Thread-Binding Killers

Thread-Binding is ugly work even by Wulin standards: killers paid to cut a man's fate short, and most of them put their faith in back-alley tricks, the stranger the better. Years of that trade leave few men in the house who still believe in an honest road.

They believe the big-head doll masks of the Central Plains prolong life, ward off evil and hold back the backlash of Transcension. They believe as firmly that stagecraft and acrobatics can draw a god into the body, so they folded those movements into their own arts. The rattle drum, they say, was a ritual object long before it was ever a child's toy, and once it sounds, a god has been invited in. Above all they hold that a child's heart is pure and readiest for spirits to enter — and to answer that, they dose themselves for years and copy a child's speech and gait, letting body and mind regress together.

The painted smiles have grown larger and the men smaller. Most now stand no taller than a boy, and their laughter comes out hollow and distorted, like a prayer raised to something no one else can see.

• Ha-ha: Carries a great blade whose flat throws the painted smile into something far worse; his style was taken apart from stage tricks, all claws and fangs, with no form to it at all.
• Hee-hee: Shakes a rattle drum to hearten the others, dancing and laughing to its beat; useless in a straight fight, he opens with a reckless headbutt and then runs.
• Hmph-hmph: The steel windmill in his hands turns without wind; held upside down before him, its spin does the cutting.
• Ho-ho: Wears a lion-dance head instead, his techniques taken from the dance, and breathes fire from the lion's mouth; his mind wanders, and he has been known to strike his own.
• Wah-wah: A weeping face on the mask, and a mist from the mouth that freezes a man's limbs where he stands; his line trained long in ice and snow and held back their own growing with the cold, so even his wails sound like a child who never got any older.

Every one of their kills announces itself first: the drum, the hum, the spinning steel, the drawn breath before the fire. Hear it, and you have room; scramble the beat and their feet go with it.

A body that small will not take many solid blows — but do not let the comic mask lower your guard. The more ridiculous one looks, the more likely he is waiting for you to laugh. The real trouble is the moment the drum starts and several of them come up dancing at once; give ground and let them tangle themselves.