Open What Shadows Lie

[UmbraSight]

Old wood groaned as the weary staircase shifted under Rei’s weight, and the young woman moved slowly, pausing after each step to listen. The steps themselves weren’t so different, they squeaked when stepped on, croaked as they settled, but stillness made things clear, the gentle roll of her own breathing, the sharp cut of wind through a cracked window. When nothing responded, Rei would take another step, and the attic door would loom ever closer. It had been a fine door once, but now what remained of the door bowed inwards held upright by a dislocated hinge, the dark beyond undaunted by the beam of her flashlight.

It had to be here.

Rei tucked her rifle into the hollow of her right shoulder as she ascended the final step. She reached out and placed the palm of her left hand against the battered door, the rough wood prickling against her skin. She applied pressure, the hinge protested with a screep but relented as the door shuttered forward an inch. Rei once more paused as she listened for the response of the house. Gentle rhythmic creaks. The whisper of disturbed air. The itch of silence. Rei pressed and the door granted her another inch.

She could feel the wind outside wavering of the walls around her, the house’s crooked joints stretching to retain their intended shape. Rei shifted her weight forward, she pressed her shoulder against the door as she returned her left hand to her rifle to keep it steady. She slid the rifle’s barred through the gap allowing the light of her flashlight to bleed through and chase away a thin beam of gloom. A doll sat on a trunk, time leaving its face more cracks than porcelain as its eye glittered welcome.

Left or right. Her body tensed as she leaned against the door, and with an exhale she relaxed. She willed her heart to calm. Right felt correct.

With a shove of her shoulder Rei pushed the door open the remainder of the way and slipped through the opening. The air here felt slimy against her skin, and carried with it a lingering smell of dampness with a sharp undercurrent of sickly-sweet wood rot. Rei swept her rifle to the right to check her surroundings as she stepped up onto the landing. Dark rushed to fill the places the light did no touch, it turned chairs to teeth, water-damaged rolls or carpet into misshapen bodies, and it granted motion to the edge of vision. She moved carefully here, tested rotten flooring with the balls of her feet before trusting her weight to it fully, remained wary of pieces of trash she could stumble on. Her eyes studied the places where darkness gathered, corners, edges, and —

Hairs on the back of her neck bristled as something cold settled between her shoulder blades. Rei stopped. The floorboard underfoot crackled, but Rei’s gaze lingered on a knot of dark that shivered with a sigh of wind. A torn dress? Curtains? Carefully Rei placed her index finger against the trigger guard and she smoothly traced her beam of light along the back wall stopping as it reached the twist of darkness.

And the shadow twitched.

A snarl, low and bestial, the sort that rattled in the marrow of the bones and prickled the skin, filled the room as the shadow unfurled. Its body spread wide as it lurched in her direction like fingers reaching, but Rei held, her finger falling to the trigger of the rifle. She aimed her light at the center of the mass, and shadow brined wherever the beam touched. Strips of frayed cloth burst orange as they were consumed. She didn’t flinch as the shadow crashed through a pile of decaying chairs and sent wooden shrapnel bouncing off her hip. She remained steady, finger resting on the trigger until she saw the shine of skin beneath the frayed cloth, then she squeezed.

The crack of the rifle filled the attic, bounced off the grumbling support beams as Rei yanked the bolt of her rifle back with her right hand. The shadow spun backwards with the force of the impact as the spent shell bounced into the dark with a hollow ring. Rei advanced, steps wide and quick, the bolt clicking back into place as she cycled the round. The shadow wheezed, the sound of wind creeping between trees on a moonless night.

Rei steadied the rifle and shone the light on what would pass for a head. Skin tightened the flesh and bone beneath smoldering, and its lips parted like an open wound. Empty sockets lingered, malice in the twist. Rei pulled the trigger and a second crack filled the air.

——

For those who have nowhere else to turn, a cozy shop bathed in the neon glow of the commercial district offers hope. It's doubtful you’ll find Final Rites listed among much more reputable establishments online, though it does have a website you can visit. No, this odd shop is the sort of thing you only really learn about by word of mouth from grateful customers or the recommendation of a local priest. Which is probably how the owner likes it, the services on offer aren’t really of much use to anyone who doesn’t already need the help. And, helps to keep curious kids away too.

Mostly.

