Round 0


The candle flickers in a wind that isn’t there. The candle shouldn’t be there either.

It appears in the Ruler’s bedroom, in their private sanctum, in their holy of holies, their most intimate refuge. They are alone when it’s there, and if they weren’t who they were, if their will was not iron and steel, if they were not rulers of their Districts, they would’ve thought it was a trick of the mind. That sanity had, like everything else in the Necropolis, died.

But no. The candle is real, and its dancing light is mirrored by another candle further away. It feels like a summons. But that would be insulting. An invitation perhaps? A peer’s outstretched hand? Nonetheless, an intrusion. One that must be investigated.

Following the candle leads to another and another and another. Without noticing, the walls of their District are slowly replaced with ancient masonry. The transition is subtle at first – brick dust instead of steel shavings, a slight change of architecture, but then they find themselves abruptly in a hallway of a grand palace. Behind them is a path of candles leading to their District. Ahead is another path, the candles more numerous.

The candles seem to dance to the same tune. There is no wind, but the flames mirror each other in their movements. The candles are in holders, lanterns, candelabras, but mostly they rest on the stone floor itself. The wax has run off them in rivulets, merging together to form a carpet on the corridor. Each candle seems half used. They are scentless, the only odor is of age and smoke. Despite the light, the palace still seems dimly lit. The candles, innumerable, insufficient to entirely dispel the gloom.

They walk further following the wax and oil, passing through a stronghold fallen into ruin. Tapestries must’ve adorned the walls, but all that is left are cinders and cobwebs. Furniture, now charred husks – precarious candleholders placed on their flat surfaces. With no rhyme and little reason, stained glass windows intersperse the monotony of neglect. The stained glass all depict a sun standing alone in a red sky, but it easy to tell that there is no real sun behind the glass. No light shines through the windows and if one to place a hand on the window itself one would feel nothing. A frightening nothing. No heat, no warmth, but also no cold. One can’t even imagine a yawning void behind the stained glass. Instead, perversely, the thought occurs that if you break through a window, you would find yourself breaking into this same said palace.

Further, the Ruler reaches a doorway on which above, a motto was once written. Of the four words, only the third, and longest, still legible – “Never”. The door begins to open inwards, but before the Ruler can step through a low growl emerges from the opened gateway. Pushing itself through the opening is an enormous and mangy wolf. It’s fur is knotted, falling off in patches, despite its size its ribs show through it’s skin. A great collar adorns its neck, the choker rusted brown and flaky. A chain, thick but corroded slinks off the collar, onto the stone floor, where one can see streaks of grooves. The wolf’s tail though is strange, it is an elongated arm, almost human, but stretched beyond reason, naked, the wolf’s matted fur only reaching up to the elbow of the bizarre limb. In the tail-hand’s vice-like grip is the other end of the chain. The wolf holds itself prisoner.

The creature opens its fanged mouth, and instead of a tongue, extends another arm. This arm, as well defined as a tongue is strong, licks itself out of the mouth and twists until the hand seems to greet the ruler. From how the wolf moves, it becomes clear that it was the one that opened the door to you in the first place. The hand from the toothed smile, scarred by fangs, welcomes you inside.

Moving past this enigmatic greeting, the Ruler enters a room adorned with candles surrounding a throne made of dripped wax. The wolf creature closes the door behind you with its tongue-hand, while its tail hand jerks its chain for it to follow you meekly. While the candles are mostly uniform in their pure white coloring, the wax of the throne seems grayish or tan, and sitting on it is an ancient king. The king’s skin, both leathery and paper thin, is stretched over bones akin to knotted wood. The king’s six hands rest wearily over the sides of his throne, one of them resting on a ill-used sword, covered in notches along its worn blade and hash marks adorning its flat. The king stands as you enter, showing the ruler of a District the proper respect and he bends over to his side to wearily lift an iron wrought lantern covered in verdigris. Creaking, the king extends to his full height, the wolf dragging itself to lie down by his throne. The king speaks with a voice like dusty paper so old that one fears that his very words might catch fire from one of the many open flames.

