idol. Attuning with the idol over a week allows a trained cleric or magic user to commune with the Lord of Silence. The Lord, of course, will not offer any response, but perhaps if he is made aware of how his gift has been misused something of this terror will end.

The Ones Who Pass Through the Fields (NPC and class)

You will find them at the edges of battlefields where the clouds of war have scattered briefly. They move amongst the bodies and step between fallen flags. To the still living they give water, light healing, and usually a hand to lay on their shoulder as they recover. From the dying and the dead, they collect last letters home, personal tokens, and sometimes final promises delivered out of ashen lips.

They do not have names, titles, or orders. Their clothes are those of peasants or monks, but they usually wear a white sash about them, which they keep clean with great effort. The armies of the living do not usually trouble them, even when they give succor to their enemies. They do not offend them, because they know that if they ever fall in battle these people may be their final mercy. From them come the stories of valkyries and battlefield saints, but these are not demigods. If you cut them, they will bleed.

If they must be referred to somehow, they are known as the ones who pass through the fields. Sometimes, one whom they heal elects to join their ranks. Sometimes, more rarely, someone joins their ranks of their own volition. Perhaps this will be you.

This group can serve as NPCs, a class, or as the basis for a campaign. There is no prohibition against violence for this class, because above all the ones who pass through the fields are practical and do what needs to be done. However, doing harm to others is contrary to their spirit.

One Who Passes Through the Fields (Δ)

Skills: Diplomacy, Observation, Medicine

Starting Equipment: Plain clothes, white sash, walking staff, waterskin, wrapped bundle of farm cheese and bread, dagger, rope, wing-charm. 

On Wing Charms

The more established groups of ones who step through the fields will give new initiates a small charm, a wooden carving in the shape of a wing pierced by an arrow. None know why or how this tradition started, but those who receive one guard it jealously. 

Display of the charm grants you safe passage in some civilised kingdoms (3-in-6), and may even stay the hand of bandits in rougher ones (1-in-6). 

In Widdernmark they call these feather-gifts (federgifter). Whose gifts they are is not known. And while the empire keeps records stretching back hundreds of years in an unbroken chain, it sees no need to record the lore of unimportant peasants who can neither fight nor rule.

Take My Hand

Δ: Spend a day comforting someone who is dying. If they recover, it does not count.

You always know what to say to calm down the dying and wounded. This means that you can often gain valuable information about who or what wounded them. They will often instinctively trust you, and tell you their dying wishes. You are compelled to complete them, even if they are impossible or extremely difficult.

A Word to Power

Δ: Stand up to an agent of violence, knowing that they can always kill you if they get too annoyed. If they weren't actually a threat to you, it does not count.

Once per day, when you stand tall and wield the moral high ground against a superior foe, you can force them to make a morale check at disadvantage.

Lay On Hands

Δ: Watch over someone as they recover from near death to full health. If they don't reach full health before you leave them, it does not count.

You can touch someone and grant them 1 HP. This will stabilise them if they are dying. You can do this X times per day, where X is the number of Δ templates you have in this class.

See Through Shadow

Δ: Live amongst the agents of a temporal power for a month, sharing in their cruelties and revelries. If they are not cruel to each other and those weaker than them in an ostentatious manner, it does not count.

You can detect the lies and superficial deceptions of power with ease. This includes lies told in speeches, proclamations, signs, archival records, and history books. Where you notice them, you become irrationally angry.

Succor for the Wicked

Δ: Save the life of someone whom you hate and revile, then let them go. If you don't actually revile them, it does not count.

You register as non-hostile to most intelligent creatures, unless you attack them. Unless supernaturally motivated, reaction rolls made by monsters against you and your party will never result in immediate hostility. They must see or otherwise sense you for this effect to work.

Power of the Powerless

Δ: Accomplish someone's dying wish at great cost or difficulty. If the wish is not difficult to complete, it does not count.

When you are acting to complete someone's last request, you can reroll dice (attack rolls, initiative, saving throws, ability checks etc.). You can do this X times per day, where X is the number of number of Δ templates you have in this class. You cannot reroll multiple times in a roll, and you must take the rerolled result.

Passthrough

Δ: After accomplishing all the other Δ templates, give your wing-charm to your successor, or make a new one to give them if the old one was destroyed. If you don't believe in them and their ability to carry on the work, it does not count.

A door opens in the side of reality. Someone walks through, someone you knew once. They take your hand, and lead you through the portal. One day the battles will end, they tell you. One day there will be no more tears. But your part, at least, is done. 

Did I do okay? You ask. 

You can't help yourself. It's been so long, and so hard.

You've fought well, they say. And that's all you can ask for.