The services offered by Final Rites is one that seems more in line with the superstitions of the past than they do the modern bustle of today. If you find yourself stained by a Noroi, one you can’t simply get cleansed away, then the Hexbreaker can free you of your curse, for a price.

Let’s take a step back.

Noroi are evil spirits born from the hearts of people and given shape by the grudges and resentments which we all carry. They are living curses, stains upon all that they touch and in a way that makes it foolish to try to apply reason to their actions. Noroi are our grudges, aimless and hungry, damaging all who pass too close and attract their attention. Once a person has caught their attention a Noroi will not let them escape, for some this means they will follow their victim home and for others they will find ways to pull the victim back to where the Noroi lingers. Not everyone can see these spirits, and even fewer know how to deal with them.

Hexbreakers are hunters of Noroi, though it’s hard to say if they really share much beyond that. Their reasons for getting into this line of work are often as different as the tools they use, perhaps one of the main things that they do share is the use of specialized lights and metals to make Noroi vulnerable. Often Hexbreakers will have deals with local shrines or temples, offering their services to help deal with stray Noroi that have made their way into modern life.

Curse Weavers are possibly one of the oldest practitioners of crooked magic. Using objects, Weavers capture Noroi and bend the spirits to their own design for use in rituals or the casting of spells or curses. Though, with Weavers it’s hard to say if there’s much difference between a spell and a curse. The Weavers of old left behind a legacy of strange rituals and binding curses that are said to be able to create Noroi or to command the spirit to your will, real ones you can find floating around in the net from time to time. There aren’t many Weavers left, but their objects remain bringing ruin to those unlucky enough to find one in their possession.

Sin Eaters are holders of a bloodline curse, one that they have inflicted upon themselves. Sin Eaters are those who have consumed a Noroi, and imprinted the curse upon their flesh. Their powers are those of the Noroi they have consumed, and their children shall share in their strength and always be haunted by the monsters living in their veins. The price you pay to become more than yourself.

There, the basics for you. Won’t even charge you.

So, tell me this, you looking for help or are you looking for work?

 

[UmbraSight]

CS
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Practice: (Hexbreaker, Curse Weaver, Sin Eater, or religious sect)
Tools and Equipment: (What light source for a Hexbreaker along with any weapons or tools used, the object of power for a Curse Weaver)
Abilities: (What are they good at? What magic might they possess)
Biography:
Appearance:

 

[UmbraSight]

CS
Name:
Rei Ayoama

Age:
24

Gender:
Female

Practice:
Hexbreaker

Tools and Equipment:
A sturdy flashlight that has been modified to produce a specific form of UV light that burns Noroi and turns the intangible physical. This flashlight can slot into a rail on the side of Rei’s rifle.

A bolt action hunting rifle that her grandfather used to use to bring home food during the lean months and years. Reliable and well maintained.

Abilities:
Rei has a broad understanding of local myths and legends, as well as different rituals that are often used to attract the attention of Noroi. She’s an excellent marksman, with a calm steady hand.

Biography:
Born in a rural mountain village in Ehime prefecture on Shikoku island of southern Japan, Rei was one of few children in her small community. Life in Katagawa village was pleasant but it came with its own set of struggles given how far the village was from the conveniences and safeties provided by modern society. Several hours by car for the nearest convenience store, on roads that were often maintained only by the community checking for fallen trees after major storms.

Like many rural communities, Katagawa came with several customs known only to the village, small festivals to celebrate local history, yearly blessings at a small temple, offerings made to an abandoned house that existed on the village’s periphery. It was that house where her troubles began. To this house where shadows reside yearly offerings were made to a spirit of misfortune that was said to reside there, with the rule held that none may enter for misfortune would follow. But, kids are curious and in a village with little else to do checking out the house was tempting, and so on one dark night they decided to sneak in.

It was a small house, two rooms and sparsely furnished. Empty, if one ignored the creaking sound. Her friends didn’t see it, but Rei could, that clump of shadow that hung to the wall, and she couldn’t convince the others to leave before the inevitable happened. The shadow took its opportunity.

Once everything had settled one child was in a coma and Rei had been marked by a lingering curse. The village gathered to discuss what must be done, to protect those affected and the community, though Rei never really learned what the decisions were for the others, because as the decision was being made her parents loaded her into a car and they drove long into the night.

