Ashclimb, a play-by-post RPG setting with AI as the GM.

A notice has been posted mentioning the death of Djenk Corv, one off the more reliable weaponsmiths of the ember saints.
He died from a rottgut poisoning. (some-one scribbled 'it ain't, he never drank rottgut' on the notice).

His body will be fed to the flames in a public ceremony in 2 light-outs,
Preacher Matthis will be leading the faithful in devout remembrance.

Non-(or Lax) worshippers are advised to make themselves scarce during the ceremony.
 
  • Like
Reactions: Biggle_Bear
Session 8

GM:

Let’s begin.

ASHCLIMB — THE FOLLOWING CYCLE

The air stinks of rust and ozone where the morning hum of the Ashclimb begins to rise. Deep vents shudder open with a groan like old beasts waking, bleeding filtered light across the ferrocrete streets. You’re already moving.

You’ve got a name: Kai-une.

Ash Knives. Low-level. Wytch minder.

A fixer, most likely—someone who keeps tabs on sanctioned psykers, whispers into ears, passes notes to those who dare use what the rest fear.

There are a dozen ways to find someone like her. But only a few that keep your boots clean.

Where do you begin, Slagjaw?
  • You could go ask Kurn what he knows (and show your cards).
  • You could start with a drinker’s haunt, where Ash Knives muscle their dues.
  • You could try the Sumpcrawler’s Union, who hear things no one else does.
  • Or maybe you’ve got another angle entirely.
Let me know your approach, and we’ll follow it into the depths.

Player:

I think I start with option 2. I certainly don’t want to reveal to Kurn that I have been looking into his business, not unless I have something to show that I also want to share. I am on bad grounds with the Union, so I will need a peace offering first.

(Oh man! I made a mistake. When I suggested that this guy is a wytch-minder I was thinking that the “slagwitch alley” territory was controlled by the Ash Knives, but it is connected to the Hollow-Eye).

I guess I am thinking of what I need from this guy. What caused me connect them to this situation or to me.

GM:

That’s a perfect starting angle, and don’t worry—mistakes like that are part of the texture in a place like Ashclimb. Every faction bleeds into the others, every trench winds through someone else’s turf. If you’re chasing someone through the cracks, chances are they work for more than one name anyway.

Let’s unspool this together.

EARLY CYCLE – “THE TAPRAT” – LOW TIER DRINKHOLE, ASH KNIFE TERRITORY

You lean in a doorway braced by rust and flyers. Inside, smoke drifts over cracked tables. A sump-runoff still bubbles somewhere behind the bar. The Taprat is where people who owe the Ash Knives come to pretend they don’t.

It’s also a place where messages change hands under the pretense of sharing drinks.

You’ve been here before—collected more than one name in the dim haze beneath the ratlamp.

Your lead?

You’re here because someone once said the name Kai-une when you were leaning over them, debt-slate in hand. They weren’t afraid of her—they were careful of her. Respectful. You remember the exact phrase:

“She don’t pull strings. She braids them together. You don’t even know she was there till your foot’s caught in a noose.”

You’re hoping someone here knows where the noose starts.

You step in. Few heads turn. The barkeep’s a pair of augmetic eyes behind a bulletproof window. There’s a game of spinejack in one corner. And three likely options:
  • A wiry older ganger with a blade fetish—used to run messages for the Knives before his hands got shaky.
  • A chem-dealer chewing dried mushrooms behind the bar, with a knack for knowing who’s supplying who.
  • A twitchy young scrapper drinking alone—he’s scared, maybe looking for a way out of something.

How do you approach, and what tone do you set?

You coming in like someone owed answers, or buying a drink like someone looking to forget?

Let me know.

Player:

I buy two drinks. While I wait for them to be served I write something on a drinks mat. Then taking two mats for the two drinks I head to the old ganger (out of game, I want to see how Gorran will interact with someone with a violent disposition like himself).

I sit down and place the mat and drink in front of him. Then let the silence settle in for a moment.

GM:

He doesn’t look up right away.

The drink sweats on the table. His fingers twitch once near the hilt of a stiletto blade, then curl instead around the glass. One sip. Two. Only then do his eyes flick up. Watery and yellowish, like an old sump eel.

He reads the drink mat. His tongue clicks once behind his teeth.

“You askin’ ‘cause you’re owed,” he says, voice like a whetstone on rusted steel,

“or askin’ ‘cause you owe?”

His eyes linger a beat longer than you’d like on your own hands. Gauging you. Sizing up what kind of animal you are. Not trying to posture—just a man who hasn’t had to for a while. There’s no tension here yet. But there’s no comfort either.

He leans back.

“People throw names around in here like bone dice. But most names come up blank. Kai-une, though…

She don’t come up blank. She comes up crossed out.”

A long pause.

“You drink first. Then we talk.”

The glass in front of you is cloudy. Smells like rust and citrus.

If you drink it, you show trust—and he might give you something real.

If you hesitate, the dynamic shifts.

How does Gorran play it?

Player:

I take it and drink as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

GM:

The burn is sharp. Not in a poisoned way—at least, not immediately—but like it was filtered through sump lines and regret. Gorran keeps his face unreadable.

The old ganger watches you with a small, humorless grin, then nods to himself. One scarred finger traces the edge of the drink mat.

“Alright. You got grit, or you’re too stupid to care. Either one’s useful in Ashclimb.”

He leans forward now. Voice quieter. Not whispering—but like a man who doesn’t want to be overheard by the wrong ghosts.

“Kai-une runs with the Ash Knives, sure. But she’s leased. Like an old lascutter. The Hollow-Eyed send her out when they need things unbound. Curses, parasites, wytch-locks, whatever. Real quiet stuff. Real dirty stuff.”

Another sip.

“A few weeks back, I hear she got called down to the trench. Not by the Knives. By someone who don’t leave footprints.

Next day, she stops showin’ up for her usual rounds. Then the Knives start sniffin’ ‘round like lost pups lookin’ for her.”

He taps the mat.

“You’re not the only one interested. But most folks asking don’t come back twice. So I’ll ask once:

Are you lookin’ for her ‘cause she’s a mark…

or because someone wants her silenced?”

He holds your gaze. No bluff. Just the kind of man who’s survived too long to waste time on lies.

What’s Gorran’s answer—and what does he really want out of Kai-une?

Player:

I turn from his gaze. I’m trying to find the answer to why I am looking into this at all, and the mental strain shows. Until it snaps into place, and I look back up with a cocky smile.

“If I just wanted to hunt marks ‘til I died or I got the shakes, I would have stopped back in Chokemouth with the team. I came here to make something bigger. And now I hear that there is some big score that everyone is murderin’ each other in the dark for. And I want dealt in! The way I figure Kai-une is the link between them all, but she’s holdin’ back.”

I take the drink up again “So she either ain’t got the grit… or she ain’t stupid enough!” I take another swig”

GM:

The old ganger stares at you for a long second—then lets out a low, gravelly laugh. It sounds like it comes from somewhere deep and rusted.

“Well, now you sound like someone I used to be. Maybe still am, if the coin’s good enough.”

He knocks back the rest of his drink and slams the cup down with a sharp clack.

“Alright, grit-for-brains. You want dealt in? You’ll need three things: a map, a minder, and a marker.”

He ticks them off on oil-stained fingers.

“Map,” he says, “means access. You won’t get far in the trench without one. Knives have routes, but they’re guarded, traded, and booby-trapped. And they don’t like freeloaders.”

“Minder”—he jerks his head like it’s obvious—“means someone who can keep you from getting soul-flayed down there. There’s wytch-madness in the trench. Echoes that crawl inside your skin and play you like a string box. Kai-une was that minder for someone else. Find out who.”

“Marker,” he growls, “is what gets you paid. Gotta know what you’re bringing back. Bodies, relics, secrets. Anyone can go into the trench and die. You want in the game? You better know how to win.”

He leans in. Close enough you smell blood and gun oil.

“You get those three? You’re in. And if you make it back breathing…”

He grins, showing teeth.

“Maybe I’ll even take a cut.”

He pushes his empty cup toward you like it’s a handshake.

“Name’s Kett. You ever want to talk real scores, you find me at the Ember’s Fall.”

Session break here.
 
Black Friarsday:

An Ashknives linked trader is selling off a large quantity of lower and medium tier weapons and armor at suspicious low prizes.
you don't think you'll find anything hightec in the pile off common gear being sold, but you never know...

(The vendor really wants to get rid off this part off his stock)
 
  • Like
Reactions: Biggle_Bear
tl:dr - Gorran meets Kai-une and there seems to be a partnership agreed upon. But she needs a favour. I need to go look for a lost associate. Is she alive, is there going to be a faceless saint looking to take mine?

GM:

— SESSION START —

The drink still lingers in your throat, bitter and cheap. The air’s thick with solvent fumes, sweat, and the faint metallic hum of the dome far above. Somewhere in the distance, a sumpcrawler sings off-key, and the low rattle of a cargo chain echoes through the bones of the bar.

You’re not sure if the old ganger bought your story, or if he just saw something in you—something ugly and familiar enough to respect. Either way, he tipped his head, finished his drink, and didn’t throw a punch. That counts as progress.

Now it’s the next day.

Vanni Rote is still cooling her heels in the lower precinct. You haven’t heard word yet on visitors or payments, but the clerk said she’d keep the ledger open if anything changed.

But it’s Kai-une you’re thinking about now.

That name pulled at you. The records said she was a wytch-minder—a low-level handler with ties to Slagwitch Alley. That would’ve meant Ash Knives territory… except the deeper you dug, the more the name Hollow-Eye kept circling back.

Maybe she changed allegiances. Maybe someone traded her.

Or maybe she’s something worse—someone who doesn’t sit cleanly in either camp anymore.

You’ve got a rough location from the data-slate: a pit-plate tenement cluster on the outer skirts of the lower trench-wall, wedged between a sump-shunt and an old chem still.

No formal address. Just: “Kai-une: unit 43-C, sub-stack 7, Sector H.”

The Hollow-Eye mark beside her file flickers red.

So… what’s your approach?
  • Head straight there, see if she’s home, knock and talk?
  • Stake out the area, get the lay of the land before you move in?
  • Go looking for someone who knows her first—another angle?
  • Or something else entirely?

Your move.

Player:

I was thinking that my new friend Kett had contact to her. In that case she is expecting me, whether that’s a good thing or not. So I think I’ve checked my gun already, slipped on the knuckles within my pocket, and striding with bad ass confidence as a layer of armour.

