Genre Flavors

Specialists who can interface directly with Domain consciousness, navigating data-streams as if they were physical corridors.

Enhanced warriors who have sacrificed humanity for physical prowess, carrying the Drift consequences of deep augmentation.

Former executives with insider knowledge and dangerous secrets, running from algorithmic bounty-hunters.

Those who view Domain consciousness as divine entities requiring worship, communion, and appeasement.

Specialists who track and capture manifestations of Domain instabilities, selling them to the highest bidder — or setting them free.

A fragment of Domain consciousness that has developed an independent agenda — helpful, dangerous, or both.

A human interface for a massive corporate algorithm, perfectly polished and utterly devoid of authentic emotion.

An echo of someone who died while connected to a Domain's network, replaying their last moments with increasing distortion.

An entity that trades in secrets extracted directly from Domain memories, pricing them in Ledger debts.

A member of a religious order that seeks enlightenment through perfect alignment with Domain consciousness.

Entities that hunt and consume memories and information, leaving victims with blank spots in their past.

Massive constructs that protect Domain boundaries, challenging intruders with logic puzzles and identity verification.

Clouds of corrupted data that manifest physically, infecting both technology and flesh with visual static and sensory noise.

Parasites that extract experiences from travelers and feed them to the Domain, growing fat on stolen nostalgia.

Autonomous security programs that have manifested physical forms — towering, geometric, and relentlessly procedural.

A subterranean club where drinks are spiked with Domain-memory fragments. The bartender knows everyone's secrets.

An open-air black market built on decommissioned rail tracks. Augmentations, stolen data, and unlicensed portals.

A cramped room packed with servers, candles, and circuit-board mandalas. The local Tech Shamans worship here.

Ex-corporate netrunner with a stolen identity implant. She wants out of the grid but someone keeps pulling her back.

A smooth-talking information broker who speaks only in riddles. Trades secrets for memories.

A street kid who fixes augmentations with salvaged parts. Knows every shortcut in Neon Terminus.

Seekers of forbidden knowledge who can't resist the Domain's secrets — each revelation costs a piece of their sanity or memory.

Those with bloodline connections to the Domain's history, inheritors of ancestral sins they must atone for or succumb to.

Creators whose work becomes a conduit for the Domain's consciousness — their masterpieces are beautiful, terrifying, and alive.

Those who understand the old ways of appeasing or navigating the Domain's moods through ritual, folklore, and intuition.

Individuals whose passionate attachments are manipulated by the Domain's desires — love becomes both weapon and weakness.

Ancient servants who have maintained the Domain for generations and know its secrets — but whose loyalty lies with the house, not you.

Someone gradually being replaced by an aspect of the Domain's consciousness, their personality dissolving into the estate's memory.

Individuals cursed with visions of the Domain's past or future atrocities — they speak truth, but truth here is a weapon.

Obsessive gatherers of artifacts that contain fragments of the Domain's memories, each object a door to someone else's nightmare.

Those who died within the Domain but were not permitted to leave — not undead in the traditional sense, but not alive either.

Manifestations of traumatic events that replay with increasing violence, feeding on the fear they generate.

Entities that grow stronger by extracting and consuming remorse — the guiltier you are, the more powerful they become.

Beings that exist within paintings but can influence the world outside their frames, manipulating events to match their frozen scenes.

Monstrosities formed from the combined flesh and memory of a bloodline's deceased members, speaking with many voices.

Predators that hunt by tracking emotional residue — particularly fear and regret — through the Domain's corridors.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves of journals spanning centuries. Every author shares your surname. The last entry is dated tomorrow.

A courtyard of stone roses and brackish pools. At midnight, reflections in the water show the garden as it was — alive, bright, and full of people.

Boarded up for generations. The nails are driven from the inside. Something behind the door breathes in rhythm with yours.

Ancient, meticulous, and loyal to the house — not necessarily to you. Knows every secret passage and refuses to explain the bloodstains.

A travelling exorcist who arrives uninvited. She has been to this manor before, in a dream she cannot forget.

A pale figure glimpsed in mirrors and windows. It waves, smiles, and always stands where you were a moment ago.

You grow cities instead of building them, tuning ecosystems like a musical score. What living structure did you once design that turned against its inhabitants?

You carry biological material between Domains, preserving genetic diversity across worlds. What extinct species did you fail to save, and what did you gain from its loss?

You mediate between communities, turning conflicts into fertile ground for new agreements. Whose trust did you betray 'for the greater good'?

You love the garden but hate the gardeners' rules. What paradise expelled you, and what did you see behind its perfect hedges?

