For all the maneuverings and machinations that the party planned on doing in order to not lock themselves into any particular clan too early, in the end, only Amulak offered a concrete plan of action, one that more or less encompassed the disparate yet ambiguous desires of the rest of the party.

With the necromancer at the helm, the group headed not for the board that everyone else had been congregating towards, but rather for the sector of Nyu-Taro where clan recruitments were established. While the five buildings that dominated the plaza were always ostentatiously designed and filled with interested Immortals, this time around, there was a particularly feverish atmosphere in the air. War was coming, and while the main influx of Immortals to the area were focused either on the Mora-Sho or the Tato-Ie, the sheer traffic meant that other clans had a good chance of snagging passersby. Only the Gakui-Re, perhaps characteristically so, made no special effort to join, but from clockwork contraptions to crystal-vid depictions of swordmasters, both the San-Li and the Ryoku-Jo Riens were working overtime to draw attention to their own clans.

But Immortals were a capricious, war-like bunch, especially the ones that had decided to choose such a volatile country to establish their foundations in, and more than that, those who gravitated towards this particular war were interested in one thing in particular.
Being on the [i]winning[/i] side of the conflict.

After all, the Mora-Sho were historically in the shitter, and while the Tato-Ie weren’t a massive player themselves, they were tough enough from clashing with the Ryoku-Jo that they could certainly take the Mora-Sho out. And if they were going to do so…well, there was certainly going to be a lot of natural, financial, and human resources up for grabs in the aftermath.  Why not work for a slice of the pie, rather than join a sinking ship of a faction?

That, of course, was not the logic that drew the party to the clan recruitment office of the Mora-Sho clan. Dark timbers constructed the austerely-designed building, and wreaths of spider lilies offered splashes of sanguine vibrance over top it. Standing at the sides of the entrance were two friendly-looking skeletons, moving in accordance to some ancient dance popularized by a spinoff of a game involving modern-day phantom thieves, while what could be spied of the interior of the building had more to do with the past glories of the clan juxtaposed against its present sufferings. Scroll paintings of necromancers raising armies, of warriors who removed themselves from the cycles of life and death, of lives enriched by the knowledge that death was not the end, all painted a tale of a clan that could rise once again in power, the story of an underdog with a counterpunch.

Of course, there was also a sign that read:

[i]“lmao if you’re not mora-sho you’re a fucking pussy. imagine playing on anything other than hard mode”[/i]

And holding onto that sign was a familiar face.

Well, not a face, exactly.

Shaped like a yam, with chainmail showing beneath a patchwork cloak from which copious amounts of talismans were nailed, a man with a weathered face, his features mostly hidden by the umbrella-shaped hat he wore, turned one beady eye up at them.

[b]“Sup? Here to start fucking up casuals?”[/b]