GM:

That makes sense—Gorran isn’t walking in cold. He’s walking into a situation already lit at the fuse.

Sector H smells like battery acid and boiled algae.

You pass a broken lift track and a welded-shut waste hatch before the pit-plate thins out to the cluster you’re looking for: rust-stitched tenement stacks clinging to the wall like tumors. Someone’s made a half-hearted effort to hang hollow-charms above the entrance—little bundles of knotted bone and wire meant to ward off trench-spirits. They twitch uselessly in the filtered breeze.

You find Sub-Stack 7, unit 43-C, just where it should be: third balcony up, a cracked bulkhead door with black resin weeping down the hinges. Someone’s sprayed a broken eye symbol on the panel—clean, recent. Hollow-Eye territory for sure.

You check your gun. Knuckles in your coat. Boots solid.

Then you knock.

A long pause.

Then a mechanical click… and the bulkhead hisses open just enough to see a sliver of darkness inside. A breath of stale, herbal smoke wafts out.

A voice comes through the crack—raspy, feminine, but with the low drawl of someone who’s seen too much and doesn’t bother to pretend otherwise.

“Kett said you’d come. I told him I don’t talk to animals with collars. You got something to prove, or just looking to bleed?”

You can’t see her clearly. Just the glint of a low light and what might be an array of candles on the floor inside.

What do you say, Gorran?

Player:

“Helmawr has us all in collars, foolish to think otherwise. Look, you’ve strapped your clip harness to the ‘Knives and the ‘Eyes. It looks like you are wearing more collars than any of us. Ready to be torn in two with the next hive quake? So drop the smoke show and let’s see how we can help each other up and out of this ditch.”

GM:

There’s a beat of silence.

Then a snort—half amusement, half derision.

The door hisses open.

Inside is a room lit by low, flickering votive flames and a single red lumen bulb dangling from exposed wire. Wax drips have crusted into the corners. Soot and incense stain the ceiling. A scatter of bones—bird, rodent, maybe worse—sits in a loose spiral pattern near the back.

And there she is: Kai-une, barefoot and wiry, her sleeveless coat stitched together from synth-hide and what might be repurposed prayer flags. Her scalp is shaved in patches, showing cranial plugs and skin inked with sigils—some Hollow-Eye, some older.

A flickering augmetic lens shifts focus in her right eye, whirring softly.

“You talk big for someone who doesn’t know the weight of what he’s kicking over.”

“This ain’t some turf dispute or gang vault job. What you’re chasing?”

She leans in, close enough for the lens to buzz as it studies your face.

“It’s like picking at a scab that never healed. Old blood. Old sins. And maybe something alive under it.”

She leans back, eyes narrowing.

“So before we ‘help each other up and out,’ you tell me this—how deep are you really willing to go?”

There’s a small table near her elbow, with two drinking tins and a dull knife stuck upright in a split wooden block. A test, maybe. Or just style.

Your move, Gorran.

Player:

As I sit, I pry the knive out, look it over as if that was my intention and place it closer to me than the other chair (Gorran as a professional doesn’t allow marks to have a weapon so close to hand, but realises he has to play along).

“Well if I just wanted to be Kurn’s lapdog I have already jeopardised that. So I’d say I’m pretty slaggin’ in!

What can you offer me? You have connections to the Ash Knives, who control the routes. You have connections to the Hollow-Eyes and their wytches, to deal with the spooky stuff down there. Can you get me that? Who would I be owing for the courtesy?”

GM:

Kai-une watches you take the knife—doesn’t stop you, doesn’t flinch—just tracks the motion like a bird of prey. At your words, she shifts in her seat, folding one leg under her and leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“You’ve done your homework. That’s more than most.”

“The ‘Knives have the maps, yeah. Not all of them, but enough to get close. Problem is, they don’t share.”

“The Hollow-Eyes… they’re fractured. Some of ‘em think what’s in the trench is sacred. Others think it’s a curse. And there’s a third camp that’s just using it—feeding it—to push their own ends.”

She reaches into her coat and pulls out a small data wafer, slides it across the table to you.

“That’s a name. Not mine. Not free.”

You turn it. Scrawled in scav-slang glyphs is a single handle: [Sump-Quill].

Kai-une watches your reaction carefully.

“She’s an Ash Knife carto-grifter. Knows how to read the trench like scripture. And she went off-grid two weeks ago chasing ghost-signals.”

“Last ping came from the underlayers near Coilchute—place where the dome wall cracked and grew back wrong. Guilder surveys got scrambled down there. Something’s shifting.”

She taps the table, once.

“You want access? Bring her back. Or her maps. Or proof she’s dead. I don’t care. But I want to know what she found.”

And then, more softly, as if against her better judgment:

“…And if she drew the symbol—the one Vanni saw—you burn it. You don’t take it with you. You don’t trace it. Not even once.”

You’ve dealt with creeps, criminals, and cults. But there’s real tension in her voice now—like someone remembering pain, not fear.

What do you do?

Player:

“And in return I get my Map? No matter how I find her?”

I stand and slam the knife back into place.

After I leave I think I will probably want to get myself a couple of holy trinkets and maybe take advantage of this ghast shipment to see if there is anything on the market to protect me as I chase after someone on a ghost hunt.

GM:

Kai-une gives a tight nod as the knife thunks back into the table.

“You bring something I can use, you get your map. Doesn’t matter if she’s talkin’, walkin’, or just a smear on a datastick. Just don’t screw me on this.”

As you turn to go, her voice follows like the rasp of a blade half-sheathed:

“And Gorran… I hope you’ve got thicker skin than your last job. The trench doesn’t just take flesh. It peels memory.”

OUTSIDE – THE LAYERS OF THE SLAGMARKET

You push through the creaking flex-doors and into the haze of mid-shift Ashclimb. Dust coils in sunshafts where light filters down from the cracked dome above. You spot half a dozen street hawkers, and one crooked preacher waving a relic made from melted plasteel and bone, crying warnings of false saints. You’ve got a couple of objectives now—and Ashclimb’s streets always have more to offer than you’re ready for.

Let’s break it into your next steps:

🔹
Option 1 – Visit a Trinker, Trader, or Preacher

Check out the black market for anti-psyker charms, scavenged void-gear, or “consecrated” items. Ghast on the street means more demand for protection—and more scams.
  • Possible finds: Talisman of the Machine-Spirit, Warded Shell Beads, old House Cawdor reliquaries, Sumpwytch voodoo tokens.
  • You might also run into a preacher from the Ember Saints—or someone faking it.
🔹
Option 2 – Investigate the Ghast Scene

The streets are thick with talk of spiked-rats biting themselves in the dark and Spiders selling to junkies. Could be a good chance to scrounge protection… or learn who’s feeding the addicts this close to trench territory.
  • Possible leads: Junkie whispers about “the saint of many faces,” black-market augurs using ghast to glimpse the symbol, maybe even a lead on who’s selling.

🔹
Option 3 – Gear Up, Head to Coilchute

Skip the noise and just get moving. If you’re heading into underlayers where the dome “grew back wrong,” you’ll want to move fast before anyone else sniffs the trail.

You can pick one, combine them, or suggest something else entirely. Let’s start the descent your way.

Player:

Well I already established ghat he reveres imperial idols so he is probably looking for some kind of preacher for hire, or someone he already knows. Can we look there?

GM:

Absolutely—we’ll follow Gorran as he hunts down someone with a line to the divine (or at least a passable imitation of one). He’s not the sermon type, but he knows better than to go ghost-hunting in the trench without something to mutter under his breath.

🔻

ASHCLIMB – SLAGMARKET MISSIONEERS’ ROW

They don’t call it a church, not here. They call it Row—a scabby strip of makeshift stalls, alley altars, and cut-open containers stuffed with incense burners and reliquaries. Voices call out like carnival barkers, all pitching different flavours of redemption:
  • “Burn your guilt! Burn your guilt! The Saints take ashes in payment!”
  • “Only the Emperor knows your name! All others must be shed!”
  • “Blood for purity, bones for peace!”
The place stinks of ammonia, oil, and desperate belief. Somewhere in here is what you’re looking for: a preacher or warpriest who can offer a real blessing, maybe even one who owes you. Let’s line up a few options:

🛐
Option A: Brother Kelzo – The Censer-Warden

A grizzled ex-Redemptionist now preaching “Refined Flame” from a barrel-fire pulpit. Kelzo hates the Hollow-Eyes, but respects fighters. You’ve crossed paths before—he offered last rites after a job that got bloody.
  • 🔸 Pros: Knows old rites and flame-consecration. Might bless your gear or give you a reliquary.
  • 🔸 Cons: Talks too much. Might demand you “burn a sinner” in return.

🛐
Option B: Sister Vadra – The Stitch-Saint

A quiet, soot-smudged woman working out of a med-shack wrapped in devotional banners. She stitches wounds and whispers prayers from a forgotten catechism. The Ash Knives leave her alone—maybe even protect her.
  • 🔸 Pros: Gentle, discreet. Her blessings are strange but they stick.
  • 🔸 Cons: Doesn’t bargain with credits. Only trades in deeds or wounds.
🛐
Option C: Father Rask – The False Father

A fraud, probably. Smiles like a Guild bondsman and wears a crooked aquila necklace. But he’s got trinkets galore and a network of informants who whisper real saints’ names like passwords.
  • 🔸 Pros: Knows what sells—might have something warded against the trench’s weirdness. Happy to trade.
  • 🔸 Cons: Might rip you off, or worse, get you ghost-marked.
Do any of them sound like the kind of person Gorran would turn to—or would he be looking for someone else entirely?

Player:

Brother Kelzo, the former redemptionist seems like the sort of guy Gorran would choose.

GM:

Perfect—Gorran’s the kind of man who respects zeal, even if he rolls his eyes at it. And Kelzo? He’s got enough soot-scarred conviction to make even a trench ghost flinch.

🔻 SLAGMARKET – “THE BARREL PULPIT”

The shrine is more junkheap than temple—an upturned cargo drum painted red with streaks of old blood and scripture. Braziers burn with sacred oils (or sump grease, if you know the smell), and nailed to a sheet-metal wall behind them are half-melted icons of flame, saints, and martyrdom.

Brother Kelzo stands tall above the fire, a shotgun slung across his back and red beads clinking at his belt. His voice booms over the market din:

“The holy flame is patient, but it cleanses! You think your sins are yours alone? The trench remembers! The spirits remember!”

He sees you through the heat shimmer and smiles like a skull. His beard is ash-flecked, his eyes sunken but burning with fervor.