She spent some time all around Japan, between different temples and shrines, the sorts of places that could help to sever the links she maintained to her home village. Her traveling only ended for her once she moved to Tokyo to attend university, and it was also here that Rei began to work as a Hexbreaker. A story all its own perhaps, one that involved a friend going to a place she shouldn’t, a flashlight Rei received to chase away the dark, and a hunting rifle.

After she graduated from University she purchased a vacant shop off the hustle and bustle of a busy commercial street, and made a place where people with nowhere left to go could come and seek the help they needed.

Appearance:
Rei is slightly taller than average for women her age, her straight black hair just a little beyond shoulder length and often tied into a bun. Her eyes are a dark brown, and the soft features of her face often turned sharp by an expression that can be best described as serious. Around her left wrist is a dark band that looks almost like a bruise left by someone squeezing her arm far too tightly.

 

[UmbraSight]

Name:
Seika Yagani

Age:
16

Gender:
Female

Practice:
Shrine Maiden (Part-time)

Tools and Equipment:
A well folded white kosode and scarlet hakama are kept in her school bag for when she needs to change after class. She has access to a suzu as well as a wooden fox mask to perform the Dance of the Wild Fox which can, on occasion, draw the divine to her. She also owns a calligraphy set, which are helpful for the creation of charms and seals.

Abilities:
Seika is trained as n the creation of charms and talismans as well as how to cut the ties that bind Noroi to humans. She has been blessed by a kami, but what that means for her spiritual abilities has yet to be determined.

Biography:

“Momma what’s that?”

A heavy wind rocked the branches of the trees carrying with it the smells of damp earth and loose leaves. Seika pointed up the mountain, past the red torii gate where a long black shape wriggled and twisted in a strange dance. Her parents both looked back to follow her finger into the distance, their brows knit.

“Do you mean the old tree behind the shrine?” Her mother asked, but Seika shook her head, the ribbon in her hair shivering in the breeze.

“No, it’s like, uhm, a snake? But bigger, wrapped around the tree.” Her face screwed up. Her mother placed her hand on Seika’s head.

“Well, I think it’ll rain soon, so we should get going. How about we get some ice cream on our way back?” Her father said, Seika’s expression brightened as she took hold of her mother’s hand, the snake forgotten. They didn’t make it far, however, before the sound of something snappingreverberated down the valley. The three looked back towards the shrine as the old tree fell, and Seika could only watch as the great black snake brought its body down onto the side of the mountain. Earth shook underfoot, and the mountain itself seemed to quiver. Slowly, ever so slowly the trees at the top seemed to slip, and she felt her father’s hand on her back pushing her forward.

“Back to the shrine” her father yelled, and the trio ran, her mother scooping Seika up into her arms. The snake, freed from the tree it had coiled around, continued to thrash, sending another tremor through the earth. Around them stone groaned and crackled as a violent wind screamed through trembling trees as the sides of the mountain began to slide. Her father tripped as they ran, and her mother slowed for only a moment. “Go!” her father yelled, before he vanished behind a river of earth.

The ground closed in as the duo ran up the stairs, earth and stone and trees swallowing a torii gate as they passed beneath it. A woman stood at the top of the hill, her hands outstretched. She was strange, like her eyes a little too wide, or her expression much too calm, but for a moment through her tears Seika felt safe.

“Please!” The woman took Seika from her arms as stones swept across her mother’s legs, and then she was gone. The woman looked down, and brushed the hair from Seika’s eyes.

“Please, don’t cry.” The woman spoke, and there was silence save for the sound of bells distantly ringing.

Seika was found a day and a half later within the main hall of the shrine, her head resting upon the lap of a woman who vanished as soon as the doors were opened.

Appearance:

 

[Yuyo]

A bit over the top, maybe, but I had to run with the concept, lmk if I should swap anything!


-


Name: Juan Cameron Vidal, Johnny, Huesero, Gashadokuro

Age: 26

Gender: Male

Practice: Sin Eater

Tools and Equipment: An AMT Hardballer Semi-Automatic pistol with a finely engraved grip, more so for show and a requirement by the organization, he has poor aim with it.

