The tenement’s walls groaned under the weight of the Old Place’s decay, the air thick with dust and the tang of blood. The players—Paul Best, Garet the techno-mage, Noelani from Lands Unknown, Mordecai the great cybernetic ape, and the newcomer Arkadisuz the merc—gathered in a tight circle around Rojak, the Purist now handcuffed to a rusted pipe. His face was pale, his eyes darting between his captors, but his lips stayed sealed. Before they could press him further, Noelani’s voice cut through the tension. “Waja, how the hell did we end up here?” she demanded, her gaze pinning their guide, who leaned against a crumbling wall, looking as lost as the ruins around them. “You’re supposed to know this place. Now we’ve got the Iron Society as enemies, all for this snake.” She jabbed a finger at Rojak. “What do we have to show for it?”
Waja’s shoulders slumped, his weathered face betraying a flicker of shame. “I’m lost, alright?” he admitted, voice heavy with futility. “The Old Place shifts—streets vanish, landmarks crumble. But I swear, I can lead us out. Just give me time to find the trail.” His eyes pleaded for trust, but the players’ stares were cold, their faith in him fraying like the city itself.
Turning back to Rojak, Paul rifled through the Purist’s pack, tossing aside scraps of cloth and rusted tools until his fingers closed around a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, revealing a crude map divided into quadrants, each marked with scratches—some single strokes, others clustered like tallies. “What’s this?” Paul growled, holding it up. Rojak’s jaw tightened, but under Mordecai’s diplomatic coaxing, he cracked. “Mutationist sightings,” he muttered, voice low. “Their paths, their camps. I was tracking them.” A scout, then, plotting troop movements. But for whom? The question hung like a blade.
Rojak, sensing their suspicion, puffed out his chest. “I’m a high-ranking Knight of Genetic Purity,” he boasted. “My brothers are coming for me. Let me go, or you’ll have more than the Society to deal with.” His bravado fell flat—Paul’s sneer mirrored the group’s disbelief. A Knight? Rojak was no leader, just a weasel caught in his own trap.
Desperate, Rojak shifted tactics, his voice turning to a whine. “I’ll lead you out of the Old Place,” he offered. “Let me go, and I’ll get you clear.” The deal twisted as Paul piled on demands—safe passage, supplies, intel. Rojak squirmed, agreeing then backtracking, his words slippery as oil. Paul’s patience snapped. “Don’t provoke me further,” he snarled, his plasma pistol pressed to Rojak’s temple. The Purist, reckless or stupid, smirked and spat a taunt. The crack of the pistol echoed, and Rojak slumped, a molten cavity in his skull. The group froze, horror etching their faces. Waja, who’d loathed Rojak from the start, merely shrugged, his indifference chilling. Night crept over the Old Place, the sky a dark green. The tenement, now a killing floor, felt too exposed. “We move south,” Paul declared, ignoring the blood on his hands. Waja, claiming he’d found his bearings, led them out, the city’s ruins fading into barren plains. Hours later, exhaustion won. Waja collapsed against a gnarled tree, passing out under the starless night. The players followed, their sleep uneasy, haunted by the day’s violence.
Dawn broke, and Waja, reinvigorated, guided them southward through the wastelands of what was once California. The Old Place—ruins of the once fabled San Francisco—curved around them, its necropolis of ruins looming to the north and west, reappearing in the south like a trap. To reach Waldis’ domain, Melkath, they’d need to cross these ruins one last time. Waja swore he knew the way, and with no better options, the players followed, their trust thin but unbroken.
Before the ruins, rolling hills rose from the dust. Waja’s pace quickened, his voice bright with sudden excitement. “Judgement Top’s close!” he called. “Over the next hill!” They crested one rise, then another, where strange brown vegetation clung to the summit. Waja sprinted ahead, leading them to the gentle peak of Judgement Top. There, they met Tehwhisz, a creature defying comprehension—a massive, twisted head, ten meters tall, its mottled green-brown face barely human. Long, greasy strands of hair flowed down the hill, stretching a hundred meters in every direction. Its eyes were closed, its nose fuzzy with growth, its body—if it had one—buried deep in the earth. Tehwhisz, a mutated plant with roots sprawling two and a half kilometers, was the Old Place’s arbiter, revered by all factions. No blood was shed here; her presence ensured truth.
Intrigued, the players pondered questions for Tehwhisz. Paul, clutching the book taken from Rojak—the vile text of a twentieth-century tyrant—presented it to her. Her deep fried voice, slow and indifferent, spoke of herself in the third person, a reflection of her lonely existence. “Tehwhisz sees this book,” she intoned, her words dripping with disgust. “It is evil. Destroy it, or its poison will spread, ushering darkness for all sentient-kind.”
Before anyone could respond, Garet’s power-staff, the Sub-Operational Reclamator, Cryptanalysis and Engineering Rod, Mark II—also known as SORCER-MK2 or the Builder’s Bō—stirred. Its sentience, a secret even from the group, whispered telepathically to Garet: Fuck this creature. The staff craved the book’s knowledge, its hunger a dark pulse. Suddenly, the book slipped from Paul’s hands, appearing in Garet’s. Paul whirled, eyes blazing. “Garet, what the hell?” Before he could act, Garet’s nanobots swarmed, putting Paul into a deep sleep.
The group stood paralyzed. Noelani, torn, argued the book was just words—dangerous, perhaps, but not alive. Mordecai, loyal to both men, saw only friends clashing, unwilling to intervene. Arkadisuz, still an outsider, shrugged; the Iron Society and Knights were evil, but a book? Harmless curiosity, he thought. Tehwhisz offered to mediate, her presence a guarantee of honesty. But Mordecai’s mind churned with a deeper question. “Tehwhisz,” he rumbled, “what do you know about Garet’s staff?”
Before she could answer, Paul stirred, his eyes snapping open. “Patriot,” he growled at Garet, using his old nickname with venom, “I knew it’d come to this. Give me the book.”
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