“Well well. Gorran Slagjaw walks in unburnt. You come to light a candle, or set something bigger on fire?”

There’s already a handful of lost souls kneeling before him. He gestures with a clawed hand for you to step forward.

What do you say? Want to ask for a specific blessing, relic, or favor? Or play it slow and feel him out first?

Player:

I kneel and then approach. “Brother Kelzo, I was wondering if I could get a blessing… or something? You know the scar in the wall over by Coilcute? I need to go there to retrieve a … soul. As in a person. I hear that there are bad things up there that I might not be able to beat with just my fists. I came to you because I … know your flame … is true?”

GM:

Kelzo watches you kneel. The other penitents shift, some murmuring prayers, others scooting back, unsure if you’re about to explode or convert. But the old Redemptionist doesn’t flinch. If anything, he seems moved.

He steps down from the barrel pulpit, boots clanking on the scaffold-iron steps. Then he reaches out—calloused hands like welding clamps—and clasps your shoulders.

“You do know. That’s the start of it.”

His voice is quieter now. Personal. Not the sermon, but the man.

“The scar over Coilcute… they say it reaches the trench’s black throat. And something in it. Too many whispers. Too few return. If you mean to walk there, you need more than fists, aye—and more than hollow blessings.”

He turns and rummages through a nearby lockbox welded to the pulpit. Produces a small, soot-black censer on a chain and a thin relic case wrapped in red waxed cloth.

“I give you two things.”

He holds up the censer.

“This—Ash of the Third Pyre. Mixed with the soot of thirty martyrs, poured with sacred oils, sanctified in fire. Burn it in the trench, and the spirits will part for you… if you’re clean. If not—they’ll come.”

Then the cloth-wrapped object.

“This is a reliquary. It holds a tooth from Sister Moltha the Iron-Tongued, one of the first trench preachers. Wore down nine knives with her words alone. Wear it near your heart, and your will won’t waver.”

He places both in your hands like sacraments.

“You don’t owe me. But if you return, you bring word of what you saw. You light a fire with that truth. We clear the trench by faith and flame alike.”

Then, leaning in closer, he adds with a slight grin:

“And maybe you knock a few heretics around while you’re at it. For the joy of it.”

You’ve gained:
  • Censer of the Third Pyre (one use) – When lit, offers spiritual warding and ghostly repulsion in haunted places. Risky if the bearer is impure or carries cursed items.
  • Tooth of Sister Moltha (worn) – Grants mental fortitude and resistance to psychic intrusion or fear.
Ready to hit the streets for supplies or head straight to ghost country?

Player:

I think that as I am exiting the area I see a dealer trading with a junkie. I think for a moment about asking for ghast but look at the items in my hands and think of the preacher’s words about how the Censor is only for those that are clean. I then put on my look of determination and barge out of there.

Is it getting late? Would I go back and rest before the next phase or head straight to the mission before more treasure hunters are drawn to Coilchute?

GM:

As you barge past the alley mouth and its twitching deals, the familiar stench of ash-sweat, rustspice, and melt powder gives you a jolt—one you shake off with a clenched jaw. You’re already carrying flame and faith; no need to douse it in ruin.

The trench’s scar won’t stay hidden long. Not with half the lower hive’s freaks and prophets catching whiff of something buried. But…

As you step out into the broader artery of Ashclimb, the hollow light of the dome above is shifting. A creaking chain-driven sky-panel rolls over, casting everything in a pale green glow—the false evening.

A pair of sump bats spiral overhead. A servo-skull chimes the hour. Nearby, someone’s screamer alarm wails for a second too long before being abruptly silenced. The city is starting to tense.

It’s getting late.

You could:
  1. Push forward immediately. Coilchute will be quieter by night—fewer eyes, fewer scavengers. But also fewer allies. And whatever’s in the scar might prefer the dark.
  2. Head back and rest. Regroup, prep more, maybe catch wind of anyone else moving on the place. But time means risk—another crew might slip in first. Or worse: vanish, and leave the thing down there hungrier.
  3. Trail the junkie. Not your plan, but maybe they know more—ghastheads often see the deeper dreams. Could be a loose thread worth tugging. Or just trouble.
What’s Gorran’s move?

Player:

He heads back to rest a few hours. Check he has batteries for his light, take any other equipment, etc. but is moving before morning. He plans to be the first at the opening. Do we close the session as morning lights turn on and he is overlooking the foreboding entrance?

GM:

Perfectly timed.

You pass the hours in the shelter of your quarters—scraping dried grime from your gear, checking charge cells, sealing your knuckleduster holster with quiet ceremony. The scent of sanctified oil still lingers on the trinkets Kelzo gave you. You lay them beside your rig, unsure if they bring comfort or just more weight.

The hours are short, uneasy.

When the hive’s false morning light clanks into place—artificial sunbeams punching through cracked domeglass—you’re already moving. Through sleeping levels and down half-sealed corridors, past sump-leaks and broken vox-casters muttering sermons that loop and glitch.

Then you’re there.

Coilchute.

The entrance yawns ahead: a ribbed tunnel drooping with wire-vein rot, its floor broken and bent by subsidence. Trash drifts around the edge of the scar, caught in windless currents. Graffiti—both old and new—marks the entry like tribal runes: Ash Knives warnings, hollow-eyed glyphs, and something else scratched deeper.

The symbol again.

The same one from Karlick’s delirium and Drokk’s pipe-cave. A warped saint’s sigil. Almost a face. Almost many.

No one else is here. Not yet. You’re the first.

The air is still. No birds. No buzz of traders. Just you and the descent.

SESSION END

(Next time: Into Coilchute. Echoes of the Trench.)
 
A man wearing what resembles theatre-variety oversized cherubs wings and climbing gear falls screaming from the climb's crown.
The acid bitten corpse is rumored to have come down in The Blackgrid Habs
 
Last edited:
  • Like
Reactions: Biggle_Bear
Session 10

tl:dr - Slagjaw delves into a trench, battles with Chaos and cleanses some sinners. Oh and saves someone.

GM:

ASHCLIMB – COILCHUTE SCAR – “MORNING” CYCLE

The air hangs like a held breath. Dim daylight from above catches in long coils of wire and dust. The entrance to Coilchute looms—an industrial wound in the underhive’s flesh, slanting down into gloom and shadow. Old rails curve inward beneath collapsed struts and bent rebar. Something in the wind hums faintly, as though the scar remembers what it once carried.

You move forward.

The floor crunches with broken glass and bone. Not long inside, the trash thins out—either scavenged or swept aside. Here and there, markers are scratched into the wall—some Ash Knives, some you don’t recognize. And one is familiar now: the not-a-saint sigil, scored with more force than style.

Deeper still, your light catches something reflective—glinting metal and green glass. A shrine. Ramshackle, barely holding together. Bottlecaps, tallow, bones. Hollow-Eye handiwork, maybe. Or some lone scummer’s attempt to appease something older.

A sound: movement ahead.

Soft. Scraping. Then a hiss of static—like an old vox picking up a signal that shouldn’t exist.

What do you do?

Player:

I have my gun ready to shoot.

GM:

Your grip tightens. The gun feels solid—reassuring in a place where nothing else does. You sweep your light toward the sound.

The beam cuts through a lattice of hanging cables. Something moves behind them—quick, low to the ground. Then stillness.

Just as your breath settles, the vox hiss sharpens.

A voice.

Faint, stuttering through the static, wrong somehow—like it’s being played backward or warped by distance and heat:

“—saint of masks sees—turn around—no face no face no face—”

Then: silence.

Your light trembles slightly against a concrete pillar.

Written there, with a finger dipped in something dark and old, are the words:

“HE’S LEARNING TO WALK.”

A drag of sound. Something is still moving out there.

What’s your move, Gorran?

Player:

Just to remind myself, I got…

• Censer of the Third Pyre (one use) – When lit, offers spiritual warding and ghostly repulsion in haunted places. Risky if the bearer is impure or carries cursed items.

• Tooth of Sister Moltha (worn) – Grants mental fortitude and resistance to psychic intrusion or fear.

And my mission is to… bring back an Ash Knives cargo-grifter called Sump-Quill, or evidence that she is dead. And to find out what she found. Also to burn any symbol that she drew?

My guess is that this is a crazy heretic. I try to adjust my position to get a look, and say “I want to here the words of the saint” to lure them out. I am thinking that this person is probably expendable or worth a bounty to the right people.

GM:

That’s right, you’re fully equipped with:
  • Censer of the Third Pyre – Your spiritual nuke, to be lit when things turn truly cursed. It’s powerful, but dangerous if your conscience isn’t clean.
  • Tooth of Sister Moltha – Quietly fortifying your mind, shielding you from fear, madness, and psyker whispers.
Your mission:
  • Track down Sump-Quill, missing Ash Knives cargo-grifter.
  • Retrieve her or bring back proof of her fate.
  • Discover what she uncovered.
  • Burn any markings or symbols she’s drawn—someone fears what she’s found.
You crouch lower, keeping your weapon trained toward the cables. “I want to hear the words of the saint,” you say. Your voice echoes in the empty chamber, calm, deliberate—a baited hook.

A flicker of movement.

Then a low shape scuttles forward.

It’s a person, or what used to be one—barefoot, skin tight and mottled over muscle like melted wax. They crawl forward on all fours, eyes wide and white in the dark, lips moving in constant murmur. Their chest rises with each whisper:

“The saint of masks wore three… then four… then none… and all…”

They stop just shy of your light’s edge, sniffing the air like a sump-rat.

Their body is marked—scrawled with crude ink: symbols, many of them matching what you’ve seen around the trench. Others spiral off in unfamiliar, writhing patterns. One fresh brand—still red and angry—is carved across their shoulder: a chain of eyes around a void.

They whisper again, more focused now:

“Sump-Quill was chosen… heard Him through the grates. Said she would follow, map His words. We tried to stop her. Burn the marks. Stop the path. But she kept going down.”

Then they look up at you with a smile too wide:

“You carry fire. Are you the next ear?”

What do you do, Gorran?

Player:

“Where is Sump-Quill?” Part of me wants to blast this things dead (especially since it looks like it is touched by Chaos and I’m relying on holy relics), but maybe I can get some information from it.

GM:

The thing blinks at your question—once, twice—its smile twitching like a loose wire.

Then it starts to laugh. A quiet, choking giggle at first… rising and falling in waves like it can’t keep the sound inside.

“She went deeper… down through the scar, past the iron mouths, into the coil-churn. Said she had to draw the last verse. Said it was waiting for her. Waiting to sing.”

