Ruins

[Vutall]

Ruins
Ruins never truly die. They hold the memories of their previous lives and the anguish of their decay. These memories infuse ruins with distinct personalities

Stone ruins, leftovers from castles or noble estates, stand proud despite their disrepair. What remains of a crumbling structure provides a landmark for travelers and a refuge against wind and rain. A village may sprout around the old walls, giving an ancient former palace a new purpose. Children play in the shadow of a stone ruin, bringing life and laughter to its empty rooms. In this way, the ruin obtains recognition and respect like an elder sitting quietly in the village square, surrounded by life.

Wooden ruins decay and rot within a generation or two, becoming overgrown and oftentimes forgotten. Wooden temples and shrines accept their death in tranquility, much like the priests and monks that once attended them. Mighty and majestic trees often grow from these spots, wood begetting wood, continuing the cycle of life. Travelers sometimes describe these places of serenity without realizing that they have a human-made origin, as the artificial and the natural often blur in concept and reality in these forgotten locales

The oldest of ruins tend to be packed-earth structures or burial mounds, the simplest of construction, almost indistinguishable from any natural structure. These ruins lean toward the subtle and profound, wise and unknowable, dreaming of ancient things. Even ancient burial mounds do not have an intrinsically evil attitude; the dead merely sleep, awakening only if disturbed or offered alms. Few such mounds remain, for many were defiled by Iuchiban during his war on Rokugan or by his Bloodspeaker followers in the years since

The spirits of some ruins, such as lost villages, sim-ply want an offering: rice, a bit of fruit, sake, the seeds for a new flower or tree, or something similar. Others have more exacting demands, compelling villagers to live there, give blood, or even—in violation of Imperial law—bury bodies to keep it company. Forgotten ruins become unmoored from the Realm of Mortals, growing closer in temperament to the Spirit Realms. Benign ruins may drift near Yume-dō, turning their land surreal and fantastic, or Chikushō-dō, which makes the ruins feral, lush, and a haven for wildlife. Ruins that resent their fate might lean closer to Sakkaku, playing pranks on heimin by changing the landscape. Most ruins grow closer to Gaki-dō, yearning to belong to a family, to a clan. The hungrier husks demand more, sucking the life and energy, sometimes literally, from visiting mortals.

Token offerings generally keep a benign ruin docile—or encourage it to provide a small boon—but any lapse in those offers starts the misbehavior all over again, usually with increased intensity. Over time, with continuous attention, a ruin can eventually settle, or sleep, contently. In a few cases, a builder has constructed a new building on a pacified ruin, reintegrating the spirit and its personality into the new construction. Architects must be cautious, however, as the previous ruin can continue to cause trouble.

Any good architect commissions a priest or monk to offer a cleansing before construction, usually with consecrated salt or blessed water, and a blessing after completion, by hanging over entrances and exits a number of spirit ribbons, wooden talismans, or cloth pouches containing prayers written on paper

Heimin avoid ruins, as they are a source of terror and tragedy. Yet, commoners tell many stories of ruins, even if their tales contain as much fiction as fact. A wise traveler can sift through those fictions—everyone has a relative who found and lost a kitsune fortune—to come up with useful truths. Some of the more unhappy stories have kernels of truth. Missing relatives or friends, those who return from the wilderness not themselves, people fallen under a spell of depression, mania, or waking dreams—all point to a supernatural source.

Exploring the Ashes
The clans view ruins as places of power, whether as resources to exploit or as dangers to their control. If a remnant of a building can remember the past, and a priest can successfully plead with its spirit, then the ruins may reveal their history and knowledge. If a priest can bring a spirit to heel, usually through rebuilding the ruin into a shrine, then the people who live there have received a guardian. The clans often place valuable relics and treasures in these sanctuaries.

A ruin can hold more mundane reasons for clan attention. If the history of a clan can be read on the walls of a proud, thriving building, the despair of a clan can be read in the ashes of a ruin. The Crane see ruins as an eyesore on their manicured territories, something to be cleansed and purified when possible. The Lion perceive ruins as symbols of failure. The Crab view them as an affront to their architectural skills. The unorthodox Dragon see them as places of raw power and seek to tame the spirits within or to drive them to serve the clan. Reclaiming the wild land, raising the clan’s banner, and returning the ruin to its former splendor showcases a clan’s commitment to its history. Such acts of restoration can be the tipping point away from a clan’s descent into obsolescence and toward a reenergizing of its collective pride

In addition, ruins can be a source of lost treasure, whether documents, jewels, precious metals, weapons, banners, seals, or other symbols of family pride. A ruin can provide clues about a samurai’s inheritance, whether land, treasure, or a hidden lineage. A warrior may find a hidden connection to a family through a genealogy record, undiscovered descendants of survivors living among the villagers, wealth to elevate their family to a higher status, or a title to lands and villages for them to govern. At the same time, if a ruin has memory, it also can reveal secrets; a clan that has neglected a ruin may find its history revealed to an enemy who gives it a proper offering

A haunted ruin may threaten the local heimin; only one of stout will and mind can appease the spirits. The personality of the ruin can slowly infect the surrounding area, turning a docile forest into a haunted wood or a utilitarian village into a place of bedlam. Cultists, drawn to this supernatural power, further drag the locale toward anarchy and corruption.

Samurai may visit a ruin seeking esoteric and spiritual answers. Such places have a connection to the spiritual world and may provide knowledge. Many fantastical stories depict a traveler stumbling into a lost ruin to receive a prophecy from the spirits within. Even without a supernatural presence, an empty ruin can inspire wisdom. After all, everything dies, and a samurai can find no better place in which to contemplate the ephemeral nature of mortality than in a place dead, destroyed, and forgotten

Dwellers
The wildlife of Rokugan uses ruins as lairs, places to hide from humanity. Even in a haunted ruin, animals can coexist peacefully with spirits unless the spirits express extreme hunger, rage, or pain, such as a ruin drifting dangerously close to Tōshigoku. Yet, an astute traveler may notice odd behavior in the animals—passive creatures acting aggressively, aggressive animals acting as if under someone’s command, or wildlife purposefully warning or herding the traveler away—due to the influence of spirits.

Rarely, a troll or other monsters occupy a haunted ruin—or at least a ruin with a haunted reputation—specifically for the peace and isolation it affords from humanity. In some cases, a troll rebuilds parts to create a labyrinth, dead ends, and hidden passages to give them an advantage in hiding from or attacking intruders. Those with knowledge of troll culture may notice a pattern in such mazes: one of circles within circles, like their ancient cities.

Of similar rarity are the naga, and their lairs and cities remain well hidden. Time has taken its toll on their cities, and humans may stumble upon a naga ruin without realizing it. Usually cut directly out of stone in mountains or cliffs, the pillars, arches, and walls of a naga structure all incorporate intricate carvings of geometric patterns, images of naga life, and depictions of the sun, moon, and stars. As there are no stairs or obvious means to climb the multiple levels, most humans only recognize the single floor. Any naga that happen to be awake can easily avoid humans by ascending or descending via the spirals cut in the columns or the multiple jutting stone protrusions on the walls.