Haniwa
Haniwa are clay-forged vessels animated by the souls of fallen warriors—constructs born not of invention, but of reverence, sacrifice, and binding spiritcraft. During the darkest days of The Fracture War, when death outpaced birth and the battlefronts consumed generation after generation, desperate war-priests and spiritbinders of The Verdant Court and broken Fey conclaves turned to ancient funerary rites to call back the noble dead. The Haniwa were the result.
Fashioned from enchanted clay mixed with powdered bone and battlefield ash, Haniwa stand roughly the height of a Human, with stoic features sculpted to resemble serene warriors. Each is hollow inside, their forms etched with runes and sealed with sigils—rites meant to house a willing Spirit. The souls that inhabit them are not pressed into servitude, but come willingly: ancient champions, guardians, or samurai who perished in battle with unfinished oaths or undying loyalty.
Despite their origin in death, Haniwa do not feel undead. They are something else—neither construct nor revenant, but a blend of spirit and form. When they move, it is with deliberate grace, as if every action honors a ritual. When they fight, it is with the discipline and memory of centuries past. Yet when war is absent, many remain still, seated in gardens or quiet sanctuaries, waiting for a time when their sword will be needed once more.
Though created for war, Haniwa are revered as sacred beings in many cultures. Temples dedicated to ancestor worship often house dormant Haniwa, treating them as living relics and paragons of virtue. Their clay forms can persist for centuries, slowly weathering with time, though their spirits remain undiminished. If a Haniwa’s form is ever shattered beyond repair, their spirit either returns to rest—or, in rare cases, is released back into the world, untethered and vengeful.
Haniwa do not eat, sleep, or breathe, and they rarely speak. They are deeply honorable beings, driven by personal codes or ancient oaths, and are known to form unbreakable pacts with those they deem worthy—be it a new general, a fellow warrior, or a cause that echoes their past life.
No new Haniwa have been made since the Fracture War. The rites required to forge their vessels have been lost or hidden away, perhaps by the gods themselves. Those who walk Aigusyl now are relics, survivors of a sacred purpose—sentinels of memory, bound in clay, carrying the echo of valor into a world ever on the verge of forgetting.