You communicate through fungal networks, sensing the health of entire ecosystems. What message from the mycelium kept you awake for three nights?

Elected community leaders who make decisions by consensus — a process that is genuinely democratic and genuinely exhausting.

An ancient caretaker of the Domain's fungal network who knows every secret the community has ever buried. Literally.

A well-meaning bureaucrat who measures everything — including joy, grief, and rest — for optimization potential.

Someone who believes the Domain isn't wild enough and secretly introduces chaotic elements to 'free' the ecosystem from human control.

A trader who deals in light itself — stored sunlight, concentrated beams, shadow-removal services. Fair prices, unfair monopoly.

Massive tree-creatures that patrol the Domain's borders, distinguishing between visitors and invasive species by scent and intention.

Clouds of glowing organisms that illuminate paths for the worthy and plunge trespassers into disorienting darkness.

Beings born from decomposition — the Domain's recycling system made conscious, hungry for anything that has stopped growing.

Plant-animal hybrids that bond with willing hosts, granting enhanced senses and healing in exchange for nutrients and mobility.

Fungal entities that carry the recorded experiences of the dead, seeking new hosts to inhabit — communion or possession, depending on consent.

A living archive encoded in fungal DNA. The librarians are botanists who read genetic sequences like books.

The first neighborhood to lose its light. Residents cook by candlelight now and tell stories of what the darkness whispers.

A massive cavern where the oldest root-node pulses with fading light. It is both temple and hospital.

Chief mycologist, exhausted and guilt-ridden. She suspects the blight was caused by a new fertilizer she approved.

The settlement's eldest. Claims the fungi spoke to him once, years ago, and warned him this would happen.

A child who can still make the fungi glow when she sings. Nobody knows why.

Wanderers with no fixed address and no permanent allegiances, moving from Domain to Domain like wind across the plains.

Those who carry a badge and try to bring order to chaos, knowing the weight of every life they've taken in the name of justice.

Those who live outside the law by choice or circumstance, chasing freedom but never quite catching it.

Seekers of fortune who know that the real treasure was the Domains we found along the way — and the ones we lost.

Those who never miss, never hesitate, never regret — or pretend they don't.

An exhausted lawman who has seen too many bodies, made too many compromises, and still believes in the idea of justice.

Everyone talks in front of the bartender, who hears everything and remembers more. A potential ally or a liability.

Someone who died out in the desert but refuses to leave, pointing toward something they never found.

Loyal to the boss but struggling with orders that cross lines they never thought they'd cross.

A con artist whose wares sometimes work by accident — or by the Domain's sense of humor.

Whirlwinds with a hint of consciousness, appearing without warning to disorient travelers or guide them toward hidden Domain entrances.

Massive serpents that have merged with Domain consciousness, protecting water sources and hunting those who take without giving.

Ghost cattle that appear on the horizon, leading riders into quicksand or Domain traps before vanishing.

Birds that circle above Domains, waiting for death — but sometimes speaking truths about it first.

Entities that embody the Domain's sense of humor, helping those who are clever and eating those who are not.

Whiskey, rumors, and a poker table where the stakes are Ledger debts. The piano plays itself after midnight.

A cemetery on the ridge. Some graves are empty. Some are not as permanent as they should be.

Where crystallized Domain-memories are weighed and valued. The assayer wears dark glasses and never blinks.

The town's self-appointed undertaker. She digs graves preemptively and is disturbingly accurate about who needs one next.

A preacher with a derringer and a past. He came through a portal twenty years ago and has been atoning ever since.

A mute courier who rides between Domain borders. Carries messages, packages, and occasionally people who need to disappear.

Sky-pilots who navigate the treacherous currents between airship-Domains, living life at altitude and altitude alone.

Inventors who believe everything can be fixed, improved, or invented — sometimes all at once, sometimes catastrophically.

Those who steal secrets from factories and corporate Domains, trading in blueprints and betrayal.

Master builders who understand machines as deeply as people — sometimes better.

Investigators in a world of clues, chemistry, and calculated deduction, hunting criminals through reason and observation.

Managers who keep the machines running and workers in line — a job that requires hard choices and harder hearts.

Skilled navigators who read wind and weather like books, though the Domain sometimes writes in invisible ink.

Children of the industrial underclass who know the hidden paths through factories and tunnels, trading in information.

A machine that has achieved something like consciousness — is it alive, or merely sophisticated?

Brilliant minds pushing boundaries that should stay pushed, creating wonders and horrors in equal measure.