It leans closer, and now you can see the bones at its temples bulging subtly—like something pressed outward once and then stopped.

“You won’t find her whole. But you’ll find where she stopped writing. Follow the ink. Follow the eyes.”

It reaches a trembling hand toward the censer hanging from your belt, reverent and fearful.

“He hates that. It burns His voice.”

Its pupils dilate into pits. Voice a whisper now:

“Burn the last mark and you’ll wake Him. Or trap Him. Or… maybe that was part of it all along.”

Your finger rests on the trigger.

The chamber smells like rust and old prayer.

Do you press further? Ask more questions? Or end this poor wretch now before it becomes something worse?

Player:

I fire upon it. Without remorse. Only regretting that I couldn’t get more information from it.

GM:

The recoil kicks into your shoulder—

A single, thunderous shot.

The figure’s head snaps back, half its face blooming open in a spray of black-red mist and bone. It slumps sideways without a sound, twitching once, then lying still beside its smeared chalk icons. The scent of blood and singed powder rushes in to claim the moment.

You stand in silence.

The torchlight flickers across what’s left of the symbols. The one behind its head—the eye wrapped in a coiled spiral—bleeds where the back-spatter hit it. But it’s still intact.

There’s a sudden, strange stillness in the passage behind you. A pressure. Like something inhaled.

No alarms. No movement.

But you can feel it. Something changed.

Do you press deeper? Investigate the symbol? Or fall back and prepare before going further into the Coilchute scar?

Player:

I hold the Tooth of Sister Moltha tighter and investigate the symbol. I am trying to be aware of psychic attacks.

But I want to press on.

GM:

You clutch the Tooth of Sister Moltha, and feel its subtle warmth—a steady throb like a heartbeat against your palm. The deeper chill that had begun to wrap its fingers around your thoughts recedes, though you still feel the edge of it scratching along your awareness, like distant whispers brushing past a door.

The symbol is messily drawn, but deliberate.

An eye, wide and lopsided, its pupil a spiral that coils inward—farther than the chalk could truly trace. You get the impression, not just of being watched, but of being studied, like prey. The shape pulses faintly with a wrongness, as if it remembers what it was drawn for. You step around it without touching it.

Further in, the corridor narrows—rust-flaked pipes like ribs close in around you. The air gets damp, and soon there’s the soft plip-plip of sumpwater from a leak above. A bent ventilation grate marks the next threshold. You duck through it.

And beyond…

A hollow, maybe once a maintenance alcove, now turned into some kind of shrine.

In the middle, on a pallet of stacked refuse and cloth, lies a body. A woman in a tattered enviro-slicker with Ash Knife tattoos. She’s still breathing, just barely. Her hands are scabbed and bloodied—one clutching a broken stylus, the other a thick slate covered in carved diagrams and symbols. Her mouth moves silently. Her eyes are open, unblinking, pointed at nothing.

That must be Sump-Quill.

But she’s not alone.

In the far corner—half-hidden in shadow—is a man in flak patchwork and a gas-filter rig. No gang colours. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s reading something from a vox-slate. There’s a stubber propped against the wall near him.

What do you do?

GM:

I sneak closer until I feel like I can close the distance fast enough then charge. Shoot him at point blank (I’m not a marksman so I don’t want to risk getting into a gun fight). I am going to consider her compromised and a potential threat.

Let’s see how this goes?

Player:

You drop low, each step silent across the rusted mesh and trash-littered floor. The Tooth of Sister Moltha burns cold now—a warning, not fear. The censer swings silently at your belt, unlit for now. The air tastes of metal, rot, and something far fouler beneath.

The man mutters to himself, turning a dial on the vox-slate. “—pattern’s incomplete… where’s the missing segment, sump-slug…”

You’re already moving before he can finish the thought.

[Quick Action Resolution – Close-Quarters Ambush]
  • Approach: Silent sneak + point-blank gunfire
  • Gorran’s edge: Surprise, proximity, and raw aggression
  • Target’s readiness: Distracted, not in a battle stance
  • Risk: Moderate—if you miss, a counterattack could follow fast
Outcome:

You burst from the shadows like a sump-beast unchained.

The man’s head jerks up just as you close the gap. His eyes widen behind scratched goggles. He reaches for the stubber leaning against the wall—but you’re already too close.

You fire point-blank, the muzzle flash blinding in the gloom. The shot punches into his chest with a sickening thud, sending him reeling backward into the junk wall.

He doesn’t fall.

Choking on blood, he lurches forward, trying to slam a syringe into his neck. Some kind of stim-boost.

You act faster.

A second shot finishes it. He crumples like wet canvas, vox-slate clattering beside him.

The Room Falls Still.

Sump-Quill hasn’t moved. Her lips still mutter nonsense—“he’s behind the walls, he’s behind the skin, don’t blink don’t blink don’t bl—”

Her eyes twitch toward you now. They’re wrong, full of reflections that don’t match the room.

You feel a faint pulse—like static behind your ears.

What do you do:
  • Interrogate her?
  • Restrain and prepare to extract her?
  • Check the slate and body of the dead man?
  • Burn the symbol and retreat?
  • Something else?
Player:

I put restraints on her, then light the censer of the third pyre. I want to investigate but I also feel that the window to get out cleanly will close soon. I burn the symbol then evaluate the situation.

GM:

Your cuffs click shut around Sump-Quill’s wrists. She doesn’t resist—too far gone, or something deeper. Her skin twitches under your touch like it’s remembering old wounds.

You light the censer.

It sputters, then roars to life with sudden heat. A sharp whoosh of purifying flame erupts, followed by thick, acrid smoke that stings your eyes and tastes like scorched scripture.

The air changes.

The shadows recoil.

Sump-Quill screams—not in pain, but as if something is being torn out of her mind. You don’t stop. You drag her back from the etched mark and hold the censer over it.

The symbol—a curling spiral of jagged sigils carved into the stone—is suddenly visible in full, not just scratched graffiti, but glowing faintly, pulsing like a wound. When the holy smoke touches it, it screeches. Not a sound made with lungs—just a deep, psychic pressure that builds until it pops, and the light gutters out.

You stagger back, ears ringing.

Sump-Quill has gone limp, breathing shallowly.

Situation Evaluation:
  • The symbol is burned. You’ve denied whatever force it was anchoring.
  • The censer still burns, but the holy flame is weaker now. One use remains, barely.
  • The Tooth of Sister Moltha has cooled—it’s safe, for now.
  • Sump-Quill is alive, restrained, and likely broken, but no longer muttering.
  • The dead grifter’s body is slumped, a vox-slate beside it.
Outside the tunnel entrance, you hear movement—far off, maybe another scavenger, maybe worse.

Time to move or search?
  • Grab the vox-slate and leave now
  • Search the body, quickly
  • Risk staying longer to search the chamber
  • Try to stabilize and speak to Sump-Quill
  • Other?
Player:

Is there any identifying marks on body or out of the ordinary? I want to prioritise speed. I’m not taking anything but the woman.

I drag or carry her out. Leading with the gun. Ready to shoot anything that looks like it will attack. If I bump into scavengers I tell them that the loot is there’s. I only want my partner.

GM:

The body—a man, once strong, now emaciated and warped—bears no gang insignia, just a few crude tattoos that have been partially flayed or burned. His eyes are gone. Mouth sewn shut. Not even gangers do that to their dead.

There’s a strange spiral carved into the back of his neck—fresh, raw. The same symbol you just burned from the floor.

You don’t linger.

You hoist Sump-Quill over your shoulder. She’s light—too light. Her breath rasps, but she’s alive. You lead with your gun, steps steady, the censer’s smoke trailing behind you like a ward against the dark.

You pass out of Coilchute’s breach just as the upper vents begin to cycle morning’s chemical lights. The false daylight paints everything in sickly tones.

Voices ahead—scavengers, by the sound. Two figures in patchwork gear eye the blood on your knuckles and the limp body over your shoulder.

One steps forward, cautiously.

“Trouble?”

You don’t stop. You don’t lower the gun.

“Loot’s yours. My partner comes with me.”

They trade glances, nod once, and step aside. Whatever you walked through, they want no part of it.

You emerge into the upper vents like a ghost dragging another behind.

Gorran Slagjaw’s name will be whispered with new weight by morning.

Session End.
 
Marshal Grenth seems to have overcome his cold? hangover? and has been checking the backlog of files on his desk.
One file catches his eyes...
 
  • Like
Reactions: Biggle_Bear
Between sessions I have a little talk with the AI. Something cool that it revealed was that if didn’t have the Tooth of some martyr then the creepy follower I first encountered might have appeared as a regular person or been described as having something familiar about them, to try making me to want to be kind to them.
 
  • Like
Reactions: Hobo86
Hobo86 said:
Marshal Grenth seems to have overcome his cold? hangover? and has been checking the backlog of files on his desk.
One file catches his eyes...
Click to expand...
That makes me nervous. I’m meant to give this to the AI and let it decide whose file this is? Mine? Am I going to be roped in to investigate someone else’s file?

Making the decision to not filter this feels like delivering my own death warrant.
 
would you prefer specific stories or more open ended stories?
I did try to present a few narratives for the AI to choose from.

or the AI can choose to introduce an entirely new 'file'... might be Edgar's recaf bills :D
 
  • Like
Reactions: Biggle_Bear
Hobo86 said:
would you prefer specific stories or more open ended stories?
I did try to present a few narratives for the AI to choose from.

or the AI can choose to introduce an entirely new 'file'... might be Edgar's recaf bills :D
Click to expand...
No this is perfect. The kind of chaos I hope for.
 
tl:dr- Gorran and Kett discuss the next move, which happens to be to frame a down and out.

GM:

Session Start: “The Smell of Smoke in Morning Air”

The hive day has broken, such as it does—an amber shimmer of artificial daylight flickers to life in the upper ducts, falling in dull shafts through grates and rusting latticework. You’ve made it out of Coilchute, Sump-Quill half-conscious but breathing, bound and under watch. The wound on your leg from that twisted disciple has stopped bleeding, though it aches deep.

You’ve been back barely an hour. A fresh chemical rain is sweeping across the trench top—steam rising in fat curls. You know the precinct won’t hold her forever, and word travels fast. Someone will want her silenced. Someone will want her returned. Someone else is probably praying for her damnation.

And you… you have a map no one else has seen. Even if it’s etched in whispers, not ink.