Abilities: Osteokinesis, control over his own bone structure, to reshape and remove pieces of himself at his own will, controlling the hardness of said bones to create any weapon or piece of weaponry he requires. Superb, accelerated healing.



Personality: Hidden underneath layers of confidence and a silver tongue, immaculate charm despite his spot as enforcer, he carries a smile most of the time, despite constantly being on edge most of the time. A guard dog, loyal to a fault, but quick to bite those who dare to betray his trust. Appreciates the simple things in life despite having luxury and power. Strength is power, fear is power, but power without something to protect is a waste of energy. Family, as messed up and complicated as it can be, is still family.



Appearance: He stands a little taller than average, with a wiry build that comes from years of labor and fights rather than training on purpose. His hair is dark, usually worn a bit long and unkempt, falling across his forehead or brushing the collar of his coat, other times, when necessity calls, he pulls it back and ensures it says in place to add some formality to his appearance, even if he really could not care about his appearance in any other situation. A beard clings to his jaw, uneven at times, giving him a rough look, making him appear slightly older than he is. His skin carries faint scars across his arms, shoulders, hands and ribs, not from losing fights, but from his own abilities ripping out of his muscle and skin over, and over to provide his help

Tigers, waves, blossoms, ink that winds across his arms and shoulders, vivid against his skin, a bodysuit with clearer or entirely blank patches where it has been pulled apart by sharp bones and rebuilt with brand new cells, even though he is careful not to damage his tattoos to much to avoid having to get re-inked yet again, a monthly occurrence.

His clothing is practical. Coats, jackets, layered suits that hide more than they reveal. He dresses to blend into the alleys, not to stand out, but the way he carries himself makes him impossible to ignore, not built for stealth, rather, to go forward and send a message.



Biography:



The city where Juan Cameron “Johnny” Vidal was born was a place that never slept, because of the noise. The docks were its heartbeat, pounding day and night as ships groaned against the piers, cranes swinging overhead, and men shouting to one another in voices hoarse from salt and smoke.

His father was one of those men, a dockworker whose back bent under crates that smelled of foreign soil, never home, at least, never sober, never present. His mother worked in a clinic not far from the waterfront, where the air was thick with iodine and the quiet sobs of people who had nowhere else to go.

Juan grew up in the narrow streets that pressed against the port, where every wall seemed to remember a violent fight over something that was simply not worth it. The houses leaned into each other, patched with tin and stubbornness, their windows broken and repaired so many times they looked like scars. He learned early that grudges lasted longer than friendships in a place like that. Neighbors carried stories of betrayal like heirlooms, and children inherited feuds the way others inherited toys.

He was not a loud boy. He listened more than he spoke, his dark eyes following the rhythm of the streets, storing away every insult, every promise, every lie. He had a way of staring that unsettled people, as if he could see the weight of resentment clinging to their skin, really, clinging, solid, like a stain. His mother called him stubborn, his father called him a burden, but the other children simply called him strange.

The docks were his playground, though they were never safe. He would sit on the edge of the pier, watching the ships unload their cargo, crates stamped with kanji he couldn’t read, boxes that smelled of spices, fabrics, and sometimes, coppery, organic. He learned the names of the men who worked there, the curses they muttered, the resentment they carried against each other. He understood that a man could break another’s jaw for a debt as small as a cigarette, even if they claimed they had been friends for the longest time. Juan earned their favor, fetching whatever they wanted, staying quiet about their wrongdoings, listening to them complain about the pain in their backs and the rattle of their bones.

At night, when the city quieted, Juan would lie awake listening to the bones in his body. They ached in ways that felt unnatural, shifting when he breathed, cracking louder than they should when he stretched, hoping one day, maybe everyone’s bones would stop hurting.



The turning point came when he was sixteen. The night it happened was not extraordinary at first. The docks had their usual rhythm, those cranes creaking, the men shouting, the smell of diesel and salt thick in the air, a boy doing something he knew damn well he shouldn’t be doing. A fight broke out in the alley behind a cantina, something about him stealing a pack of beers for his “friends” on the dock. Juan was cornered, outnumbered, his ribs already bruised, his knuckles split. Someone had played a harmless prank, and a ratted him out.

They wanted him broken, not beaten.

Juan felt his ribs cracking, he tasted iron spilling from his mouth. And then the air shifted.