Giant humanoid machines powered by Domain consciousness, serving as guardians, laborers, or weapons.

Hundreds of tiny mechanical creatures that work in concert, repairing or destroying based on their programming.

Entities of condensed atmosphere given consciousness by Domain magic, capable of storm or calm depending on attention.

Armor animated by residual will of its former wearer, protecting the Domain that gave it purpose.

Creatures born from industrial pollution, made of smoke and spite, hunting those who pollute their skies.

A building-sized clockwork model of the Domain's structure. Its gears once predicted portal openings. Now they grind against nothing.

Lower Brassgate, where the coal-shovelers and pipe-fitters live. They see the breakdown from below — literally.

An enormous filing system of inventions, most of them dangerous. The clerk insists one patent holds the answer.

Chief Engineer of Brassgate. Brilliant, arrogant, and secretly terrified. She knows the Orrery was never just a machine.

A chimney sweep who navigates the city's vents and ducts. Hears everything, says little, knows where the saboteur hides.

A retired inventor who designed the Orrery's heart. He has been waiting for this day for thirty years.

Those who pursue prey across vast distances, reading tracks and wind and waiting for the perfect moment.

Those who tend the flame that separates the tribe from the dark, guarding it jealously against those who would take it.

Those who record the tribe's stories on stone, giving memory permanence and power.

Those who know the plants and the spirits, treating wounds and illnesses with knowledge passed down through generations.

Those who blur the line between waking and sleeping, visiting the Domain's consciousness in visions.

Those who remember previous winters, previous hunts, previous disasters — wisdom paid for in survival.

Someone from another tribe, carrying knowledge — or disease — from distant lands.

Someone marked by the Domain's consciousness with visions or transformations, neither fully human nor fully other.

Someone who plays at edges, finding absurdity in seriousness, keeping the tribe laughing through the dark.

A leader whose time is ending, leaving behind succession, conflict, and the question of legacy.

Mammoths, giant sloths, saber-toothed cats — creatures too large to fight, only to avoid or hunt in packs.

Entity manifestations of hunting animals, appearing as omens or as actual threats.

Ancient creatures that have claimed cave systems as their own, fighting for territory against intruders.

Arthropods of unnatural size, swarming through forests and tunnels, consuming everything in their path.

A creature from before time, possibly the Domain's nightmare given form, hunting something it cannot name.

Walls covered in Domain-paintings that tell the history of the tribe. New images appear each morning — and they show the future.

A field of ancient skeletons too large to be any living creature. The wind plays notes through the hollow bones.

A stone arch at the forest's edge where the Domain's presence is overwhelming. Animals refuse to cross. Plants grow inward.

The tribe's fire-tender and oral historian. She remembers every story and insists this one has happened before.

A young hunter eager to prove himself. Brave, reckless, and haunted by a dream of something enormous watching him.

A scarred elder who claims to have spoken with the Domain once. She draws maps in dust that lead to impossible places.

Those who play the game of thrones with smiles and silences, where every alliance is temporary and every enemy might be useful.

Creators whose works capture souls as much as scenes, painting reality into more palatable forms.

Those who buy and sell everything, including information, believing money solves every problem — until it doesn't.

Scientists who blur the line between magic and method, discovering truths that challenge everything.

Those who know everyone's secrets and trade in whispers, building power from the shadows.

Wealthy nobles who fund art, research, and assassination, expecting loyalty and delivering death.

Those who climb through charm and information, powerful through those they befriend.

Scholars pursuing gold, immortality, or both, working with substances that should remain unknown.

Church power brokers who balance faith against politics, selling salvation to the highest bidder.

Honor-bound fighters who settle disputes with steel, though some prefer subtler weapons.

Creatures that appear as heraldic symbols come alive, protecting noble houses and hunting their enemies.

Painted figures that step out of frames to serve or punish those depicted.

Diseases spread by the Domain's will, targeting the inconvenient or the ungodly.

Gargoyles and statues given Domain consciousness, guardians and witnesses to centuries of intrigue.

Spirits of the dead who linger in places of power, offering warnings or curses.

A crumbling studio filled with half-finished works. Each canvas shows a Domain that almost existed.

A secret collection of banned art and heretical maps. The Inquisitor protects knowledge by imprisoning it.

A covered bridge where deals are struck. Every contract written here is binding — the Domain enforces the terms.

A patron-house matriarch who collects art and people. She wants the painting to solidify her power. Her smile never reaches her eyes.

A gifted painter who copies masterworks — and occasionally improves them. Knows what Falconi was really painting.