Hear me, for I am the Sovereign of Wax and Wick, reigning supreme within this somber Necropolis, where shadows dance with echoes of ages long past. Through ceaseless contemplation, I have unearthed a path, a path that leads us from this realm of unlife and undeath, back into the vibrant embrace of existence. Behold this lantern, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness, bestowed upon thee to partake in a game of fate. Each of thy peers shall receive a lantern akin, and together, a collective decision must be made - a decision to transcend, to soar once more towards the radiant zenith of life's golden age. Let us etch our names anew upon the annals of time, reclaiming our destiny from the clutches of oblivion. But know this, the choice rests not upon one, but upon all.

Once passing you the verdigris lantern, the king collapses back onto the throne, the wolf soothes him with a calming touch of its tongue-hand upon its masters foot. The Ruler turns to go, following the path of candles out of the throne room, past the door, and back through the halls of the stained glass suns.

***

Walking along the path of candles back to their District the first thing the Ruler notices is amiss is the smell. The scent of the halls of the king of wax and wick was nothing but age and disuse. The smell of dead moths and spiders, the smell of the thin smoke of countless, endless candles. Soot and dust. But now a new smell invades, a think pungent moist foulness that rises up from the ground. And now that the Ruler looks down, expecting the masonry and wax of the halls of the king, there is murky sewage water. The candles are suddenly gone and the only think illuminating the Ruler is the Verdigris Lantern that they had been gifted.

The water is rotten, but it is what floats on the water that is fouler. Debris, lumps of fat, tangled knots of hair, fluids, feces, the waste of a dozens of Districts, dozens of Fallen Empires, flows through here in the Gutters. Occasionally the Lantern picks up a flash of gold as the Ruler trails the muck. Mirth in the grime. Joy that had slipped through someone’s fingers. This is realm of trash but also of the lost. Perhaps the line between is negotiable.

Up ahead the Ruler hears humming in between fits of hacking coughs. Holding the lantern up they see a hunched figure dressed in filthy rags, black mold growing in patches on them. The stench unbearable. They see a great mass of rats and centipedes with red eyes along the edges. The figure is using a miner’s pan in the runoff. Humming off-key and chuckling to themselves they pocket a nugget of golden Mirth and they return to their task.

Oi, oi, hold yer horses there, stranger! Give ol' Charlie a sec, will ya? Just need to shoo off these pesky shadows, ya know?

The figure lunges to grab one of the rats in one of their six hands, four of which are bandaged and broken, tied up in rotten splints. The figure grins as they look at the helpless rat and then proceeds to bite off the rat’s head and then yell at its companions as they scatter into the dank darkness. Turning towards the ruler they gather themselves to an imposing height, such that they have to bend their neck at an angle to avoid the top of the Gutter. They lean forward and leer with yellow spoiled teeth.

Ah, that's better. Now we can have a proper chat, just you and me. So, what's with the fancy lantern, eh? Think you're better than ol' Jack with their tattered cloak and worn-out shoes? What's that bigwig got that I don't, huh?

The figure squats down and extends one of his arms between their knees and swings it around like a prodigious member. They quickly uses their other unbroken hand to slap the crook of the arm such that the pantomime springs upwards towards the Ruler’s face, trying to make them flinch.

Why do you trust him, anyway? Is it 'cause of his fancy clothes and polished manners? Lemme tell ya a little secret, mate. Why play his game when you've already won? How many empires you reckon ended up in this dump, huh? Cream of the crop! And here you are, immortal as can be. So, why bother with all this talk of going back to being mortal, eh? Stay here, rule if you want. Make more trash for me. Trash is the real truth, after all. It's the endless heaps of waste an empire spews out that shows what truly matters: the humble scraps of meals, the discarded tools, the abandoned spaces. That's where the real story is, mate, in the leftovers and the forgotten bits. Trust ol' Bob here, little lordling. I ain't hiding nothing from ya.

The figure cackles, but extends a dirty hand.

The choice of the Ruler to shake or not . . .

***

Later, the Gutters and the Halls past, the Ruler places the Verdigris Lantern on a surface back where they had started from. The only souvenir, along with their choice, of their journey. The Game had Begun.

[Players, please privately let the GM know your choice on whether you are open to being a Traitor. Before Round 1, the GM will choose traitors from those who opt in.]