The Drowning Empire is a weekly serial based on the events which occured during the Writer Nerd Game Night monthly Legend of the Five Rings game. It is a tale of samurai adventure set in the magical world of Rokugan.
If you would like to read all of these in one convenient place, along with a bunch of additional game related stuff, behind the scenes info, and detailed session recaps, I’ve been posting everything to one thread on the L5R forum, http://www.alderac.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=295&t=101206
This week’s episode is by Pat Tracy as the group sets out from Broken Wave City.
Continued from: http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2013/10/18/the-drowning-empire-episode-34-good-judge-of-character/
##
The old Mantis clan woman grinned at Moto Subotai, revealing her squid-ink blackened teeth. The noisy dockside market swarmed with all manner of people. A noisy hawker of cheap baubles competed with the roar of the fishmonger’s stall to make the air shiver with sound. Still, the samurai barely heard the din, his normally wary eyes focused on the table before him, on a set of four drums that held together on a short stand. His heart was far away, soaring over the plains and steppes, the long, fiery light of a dusty sunset hanging in the memory of his childhood.
“You seem interested in those drums, Honorable Samurai. Please, give them a try. I would see you well pleased with any purchase.”
“I used to play when I was a boy. Horse drums.”
The Mantis crone scanned his purple attire, glancing at his long mustache and chin beard. “You’re a Desert Moto, then?”
He nodded, running his rough hands across the drum heads, lost in thought.
“These are struck with the fingertips and the side of the hand. No drumsticks, like you’d use with your horse drums.”
The samurai’s footman cleared his throat. “The ship will soon depart, Master.”
“Toranaka-san will see to it that they don’t leave without us, Shinro Ishi.”
“Hai.”
The samurai began tapping out a rhythm, slow and halting at first, testing the voice of the drum set. The beat solidified, settled, grew more ornate. He was like a man with much to impart, whose voice has long been silent, his steps far away from the company of others. Once the flow began, it grew, it intensified until there was a torrent of beats, changing the general din of the market, drawing shoppers near, causing the hawker nearby to momentarily leave off. The Moto began to speak:
In my land
the drums call to us
call us to the yurts
all is the sound of
hoofbeats upon
arid dirt, all is the
smell of horse sweat
and the cut of the
razor wind that chaps
the face and squints
the eyes
In my land
the leather booms
across the barren
spaces, the flute
made from a horse’s
leg sings its clear
voiced call as we
step through the
horse dance and
throw our heads
to the moonlit sky,
shouting for the
joy of freedom
In my land
the blood from
our veins feeds
the greedy sand
and makes it live–
we smile at the goat
new-born and the
old one who has
walked to the cold
night, rather than
relenting to the
cages of stacked
stones, those prisons
men make when they
can journey no more
In my land
they call us the wind
and the wind bears
fire, and upon the
earth we are mighty,
our horses raising
dust enough to hide
the sun, but
upon the wild
waters I now go,
upon the fearful
bosom of the sea
I throw my fates
So that one day
perhaps
I may return
to my land
The drumbeats stop, as do the words, and the purple-clad samurai nods to his footman to pay the old Mantis woman. Those gathered open their mouths as if to speak, but no one does, for the see a man haunted, a man half-swallowed by the spirit world. With the drums tucked under one arm, Moto Subotai turns to go, the crowd parting to allow him passage. Jaw muscles taut, gait as stiff as any Lion Clan bushi, he goes toward the dockside.
“Subo, the Captain says the winds are fair. We have been awaiting your arrival for nearly an hour.” Toranaka calls out as Subotai paces up the gangway.
“Last minute provisions. I am now ready to depart.” Subotai passes by without anything further, his face a mask. Toranaka looks after him, a slight air of puzzlement lingering on his otherwise controlled mein. Toranaka nods at Shintaro, who puts his considerable lung power behind his words.
“Captain Oki-san! All present and accounted for!”
Oki winces at the volume, touching his forehead and squinting. “Thanks, Shintaro. I’m right here, though. Please don’t shout.”
“Yes, Captain!” Shintaro shouts, loudly enough that the stamping of horses can be heard from down in the hold.
Captain Oki wipes his brow, smiles through the pain, and begins giving orders. The Friendly Traveler’s ropes slip from the docking cleats, and after a wallowing moment that has Isao-san’s hand clamped over his mouth, the wind freshens. The hull bites the waves ahead, and they are off.
From amidships, Moto Subotai leans upon a webbing of rope, watching Oki as he works the tiller and sets their course. The Mantis archer’s face is pale, his cheeks hollow with too many late nights and too much sake, but when the air freshens and they are making progress, Subotai can see him take in a great breath, let it go, and smile the smallest smile to himself. He reflects that, often as not, the most important cargos are not those carried, but those finally put down.
##
To be continued next week: http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2013/11/08/the-drowning-empire-episode-36-isao-faces-the-water-dragon/
“He reflects that, often as not, the most important cargos are not those carried, but those finally put down.”
So true