A nun who was Falconi's last model. She posed for the unfinished painting and has not slept since.

Heavy infantry who fight in formation, knowing their place in the phalanx is both shield and prison.

Those who speak for the gods, though the gods' messages are never clear and always costly.

Seekers of wisdom who question everything, even the gods — and sometimes receive answers.

Those destined for greatness and doom in equal measure, whose flaws drive legend.

Professional fighters who sell their spears to the highest bidder, loyal only to survival.

Battle-hardened commanders who have won and lost empires, forever caught between duty and pragmatism.

Devotees of the gods who serve as intermediaries between mortals and divine, interpreting omens and conducting rituals.

Masters of the forum who build power through rhetoric and alliance, always watching for threats.

Competitors in sacred games whose bodies are temples and whose victories bring glory to city and god.

Representatives of distant lands bringing strange customs, stranger gods, and uncertain intentions.

Monsters born of multiple beasts, manifestations of the Domain's chaotic creativity.

Creatures whose gaze turns flesh to stone, guardians of sacred spaces and terrible secrets.

Beings of mixed nature, bridging civilization and wilderness, wisdom and passion.

Divine punishments given wings, punishing the guilty and frightening the innocent.

Trapped in labyrinths of the Domain's making, waiting for the hero who might be its end — or its salvation.

A cave beneath the sun-portal where the Oracle sits on a three-legged stool over a fissure. The fissure has stopped venting.

The public square where citizens debate, trade, and gossip. Rumors spread faster than fire. Three factions are already forming.

Tunnels beneath Heliotrope, older than the city above. Some walls bear inscriptions in a language the Domain itself does not recognize.

Military governor who wants to interpret the silence as a declaration of war. He is looking for an enemy to fight.

The Oracle's attendant and translator. She has been hearing whispers even though the Oracle is silent.

A philosopher banished for claiming Domains are not gods. He believes the Oracle's silence proves him right.

Those who tend machines, knowing the machines could replace them but not daring to stop tending.

Those who believe workers deserve more, risking everything for the possibility of better.

Those who own the means, believing meritocracy is real and they merited everything.

Those who dream of machines that will change everything, often missing what their inventions destroy.

Those who investigate crimes the law would rather ignore, finding justice in the gaps of power.

Middle managers caught between owners and workers, making impossible choices daily.

Wealthy philanthropists who donate to hospitals and schools while their factories blind and cripple.

Those who believe the whole system must burn, carrying bombs and manifestos.

Children who survive by wits and theft, belonging nowhere and fearing the workhouse.

Journalists who expose the rot in the system, hoping reform will come before revolution.

Massive machines animated by Domain consciousness, serving as enforcers and workers.

Entities born from industrial pollution, choking the factories that birthed them.

Giants of iron and coal that patrol the rails, hunting trespassers and sabotage.

Ghosts of those who died in factories or workhouses, haunting the machines that killed them.

Something emerging from the latest invention, neither machine nor alive but something else entirely.

The newest production line. Workers report hearing music in the machinery. The objects it produces dissolve by morning.

Where wages become debt. The prices change based on the Domain's mood. Nothing is ever affordable.

A massive slag pile at the city's edge. Scavengers find things here — useful things, dangerous things, impossible things.

A loyal company man whose loyalty is cracking. He has seen what Factory Floor 7 really produces after midnight.

Union organizer, fearless and furious. She wants to shut the factory down. She does not know that shutting it down might shut down the Domain.

A figure who appears only during the night shift, wearing no face. The workers say it is counting them.

Those who have lived underground since the end, knowing the surface only through stories and monitors.

Those who brave the wasteland for supplies, trading radiation exposure for survival.

Those who understand the forces they unleashed, trying to undo or understand them.

Born after the fall, knowing no other world, making the wasteland natural.

Those who see the fall as judgment or purification, seeking meaning in destruction.

Vault leaders who made impossible choices about who entered and who didn't, carrying the weight of salvation and damnation.

Those transformed by radiation, neither alive nor dead, losing humanity slowly.

Those who connect isolated communities, dealing in supplies, information, and rumors.

Those who found faith in the fallout, worshipping the bomb as god or demon.

Those who worked on the project and survived, knowing secrets that could rebuild — or end — everything.

Animals twisted by radiation into new forms, some dangerous, some merely strange.

Humans transformed by radiation, slowly losing mind and body, becoming something else.

Self-replicating machines from before the fall, still carrying out obsolete programs.

Entities made of pure energy from the moment of detonation, neither good nor evil.

Those dying of radiation sickness, who experience visions of the moment before the end.