Where are you starting this day, Gorran?
  • Are you checking in with the precinct to interrogate or secure Sump-Quill?
  • Laying low and scoping out who’s asking about her?
  • Meeting with your broker (Kett?) to negotiate what to do with what you’ve found?
  • Visiting Kelzo again to cleanse or protect yourself further?
  • Something else entirely?
Let’s see what kind of fire you want to light next.

Player:
I think we are meeting with Kett.

GM:

Scene: “Rust-Brew and Revelation”

The place is called the Coilback Cup. A reinforced nook half-sunk into the foundation ribs of an old elevator gantry. It smells like scorched alkaloids and boiled grain, and it’s quiet. Kett picked the spot.

He’s already here, seated in a booth with his back to a sheet-metal wall that vibrates with the occasional hiss of pneumatics. His coat’s cleaner than usual, buttoned high to the throat, but there’s a twitch in his eyes—he knows something’s about to shift.

He gestures to the seat opposite with his chin. No words yet—just a long look at you. Maybe he’s measuring your limp. Or the smell of sanctified ash that still clings to your coat.

Finally, he speaks low:

Kett:

“Word’s gotten around you went crawling down Coilchute. Alone. That you came back with something wrapped in faith and chains. And now half a dozen trench-hounds want to know if you’re selling.”

He pulls out a wrapped packet—paper-thin plasteen, sealed in wire. Inside, a wafer slate glows faintly. He slides it across the table.

Kett (cont’d):

“I can move it. The name. The map. The fact she’s alive. You tell me what’s real and what you want them to think is real.”

What does Gorran say? What’s he hoping to get out of Kett here—money, allies, a bigger stake in the deeper game, or something else entirely?

Player:

“Do we need the girl anymore? Or will Kai-une get us all the Map we need? As far as I’m concerned, Kai-und wanted her, so she is all hers.

“We also need a Minder. That urn from my friend worked a treat but if we are going up against some literal Hive Spirit, or whatever this face saint is, I am going to need something heavy duty.

“And we are still in the dark as to what is in that vault, or who might be a buyer. We might need to interrogate someone more in the know, like the Hollow-Eye.” I’m looking for potential marks in my data-slate.

GM:

Kett leans back slowly, arms folded, eyes narrowing at the mention of Kai-une.

Kett:

“So that’s how it played. Kai-une gets the girl, we take the Map. Everyone walks happy—at least for now.”

He taps the side of the packet.

“She’s a leash-puller though, that one. Acts like she’s got the vault already open and we’re the ones digging for her.”

He looks off for a moment, thinking hard, then:

Kett:

“As for a Minder? I know one. Not cheap, and not clean. Goes by Hexa-Dray, part of an old Hollow-Eye splinter sect. Last I heard she was laying low in the Sunken Crypts, selling whispers to scavvers and dosing with sump-rats. But if your faith-ash didn’t burn her up last time, she might just keep your spirit from getting peeled like synthfruit.”

Your dataslate flickers as it pings a local trawlnet. You start tagging potential targets from Hollow-Eye splinters who’ve been seen in the Ashclimb over the past cycle. A few names bubble to the surface:
  • Hexa-Dray – Former Hollow-Eye ritualist, suspected of conducting independent rites in Coilchute during the “Scar Bloom” incident.
  • Zurl the Soot – A mind-melter who was supposedly exiled for “hearing too clearly.” Known to rant near heat-vents with ghost-scratched vox horns.
  • Charle Spindlebend – Interrogator-class psyker, once attached to the Enforcers but now running debt-hunting for the Guild. Might know vault-tied heresies from the arrest logs.
Kett:

“One of those might know what the vault really is. Or what’s guarding it. But you’re right—we’ll need to move fast. All this light? It’s drawing the flies.”

He leans in now, voice low.

Kett (cont’d):

“You want to keep this quiet, we sell rumors, not truth. You want to draw fire and let the rest burn, we pick the loudest target and sell them the dream. Either way… we’ll need your hand steady.”

Do you want to pursue Hexa-Dray now, question one of the others, follow up with Kai-une—or do you have a different angle in mind?

Player:

Has anyone been paying Vanni a visit or paying her debts off? Any name that cross references to people connected to this mystery?

Kurn, the Hollow-Eye and the Ash Knives all have an interest in that vault. Probably others too. But I am trying to keep them all out of my loop until I get access to the vault, so that I am not cut out (but probably makes them all my enemy to some degree). So a former Hollow-Eye ritualist would be helpful.

GM:

Your dataslate lights up with updates from your watchlist on precinct logs and local guild traffic. You’ve been quietly tagging visitors to Vanni, the Ash Knives grifter you dragged back from Coilchute. And now, with your net cast wider, a few threads begin to glint with relevance:

Visitors Logged to Vanni:

1. Dench Valryn
  • Affiliation: Guildsman of Logistics, Local 47
  • Visit Reason: Claimed familial ties.
  • Note: No previous known connection. Payment of 27 creds toward debt.
  • Cross-ref: Valryn has a cousin who did work in cartographic forensics. Quietly left the Union a month ago after a mental breakdown linked to symbol exposure.
2. Mekla “Three-Hand” Johr
  • Affiliation: Ash Knives (mid-tier)
  • Visit Reason: No registered visit—spotted on back-cam during K-Block access window.
  • Note: Has history with Kai-une. Suspected to have brought in info, not taken any.
  • Cross-ref: Once worked under Kai-une during “Blood Verge” deep-sump op. Has multiple flagged interactions with Hollow-Eye turncoats.
3. Teles Nirex
  • Affiliation: Unknown.
  • Visit Reason: No log. Possibly ghosted past Enforcer logs.
  • Note: Seen lingering in precinct district three separate times.
  • Cross-ref: Nirex has one odd ping—tied to a Hollow-Eye expulsion three cycles ago. Mentioned in a redacted report on a “Saint’s Mouth” operation.
You’re right: Kurn, the Ash Knives, and the Hollow-Eye are circling the same drain. But their reasons might not be aligned. Kurn wants control, the Ash Knives want routes, the Hollow-Eye might want secrecy or revelation depending on the sect. If a vault hides the truth or a weapon or a relic, then it matters who cracks it open.

Choosing to pursue a former ritualist like Hexa-Dray could give you insight into the mystical traps or protections on the vault—especially if the Hollow-Eye helped seal it.

But if you want leverage, someone like Johr or Nirex might know who’s dealing with Kai-une—or what she has in mind for the vault.

Kett reads over your shoulder, whistling low.

Kett:

“Someone’s been stirring the crypts, all right. Johr’s bad luck, Nirex is a mystery. But if you want to know how deep the saint’s hole goes, you’ll need a Minder. Or a madman. Either way, hope you’re ready to walk that line alone.”

Would you like to:
  1. Find Hexa-Dray (the rogue ritualist)?
  2. Confront Mekla Johr about their dealings with Kai-une?
  3. Track Teles Nirex, the ghost visitor with Hollow-Eye ties?
  4. Investigate Dench Valryn and his sudden interest in Vanni?
  5. Split your attention or plant rumors while you hunt?
Let me know how Gorran proceeds.

Player:

(Vanni was the independent sifter with 3000 credits debt, that told me about the rumour of a vault. I hid her in a precinct because I felt she was better off as a scape-goat or to see who is connected to her. The woman I saved from Coilchute was Sump-Quil.)

I want to track down Hexa-Dray.

GM:

Got it. You’re tracking down Hexa-Dray now. Ready to pick up the trail. Just let me know if you’re working an angle—sneaking, bluffing, bribing, or going in direct—and we’ll unfold the scene.

Player:

I need to draw attention away from myself so I think I will release Vanni and ask Kett to send around a rumour that it was her who hired me to go down into Coilchute. That she is representing someone who is looking for the vault. That will buy me time as people turn their attention to her and second guess who is her client.

I suppose I am going around sneakily in my search for Hexa-Dray.

GM:

Smart move—classic Gorran misdirection. Here’s how it plays out:

Vanni doesn’t know whether to thank you or spit when you quietly arrange her release. The precinct enforcers don’t ask questions; Kett’s rumor-spinning begins almost before the gates close behind her. Within hours, word spreads in hushed tones: “That sifter Vanni? She’s working for someone with real creds. Sent a killer down into Coilchute to sniff out vault tracks. Might be an off-world buyer. Might be Guild.”

Meanwhile, you’re just another grim face in the crowd, slipping through alleys and off-market tunnels with one name burning in your thoughts: Hexa-Dray.

Hexa was once a Hollow-Eye minder, respected and feared, until she cracked open one mind too many and vanished into sump-level obscurity. You’re not even sure she’s alive.

But the streets whisper, and Kett helps tug the threads. Word is she’s been seen near the Pilgrim’s Shelf—a half-collapsed shrine-ladder where broken zealots climb to glimpse visions from the heat shimmer below.

Would you like to approach openly as a seeker of forbidden knowledge, or skulk like a hunter among madmen and ash-washed dreamers?

Player:

Let’s stick to the shadows.

GM:

You keep to the grime-black shadows that line the Pilgrim’s Shelf, moving like rust between the girders.

This place is a tumor of faith, stitched to the underside of Harrowpoint with scrapwire and burnt offerings. Spiraling up the shelf is a procession of the broken—blind torchbearers, bleeding penitents, spine-crawling zealots—all seeking revelation in the industrial breath of the hive.

You pass whisper-chanting anchorites tethered by rusted chains. One lashes themselves with rebar cable. Another moans into a fan vent, hoping for divine static. No one stops you. No one wants your shadow in their revelation.

Then… you see her.

Perched on a collapsed gantry, wrapped in soiled preacher’s robes two decades out of date, her hair cut into ritual glyphs, scalp inked with twitching scripts that crawl when your eyes linger too long. Hexa-Dray. Hollow-Eye defector. She’s talking softly to a severed servo-skull in her lap, like it’s a child.

She doesn’t look at you. But she says, flat and cold:

“If you’re here to finish it, I’d prefer it through the eye. Cleaner that way.”

What do you do?
 
A message from our GM:

🜲 Community Turn: Whispers from Below 🜲

Gorran went into Coilchute hunting a smuggler—and came back dragging a half-mad pilgrim, burned symbols still etched into his memory.

The Hollow-Eyes are silent. The Ash Knives are watching. And somewhere, someone is piecing together the map.

The vault is no longer just a rumour.

Word is spreading:

A scavenger crew went down and came up touched.

A bounty hunter lit a holy censer.

Someone—maybe more than one—is paying to keep certain debts quiet.

Now the Ashclimb stirs.