It was not a sound, not a shadow, but pressure, as if the alley, no, the docks themselves remembered every fight, every betrayal, every bone shattered against the walls, all the sins and horrors done in the dark. The resentment of the place thickened, coalescing into something alive. The Noroi was born there, not from an object or ritual, but from the violence itself. It was the embodiment of every grudge that had ever stained those streets, every broken promise, every scream swallowed by the night.

Juan saw it. Not with his eyes, but with something deeper. A shape that was not a shape, a hunger that pressed against his skin. It wanted him. It wanted to consume him, to drag him into the dark, horrible maw full of sharp bones.

But he did not run. He was too stubborn, too desperate, too angry. He bit back, he took it in, and bent it with his own will, screaming into the core of the beast until it surrendered, and was devoured by him instead.



The pain was immediately searing. His bones bent, reshaping themselves in ways that defied reason. His ribs knit together, jagged and wrong. His knuckles cracked like gunshots. His spine arched, and for a moment he thought it would snap. But it didn’t. It obeyed, and it consumed.



His bones whispered with the voices of the dead, reshaping themselves into blades and armor when survival demanded it. The children who once called him strange now crossed the street when he passed. The men at the docks looked at him with suspicion, some with fear. His mother prayed louder, his father drank harder.

And Juan listened. He listened to the bones, to the grudges, to the city itself. He was a boy no longer. He was something else, something born of resentment and survival, something that carried the weight of curses in his veins.



The docks had always been Juan’s world, but after the night in the alley when his bones bent to his will, he no longer belonged to the streets in the same way. People whispered about him, to ward off the curse they believed clung to him, as if that would change the violent, horrible carnage left behind on those walls “as if he had put them all into a blender”, that was the least horrible way they described his act.

Juan learned quickly that fear was a kind of currency that he could use exemplary well. Men who once mocked him now offered him work, real work, no favors, no fetching beer, not bringing cigarettes. At first, it was small things, carrying packages, guarding shipments, intimidating debtors. His bones could harden like armor, his fists could break through doors, and his presence alone was enough to silence a room.



The smuggling came naturally. The port was a sieve, and Juan knew every hole in its net. Cigarettes, liquor, stolen electronics, he moved them all easily. He was young, but he was reliable, and reliability was rare in a city where betrayal was the common language. He became known among the crew as Huesero. Foreigners who couldn’t pronounce his name called him Johnny, and he let them.

Violence followed him deeper into the trade. Rival crews tried to cut him out, but Juan was not easy to cut. He fought in warehouses, on piers, in alleys where the salt air mixed with blood. Each fight fed the Noroi inside him, each broken bone strengthening the curse that whispered in his veins. He was no longer just surviving, he was thriving. He tried reconnecting with his parents many times, but they didn’t reciprocate, changing the locks, saying they didn’t know him, even by the time his father passed, he was told not to show up, and even when he did, and tried to support his mother financially, she rejected him, telling him she didn’t want any of his dirty money, so he remained in the only other place he knew, the docks.



It was through the smuggling routes that Japan entered his life. Cargo from the East flowed through the port, and with it came men who spoke in clipped tones, who carried themselves with quiet authority. They were not locals, but they knew how to make the city bend. Juan worked for them without knowing their names at first, moving shipments that were heavier, more guarded, more dangerous.

One night, after a job that ended in blood, one of those men approached him. He was older, his suit immaculate despite the chaos around them. He looked at Juan not with fear, but with recognition.

“You’re not like the others,” the man said. “You carry something inside you. Something useful.”

Juan didn’t answer. His bones were still humming from the fight, his knuckles raw.

The man smiled faintly. “Come with us. There is more work across the ocean. Work that suits you.”

And so, Juan left. He drifted with the contraband, carried north, then east, until the Pacific lay beneath him. In Japan, he was treated as a curiosity at first, a foreigner with a strange aura, a man whose bones seemed alive. But usefulness is stronger than bloodlines. He proved himself in debt collections, underground fights, and in battles against things ordinary men could not see.

The group that took him in, did not fully embrace him as one of their own, but they did not discard him either. He was a weapon, an omen, a living talisman. They called him Gashadokuro, after the legend of a giant, man-eating skeleton, and the name carried across Tokyo’s neon alleys with a simple task.

“Find more like you and bring them back with us.”