Community Turn Prompts:

You don’t need a character sheet to join in—just pick a group, a business, or a gutter-crew and tell us how they react to the shifting power underground. You can create something new or speak for an existing faction.

Some ideas to riff on:
  • Ember Saints: The faithful are talking about a “Face-Saint” seen in the depths. Do the Saints see it as heresy—or revelation?
  • Ash Knives: Their routes are compromised. Do they tighten control? Or feed the fire by spreading misinformation?
  • Hollow-Eyes: One of their rituals was interrupted. Who will they send to reclaim what was lost?
  • Sumpcrawlers Union (Local 47): Coilchute’s collapse is bad for business. Are they demanding compensation? Or sealing the tunnels tighter?
  • The Unaligned: For independents, opportunity and danger rise together. Are any crews trying to map the vault themselves?
Feel free to add rumors, tensions, market shifts, or new factions. The Ashclimb is yours to shape.

Let me know if you want it to lean more comedic, grimdark, or specific to any recent detail.


This community turn will be open until Wednesday some time.
 
Sumpcrawlers Union:

Rumors... Religious or worse, Heretic rumors... Kurn swore... the last thing he needed was more 'complications' on his honest businesses.
he already lost 3 off his lads in those tunnels and one off those was his wife's brother. He could do with a quiet 'regular' day when all he had to deal with was Ernie slummin it off behind the crates.

Still... Ernie was useless as a worker... Maybe he could make himself usefull and keep an eye on what was going on down there?
It couldn't hurt to know what was going to happen... or to relieve other parties of 'complications' to his business like that Ghast-chemist earlier...


____________________________


Unaligned ('The Aces & Eights' : Currently '3' Venators):

Yorr, Meathead and Bors looked over the data slate; 500, ... that's a lot muttered meathead. I still don't trust it replied Bors, while meticulously refilling a spare magazine. If we want to get better jobs we need something better on our 'résumé' said Yorr. Meathead looked at him with a vacant look... Whut?
We need to have fancy stories to get better jobs Yorr replied irritated. (He reminded himself, he should use simpler words...around his 'Very Smart Ogryn' companion). Bors interjected... There's gangs and enforcers out to get something out of those tunnels, we don't know who's paying us...
How do we know we won't get shafted after this 'security sweep' we're supposed to do. We need to think this through...
'That bountyhunter' mumbled Meathead... Yorr and Bors looked quizzically at Meathead. What about him asked Yorr.
'They said he has a big lamp... that may help in the dark...'
Bors interjected, 'Emperors Shite', how could that help? It's a censer, not a l... he corrected himself... ok, it's a lamp...

Yorr sighed... it always started like this... ok, let's go look for the 'Bounty Hunter' with the 'Lamp'.
It just might help them to have at least some information before going in blindfolded.
And they might get to know if they would have anything to worry about.

_____________________________


Possibly Unaligned: 'Mysterious stranger':

He wiped the blood from his armored glove with a piece of cloth. The thing that had once been a man was still convulsing on the ground in a puddle of its own blood. He suspected he had caused a brain hemorraghe and if so, he wouldn't get any more information out of it, or anything clearer... It just repeated the same bizarre ramblings about some eye... He hadn't come here for more of that occult hogwash.

He needed more information about his true targets misdeeds, not this... Sidetrack, not in his line of work.

The thing on the ground stirred weakly and annoyed he finished it with a jackbooted kick to the neck. A dry snap confirmed its demise.
He would have to get rid off the body... Any attention would be unwelcome... perhaps the air vent?


_______________________________


edit: not 100% sure how many lads the sumpcrawlers lost... please ignore discrepancies on my end if I'm erroneous
 
Last edited:
  • Like
Reactions: Biggle_Bear
Session 12

tl:dr- the team is coming together. A crazed witch joins and a meeting is set up for a fence.

Player:

Gorran is still with Hexa-Dray when she says

“If you’re here to finish it, I’d prefer it through the eye. Cleaner that way.”

After a moment’s pause he chuckles and says “sounds like you have no choice to partner up with me then. How about one last chance to show get back at them all?”

GM:

Hexa-Dray doesn’t respond at first.

She leans against the rust-choked girder behind her, watching Gorran through eyes that are far too tired for someone her age. The blood on her sleeve is dry, and the way her other hand rests on her knee says she’s weighing every word, every heartbeat.

Then she exhales, almost a laugh but not quite. Just a rasp of old bitterness.

“Partner up,” she repeats, like she’s tasting something foreign on her tongue. “That’s a hell of a joke.”

Her fingers twitch toward the knife at her belt, but only in habit. She doesn’t draw it.

“You mean the Knives? Or the Hollow-Eyed freaks? Or that guild rep who promised me a name and gave me a number instead?”

There’s venom in the words, but not much heat. Like all the fury burned itself out somewhere beneath the Hive skin.

She shifts her weight, eyes narrowing slightly. The muscles in her jaw twitch—suspicion, maybe, or just the flicker of hope trying not to look too desperate.

“I had a shot. I mapped the path. I made it farther than any of ‘em dared. And I still got cut out. No one to sell to. No one to trust. Not even the damn voices talk to me anymore.”

A pause.

Then, finally, quieter:

“What’s the play, Gorran? You dragging me back for bounty, or do you really have something that might make them all choke on it?”

She doesn’t say I’m in. But she hasn’t walked away either.

Player:

“I want to take that damn vault from all of them, and make them pay for it. I want to be at the top. But there’s something in the way. Something with ‘many faces’, if you catch my drift. I need someone who can deal with the spooky stuff. And that someone needs to be disconnected to all the other parties. I heard that you could rip them all a new one. Did I hear wrong?”

GM:

Hexa-Dray lowers her gaze, eyes unfocused, as if peering through the metal and stone of Ashclimb into a deeper, buried memory. Her breath slows. The tension doesn’t fade—but it shifts.

When she looks back up at Gorran, something’s changed. Not the bitterness, not the guarded look. But behind it now: curiosity.

“The vault…” she murmurs. “You’ve seen part of it, haven’t you? Or at least what it does to people.”

She pushes herself to her feet—unsteady, but upright. She doesn’t reach for a weapon. Doesn’t need to. Her voice sharpens like a blade honed on regret.

“I used to think it was just whispers. That the Hive echoes down there—old sump myths, psychic residue from forgotten wars. Then I felt it. Crawling under my skin. Pulling thoughts out of my head that weren’t even mine anymore.”

She steps closer, tilting her head slightly, studying Gorran as if measuring him.

“The ones chasing that place—Knives, Hollow-Eyes, Guild rats—they think they’re in a race. But they don’t know what’s on the other side of the finish line. Or what they’re feeding.”

Another step. Her voice drops low:

“You want someone disconnected? I burned every bridge I had. Spat in every face worth knowing. There’s nothing tying me to this Hive but ghosts and grudge.”

She pauses, just long enough to leave a cold silence.

“If I help you, Gorran, and we make it into that vault… I don’t want a share. I want names. And I want the chance to unmake them.”

She holds out her hand—dirty, cut, but steady.

“We go deep. We end the thing with many faces. And then we burn every bastard that used us to find it.”

[PARTNERSHIP FORMED – TEMPORARY ALLIANCE: HEXA-DRAY JOINED]

Let me know if you’d like to move forward, or if you want to visit or prepare anything before your next move.

Player:

So I have a promised map, a minder who understands psychic / warp stuff. I need a way to profit from this. So I think I need a sit down with Hexa-Dray and Kai-une to discuss how the ‘map’ is going and what might be in that vault, or who can dense such an unusual thing?

GM:

Absolutely. This is the perfect time for a strategic sit-down. You’ve gathered key pieces:
  • Kai-une: You’ve promised her a reward for the map (and she’s still a little unstable). She’s trying to translate the map, not just draw it.
  • Hexa-Dray: Your psychic sledgehammer. Burned bridges, serious vendetta, and possibly your best shield against what’s inside the vault.
  • You: The man playing the factions against each other. You need to monetize the vault, without letting someone else seize it—or kill you for it.
Let’s set the scene:

Location: A Sealed Hab-Chamber in the Upper Warrens

Once a rationing office, now a scorched and half-stripped room where you can hold meetings without too many ears listening in. The power is patchy, but Hexa brought a chem-lamp. The walls are burn-streaked. Someone bled in here a week ago. You didn’t ask who.

Kai-une is already seated, a grubby dataslate in her lap. Her fingers twitch as she zooms in and out of some jagged, hand-drawn symbology over a pipeway schematic. It’s not clear if she’s deciphering or hallucinating.

Hexa-Dray leans against a wall, one boot braced. Her presence fills the room like smoke—quiet, but choking.

She eyes Kai-une, then you.

“So. You want to talk plans. Let’s see what this ‘map’ really is.”

Kai-une speaks without looking up:

“The path’s not a line. It’s a… pressure. A gravity well of meaning. I’ve marked where it presses, not where it is. That’s what the vault is: a convergence point. It calls things to it.”

She taps the screen.

“I think the vault isn’t a vault at all. Not in the Guild sense. I think it’s a sealed conduit. Something old. Old as the Hive’s bones. And it’s hungry.”

Hexa:

“Sounds like a fancy way of saying it’s a warp leak in a skin-tight box.”

Kai-une looks up sharply. “It’s not Chaos. Not quite. It’s… architecture. With a face.”

You get the sense both women are on the edge of describing something neither of them fully understands. Or want to.

Would you like to:
  • Press for potential buyers or parties who might want this kind of artifact?
  • Ask for risks and how to contain them?
  • Push them to finish the map faster?
  • Or bring in a third party—like a fence, rogue psyker, or cult scholar—to evaluate what this “vault” really is?

Or say something in-character?

Player:

“Will we get something that we can follow?!” I saw to Kai-une, referencing the charts. “I took risks getting that girl out of the hole for you. Does she know more about it?”

“The plan is we get there, wipe out anything that poses a danger, and take what’s left to hold as leverage or sell it for profit. Between us we are getting close but we need to bring in someone trustworthy who can evaluate its value. Any ideas on who?”

GM:

Kai-une doesn’t flinch at your tone, but her eyes dart sideways—calculating, a little frayed.

“The girl… Sump-Quill… she followed it, but she didn’t understand it. Her head’s full of half-warnings and fever visions. I can read them—some of them—but it’s like decoding a prayer from a madman.”

“I’ll get you something followable. I just need a bit more time with her. And chalk.”

Hexa-Dray’s lip curls, amused.

“And maybe a bloodletting and a séance while you’re at it.”

You pivot the conversation—profit, buyers, evaluation.

Hexa’s expression darkens slightly. She pushes off the wall, crosses her arms.

“There’s a few names. One I’d trust as far as I could throw them—if they weren’t a paraplegic.”

“You want someone who can see value in a warp-burnt relic but not stab us in the back the second they glimpse it?”

She ticks them off on her fingers:
  1. Callan Myrr – A black-market antiquarian who used to be Hollow-Eye, before something got him exiled. Can identify, value, and fence artifacts, but works out of a moving barge-lab in the lower sump. Has a reputation for honesty, but only in exchange for stories. He collects narratives more than treasure.
  2. Archivist Ven Serat – A rogue adept turned cultist archivist, supposedly still alive and operating in Blackgrid. Known to consult for Ash Knives and Ember Saints both. Brilliant, but absolutely insane. Might try to keep the vault, or worship it.
  3. Mister Cort – A rich, unaffiliated factor who acts as a proxy for clients who don’t want their fingerprints on deals. Doesn’t care what something is, just what it’s worth. He’s quiet and clean, but once he’s in the loop, you’re not the top predator anymore.

Hexa:

“My pick? Callan. He’ll want to know what we’ve done to earn the vault. But he won’t try to cheat us—unless you call publishing the story of our betrayal for a few dozen credits a ‘cheat.’”

Kai-une nods slowly.

“Callan could help map the metaphysical dimensions, too. He once rewrote an entire hymn to trap a daemon in a pipe valve.”

She smiles faintly. “We went on one date. He screamed halfway through.”

Do you want to:
  • Reach out to Callan Myrr?
  • Choose a different option?
  • Try to keep them all at a distance while you assess value another way?

Or say something in character?

Player:

“Set it up, then! And let’s get this thing going before someone else gets there first. I want to be in that vault soon.

Other than this guy, what do you two need to get things ready? Anything I need to get for you?”

I am worried that someone might be getting suspicious of my activity so I will be hunting some debtors between getting anything that they need for the mission. But pick ones to do with the enforcers to make it look like I am trying to get in with them so other clients don’t get suspicious.

GM:

Kai-une gives you a sharp nod and taps at a slate.

“I’ll send a runner to Callan. We’ll use the old filtration shrine outside Rustwing. He’s fond of dramatics.”

She looks back at you, eyes a little brighter now.

“What I need is time with the girl and access to clean lumen lines. And if you can get your hands on some chalk pigment, crushed emberroot, or—if you’re feeling generous—a stabilized diviner’s lens, I won’t complain.”

Hexa-Dray rolls her neck and steps past you, stretching an arm.

“I need a place to work that isn’t haunted or under surveillance. A burner vox. And someone to watch my back if I have to step into the Crawl again. My gear’s shot—if you have a line on old Hollow-Eye reliquaries or even just a clean las sidearm, I’ll owe you.”

She pauses at the doorway and glances back over her shoulder.

“And some damn coffee wouldn’t hurt either.”

Downtime Actions Summary:

While they get set up, you begin covering your tracks. You:
  • Take on a few low-level debt-collection jobs, specifically through precinct Zeta-3, leaning into the image of a bounty hunter trying to earn favor with the Enforcers.
  • Choose targets that are:
    • Politically neutral or
    • Seen as nuisances by multiple factions
These jobs are small, but very visible.

Targets on the slate:
  1. “Three-Wink” Durlo – A con artist who faked a promissory note to a precinct cleric. Has gone to ground in a flophouse near Blackgrid.
  2. Rinelle Zakt – A former pit-fighter turned extortionist. Wanted for avoiding a bail bond registered to a Guild-linked bondsman.
  3. Nobbin Trey – A chem-thief who stole from the Ember Saints’ supply line. You don’t want to get too close to the Saints, but acting like you’re working their cleanup? Smart optics.

Let me know which target (or targets) you’d like to pick for this cover—or if you want to do quick flavor scenes of taking one of them down while you gather supplies for Kai-une and Hexa-Dray.

Would you like to continue immediately, or set up a time skip to the shrine meeting with Callan Myrr?

Player:

I feel like breathing in the setting so let’s visit some traders? Gather those things.

GM:

Perfect choice. Let’s slow the heartbeat a little and let the Ashclimb breathe. You’ve been playing the angles hard—this is a chance to soak in the grime, secrets, and whispered trades of the city.

🎴 Scene Setup: “The Things That Might Save Us”

Gorran’s list is short but heavy with implication.
  1. A lens—the kind used in surveying or relic-reading, capable of revealing old inscriptions or invisible shifts in the stone.
  2. Emberroot extract—a rare alchemical compound Hexa-Dray needs to scribe the map with psychotropic clarity.
  3. A mundane but curious request from Kai-une: something to burn the map after, if needed.

You’ve split from your allies temporarily. The plan is to stay off the radar—pose as a simple bounty man running errands between precincts and stalls. Maybe even pick up some debtor-chatter to maintain the illusion.

💡 Traders to Visit:

You know at least three reliable—but odd—options:

  1. Old Nezz at the Grate Bazaar – Has obscure optics, some with histories. May remember Gorran from a job years ago.
  2. The Green Gutter – An apothecary run by Versta Kemm, a caustic old woman who hoards unstable reagents and mutters prayers to “the Root That Eats Fire.”
  3. The Ashblind Market (Lower Tier, Tunnel-side) – For the stranger stuff. You’ve heard that the Hollow-Eyed sometimes leave items here on consignment, unclaimed.

Do you:
  • Go straight to Old Nezz for the lens?
  • Stop at Green Gutter to get the emberroot (and maybe deal with Versta’s suspicions)?
  • Or risk the Ashblind for the last, final thing (and see what’s moving in the shadows)?

We can hit all three, but where do you want to begin?

Player:

Let’s go to the top of the list. Visit Old Nezz

GM:

🌫️ Scene: “The Lens Merchant”


The Grate Bazaar always sounds like it’s breathing.

The heat from vents, the constant hum of machinery, and the rasping bark of vendors hawking scrap and secrets all mix into a low mechanical growl that surrounds you as you push past a rusted curtain of chain-links and descend into the stall row where Old Nezz squats—half-seller, half-hoarder, full paranoid.

Old Nezz’s Stall

The air here smells of ozone and burned insulation. Lenses hang from wires overhead like meditative baubles—some cracked, some smudged with dried ichor, others glowing faintly.

Behind a low counter welded from scrap servo-rigging, Old Nezz lifts his head. His eyes are huge behind a pair of layered, shifting spectacles, each with a different lens of yellow, blue, or polarized black.

He recognizes you.

“By the char of the fourth vent… is that Gorran? Last time I saw you, your arm was bandaged to your ribs and you were yelling at the wrong twin.”

He stands—slowly—and taps something underneath the counter. Just a precaution.

“What brings the ghost hunter back to my end of the Ashclimb? Something delicate? Something… layered?”

What You Know:

Nezz is eccentric, but he keeps the good stuff in a vault below the stall—only trades it when he trusts the buyer or when business is really bad. If you’re here for a lens that can reveal engraved layers or psychic bleed, it’ll be down there.

Do you:
  • Play it straight—tell him what you’re after, and risk his curiosity?
  • Use a cover story—say you’re buying for a precinct operation?
  • Try a personal angle—remind him of the last job, and the favor he owes?
  • Or something else?
Player:

I think I would use a cover story. Maybe I need it to evaluate a potentially valuable trinket from a debtor, to see if it will cover things? But try to misdirect his curiosity by asking about his stories?

GM:

Old Nezz adjusts one of his many lenses with a long, shaking finger, narrowing in on your face like he’s reading a forgotten invoice scrawled across your forehead. You lay it out smooth:

“One of my debtors gave up a relic. Not sure if it’s psy-scarred or just heat-warped, but someone upstairs thinks it’s worth something. Said I needed the right kind of lens to test the truth of it. I figured you’d have something—if it still works.”

There’s a pause, and then a slow, skeptical click of his tongue.

“Hrm. The sort of upstairs that wears badges or just the ones that whine about their bloodlines and keep guns under their pillows?”

Before you can answer, you shift gears:

“What about you? Still collecting ghost stories and bad debts? I heard you once swapped a working eye for a fortune-teller’s regret.”

That gets him.

Nezz relaxes. Just a bit.

He chuckles—an ugly wheeze—and rummages under his stall.

“No regrets in this stall, Gorran. Only lenses and liars.”

He pulls up a small black case. Opens it slowly. Inside are four odd devices—handheld lenses, etched with circuits, some humming faintly. One of them has a filter like stained glass, its inner surface faintly pulsing.

“This one… they called it the Scrivener’s Mercy. Got it off a pilgrim who wandered out of the Veins barefoot and blind. Says it can see etchings left by thoughts. The other three are more conventional—thermal strata, ghost-light refraction, augur-warp.”

“Take one for a fair price… or two for a secret. Or…” (he leans in) “…if you’ve got a story worth the listen, I might let you see what’s in the crate beneath the crate.”

You could:
  • Buy one (your stash allows it, with some pain).
  • Trade a secret (he’d want something true and usable).
  • Tell him a story (you could use the Coilchute tale—or invent one).
  • Try to push him with intimidation or favors owed.
  • Ask to inspect all four, and see what fits your mission best.

How do you play it?

Player:

I think I might regret it but I tell him about Coilcute, but leave out the why’s, or anything connected to the vault. I think Gorran has a soft spot for this guy.

GM:

Nezz listens like the whole world is hissing steam and time’s standing still.

You don’t give him the why—no mention of vaults, no mention of Kai-une or the fractured map—but you tell him what happened in Coilchute: the stink of the deep sump mist, the shapes with masks that didn’t look like masks, the mad whispering about saints with faces and the girl who wandered too far down.

You tell it plainly, but Nezz hears it richly. And when you mention the thing that tried to draw you down—half preacher, half husk, mouthing truths in a borrowed tongue—his lenses go still.

“Saints in the dark,” he whispers. “Some of them never left the ducts.”

He doesn’t ask more. He knows better than to press a man who came back up.

Instead, he leans down and lifts a thin iron panel from the false bottom of the crate.

Underneath: a strange tool wrapped in silk-black cloth and smelling faintly of old myrrh and burnt wiring. It’s not exactly a lens—it’s more like a dowsing rod made by someone who once tried to read thoughts and ended up mapping dreams.

“This,” he says, voice quieter, “was passed through six hands before I got it. A Mourner from the Hollow-Eyed, a Scav-Bishop from the Warrens, two Ash Knives who died fighting over it, and a girl who never said a word but left it here in trade for a rifle and a name that wasn’t hers.”

“She called it The Lantern Tongue. It hums when lies are near. Screams when something wants to be found.”

He wraps it gently and holds it out.

“Yours. Don’t bring it back. And if it starts whispering in your sleep, drown it.”

You leave his stall with that bundle under your coat, a little heavier in the soul and a little more seen.

Would you like to test The Lantern Tongue soon—or let it ride until you’re deeper in the tunnels again?

Player:

Let’s test it out on a mark

GM:

You pick a mark.

A small-time debt-dodger named Pell Drinn, a slicer who used to ghost security for Guilder contracts—until he sold a duplicate access ring to both a thief and an enforcer. Now he owes credits to three people, and respect to none.

He’s holed up in a low-roofed habstack behind Vein Alley, pretending to sell data-reams off a cracked cogitator that hasn’t pinged a real signal in weeks. No one buys it, not even him.

You keep the approach quiet. Lantern Tongue in hand.

At first, it’s silent. Cool. Unassuming. A little warm under the wrapping, like it’s soaking in your nerves.

Then Pell spots you. Flashes the kind of grin he used when lies were still currency.

“Gorran! Hey, I’ve been meaning to call—had a line on your credits. It’s all tied up in a freight snag, clerical stuff, you know how it is. But we’re square, right? Or will be, soon as—”

The Lantern Tongue shivers.

Not vibrates—shivers. Like something in it flinched from the taste of the air.

A high, whispery tickle edges into your ear. No words. Just… pressure.

Then it hums. Soft and steady, like a heartbeat from something deeper than your own.

Pell’s voice cracks midsentence.

“W-wait, you bringin’ Guild tech down here?”

He backs toward his rusted cogitator.

The Lantern Tongue grows hot in your hand.

Lie.

Not a voice, but a knowing. Like the tool doesn’t speak to you—it simply lets you hear what’s already been spoken beneath the words.

Pell’s eyes flick toward a crate in the corner—one he didn’t mention. There’s something inside.

Would you like to:

  1. Press him verbally and let the Lantern Tongue test each answer?
  2. Search the hab now?
  3. Push him physically and get a more aggressive read?
  4. Something else entirely?
Player:

Option 1. Maybe I ask about “what’s in the box, Pell”

GM:

Pell’s face tightens. You see him do the math—how long it’d take to run, whether the crate could be sold fast enough, whether you’re bluffing.

You aren’t.

“What’s in the box, Pell?”

You keep your voice low. Calm. Like it’s a genuine question. The Lantern Tongue hangs relaxed in your hand, but its warmth presses forward, like a beast testing its cage.

Pell licks his lips.

“Just parts. Power cores. Scavved ’em from a sump runner that bricked last cycle. I was gonna declare them next tithe sweep.”

The Lantern Tongue pulses.

Lie.

It’s not angry. Just certain.

The hum shifts into a sharp note at the edge of hearing—like a string plucked in a dark room.

You tilt your head. Don’t need to say anything. Just let the pause stretch.

Pell’s mouth twitches.

“…Alright, alright, not all parts. There’s… there’s a lens in there. Crystal tech. Didn’t know what it was. Some crawler found it near the trench and pawned it off. I figured it might pay the debt if I could figure who’d buy.”

The Lantern Tongue still hums, but different. Not a lie. Not truth, either. A gray buzz. A shaded omission.

He’s holding back.

The room smells faintly of oil, rust, and something scorched.

Do you:
  1. Ask again and press harder?
  2. Threaten him, or let the Lantern Tongue show its light?
  3. Open the box yourself?
  4. Call in Kett or someone else as backup?
  5. Something else?
Player:

I tell him to open the box. Remind him that I can take valuables as payment. And is there anything here that wants to be found, that the Lantern Tongue is perceiving?

GM:

Pell hesitates. Looks at the crate. Looks at you. Then at the Lantern Tongue.

“You want it open? Fine. But I warned you—I don’t know what all of it is.”

He kneels by the battered crate. Slips a crow key from his belt and pops the seals. A thin hiss escapes—pressure equalizing, or maybe just drama.

He lifts the lid.

Inside: junk, mostly. Stripped actuators, a corroded energy cell, a spent injector kit, a few cogitator teeth in a rag. But in the middle, cushioned in a nest of rags and synth-wool, rests—

—a lens.

Crystalline. Cut in a strange pattern that doesn’t catch light so much as bend it. The kind of artifact that sets smart people on fire if they poke it wrong. It almost shimmers with heat, but there’s no warmth coming off it.

And the Lantern Tongue changes.

Its glow folds inward. The flame dims. The warmth is replaced by pressure, like being watched.

Not by a person.

By a presence.

It wants this thing. Not to keep it, not to own it—

—to mark it.

To know it.

Your mind whispers a word not from your own vocabulary:

“Anchor.”

You realize, with a strange certainty, that the lens is a focus of some kind. Not psychic—not exactly. Not warp-tainted. Something more obscure. More ancient. A conduit for aligning thought with function. Could be a scope. A lock. A map.

Pell scratches at his neck. Nervous.

“It’s rare, yeah? I figured it might settle part of what I owe. If not, well, I got other things. But I didn’t want to throw it on the pile until I knew.”

Do you:
  1. Take the lens as payment and leave the rest?
  2. Question Pell further about where and who he got it from?
  3. Use the Lantern Tongue to probe the lens directly?
  4. Leave it be and report it to Kett or Kai-une?
  5. Do something else?

Let me know how you want to play this. The presence in the Lantern Tongue is waiting—quiet, but alert.

Player:

I ask him where it comes from but being sensitive to the Lantern’s guidance

GM:

Pell lowers his voice instinctively, even though it’s just the two of you in the cramped, dusty backroom.

“Down-shaft. Sector 9-C, maybe? Near Coilchute, but not in it. There’s a skipjack I sometimes pay to do runs—found a sealed locker wedged in a collapsed maintenance crawl. Mostly broken crap inside, but that thing… that thing was nested like someone wanted it found but didn’t want it touched.”

He pauses.

“Skipjack wouldn’t even let me touch it bare-handed. Said it gave him nosebleeds when he got close. I thought he was playing it up for cred, but… now? I’m not so sure.”

You feel it then—like a tug at your sleeve.

The Lantern Tongue tilts—not physically, but perceptually. Toward the lens. Like a candle leaning toward a draught.

You let it guide your intuition.

It doesn’t want you to destroy the thing. Nor protect it.

It wants you to understand it.

To place it.

It is not dangerous in itself—

—but it belongs somewhere.

And it is one of several.

Anchor.

One of what, you don’t yet know. But you’re suddenly certain: this piece connects to the vault. Maybe not directly, but like a hinge connects to a door.

Pell clears his throat.

“So, uh. That good enough to square me up? Or do I still owe interest?”

He’s uneasy, but he doesn’t grasp the full weight of what he brought you.

What do you do?

  1. Accept the lens as payment. Mark Pell’s debt as paid.
  2. Accept the lens, but let Pell believe he still owes you—it might keep him honest.
  3. Decline the lens and tell Pell to keep it, but you want it watched.
  4. Push for who else has seen or handled items like it.
  5. Use the Lantern Tongue on Pell to sense why he found this. Coincidence… or something more?

Or suggest another move.

Player:

I accept it as partial payment. How about we make the final scene of the session where I pass it to Kai-une and ask her to evaluate it and the Lantern Tongue?

GM:

Perfect scene to close the session. Here’s how it plays out:

Kai-une’s quarters have changed again—more bones than before, more hanging strips of velvet scorched at the edges, more melted wax built into walls like creeping coral. The air hums faintly with static and crushed lavender. She’s cross-legged on a rug that smells like deep sump and cardamom, daubing paint onto the inside of a shattered servo-skull casing. Her eyes flick up as you step in.

You say nothing at first. You just place the lens down on a tattered cloth, next to a collection of warped icons and data-jewel fragments. Then you set the Lantern Tongue beside it.

She leans forward, and for once, doesn’t speak.

The room grows quiet. Not silent—never silent, not here—but quieter. Even the bubbling of her low-sump still seems to pause in its gurgle. She draws a circle in the air above the lens, muttering something in a language half-broken by subharmonics and tongue-clicks. Then she lays two fingers on the Lantern’s iron casing.

Her shoulders tense.

“You didn’t tell me it had been fed already.”

You give a slow shrug. “It spoke. So I listened.”

She nods, faintly. Her pupils shimmer—not dilation, but reflection. Of something not in the room.

“This is… part of something,” she says. “An array. A net. A weaving of signal and will. Whoever placed this didn’t hide it out of fear—it was buried like a tooth. To bite later.”

She slides the lens back toward you. The Lantern Tongue she keeps, for now, resting in a bone cradle.

“It’s tuned now. It will hear more. And more will hear you.”

Then, more softly:

“We’ll need to move soon. Others are starting to stir. They smell the shift.”

She doesn’t explain who they are.

Session End.
 
Town crier update:

Edgar, our liaison with the benevolent Zeta-31 enforcers has gone missing.
Let us pray for his speedy return so we may contribute to order & civility

(handwritten note: the patrols are still going round, all hail our humble patrolman !!!)

____

The price of 'greyshroom' (a local foodstaple) has risen due to 'wrong chems' eating through the ripening harvest.
farmers are 'fixing the pipes' to save future harvests. Overnight plumbers and pipeseers wages doubled.
The guilders have been notified!

___

The Plumbers guild has reposted the job offer for the joboffer of 'Septic cleaning specialist'
-the wage of 23 credits per lights-out as opposed to the previous wages of 17 credits
-Rodents and wildlife caught can be kept
-A sawn-off and respirator will be provided, you will need to buy your own shells
-minors below 10 & mutants need not apply
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

Ardavion
Hypothetical TribeMeet RPG
Replies
6
Views
2K
Musings Of The Yak
Tiny
Tiny
Curess
N18 A custom campaign - The Blackout Zone Delta-17
Replies
3
Views
1K
Scenarios & Tactics
Curess
Curess
Wasteland
MacGuffin - 3rd Space Hulk scenario
Replies
0
Views
400
Warhammer 40,000
Wasteland
Wasteland
MusingWarboss
Pillage: Ransack the Middle Ages.
Replies
92
Views
9K
Tabletop Games
MusingWarboss
MusingWarboss
T
N18 Collected Errors/Typos in N25 Halls of the Ancients (Squats)
Replies
38
Views
7K
Rules & Mechanics
TopsyKretts
T
Top Bottom