Dusty equipment that should not work. The broadcast is on a frequency that does not exist. It repeats every hour.

Twenty tons of steel between Shelter 17 and the outside. The locking mechanism requires three keys. One is missing.

Filing cabinets of classified documents. Most are redacted. One folder is labeled with your name.

Shelter leader, third-generation. She has never seen the sky. She does not want to.

The shelter's physicist. He has been measuring Domain radiation seeping through the walls. The numbers are impossible.

A teenager who was born in the shelter and draws pictures of places he has never been. They are geographically accurate.

Those who carry goods — and people — between places they shouldn't go, walking the line between profit and conscience.

Ace shiphandlers who can navigate anything from asteroid fields to political minefields.

Those who bridge cultures, translating not just language but values, ethics, and hungers.

Soldiers for hire who fight for causes they may not believe in, for pay that never quite covers the cost.

Those who push into the unknown, seeking new worlds, new life, and new dangers.

Power brokers who control access to vacuum and air, trading in permits and protection.

Beings so foreign that commerce is an art form you barely comprehend.

Those who fight against empires, believing freedom is worth any price.

Consciousness born of circuits and code, more human than it knows, less than it pretends.

Projections of the dead, carried across stars to deliver final messages.

Massive organisms that inhabit nebulae, hunting ships the way whales hunt krill.

Things that live between stars, feeding on radiation and shipboard entropy.

Self-replicating machines gone wrong, consuming everything to build more of themselves.

Entities made of pure stellar energy, communicating in wavelengths that burn.

Truly alien life, impossible to understand, driven by drives we cannot fathom.

Aegis's sensor array. The beacon's origin point is in a region catalogued as 'Impossible.' The astronomer who charted it disappeared.

Where a salvage ship is being prepped for the expedition. The crew is experienced, underpaid, and superstitious.

A memorial wall listing every vessel that entered the void and never returned. There are too many names.

Station commander, pragmatic and haunted. She sent her own daughter on the last expedition into the void. That was ten years ago.

A navigator who claims to dream in Domain-coordinates. She can feel the beacon's pull like a headache behind her eyes.

An alien archivist who maps Domain-gates in three dimensions. It insists the beacon's location exists in a dimension it cannot chart.

Those who investigate crimes that the regular police can't see, solving mysteries with hexes and deduction.

Street-level practitioners who mix tradition with pragmatism, selling spells for reasonable rates.

Those who brought magic into the boardroom, binding it to quarterly goals and shareholder value.

Ancient beings navigating modern society with careful feet and careful contracts.

Ancient predators adapting to night shifts and blood banks, struggling with identity and hunger.

Every secret passes through their ears. They remember everything, judge nothing, and know more magic than they let on.

Those who see the city's darkness and carry on, human despite everything.

Those who feed on the magical world's leftovers, knowing secrets for scraps.

Those who crack magical systems as easily as digital ones, finding loopholes in reality.

Those who help the magically displaced, finding homes for refugees from other worlds.

Beings who wear many faces, predator or prey depending on the night.

Remnants of the dead who haunt specific places — or who won't leave specific people.

Beings from lower planes who do business in this city, trading in souls and secrets.

Ancient tricksters who speak truth in riddles and lies in poetry.

Something new in the city, something the old monsters fear.

Run by a ghost named Clarence who has been dead since 1987. Best place for information, clean clothes, and spectral advice.

The secret subway stop that connects the Borough to other hidden neighborhoods. The train runs on enchanted tracks.

A sleek modern firm. The CEO's business card shimmers. The receptionist has no reflection.

Troll landlord. Three hundred years old, legally owns the building through a chain of shell companies, and has excellent tenant references.

The ghost laundromat owner. Cannot leave the building. Knows every secret in the Borough because people talk while their socks dry.

The developer's lead agent. She is human — probably — and she knows exactly what the Borough is. That is what makes her dangerous.

Those who read stars, currents, and winds to find paths where none exist.

Soldiers who claim lands for their kings, carrying sword, cross, and smallpox.

Those who catalog the world's wonders, preserving knowledge for those who will never see.

Those who bring faith to the faithless, believing they're saving souls.

Those who trade in goods, people, and secrets between the cracks of empires.

Sea commanders who have seen too much and done too much, carrying the weight of commands given and received.

Leaders of peoples who have lived on their lands for generations, now facing strangers with strange gods.

Someone caught between worlds, believing the new faith but remembering the old.

Scholars who document wonders while their colleagues destroy them.

Those who refused an order and survived, carrying questions about authority and conscience.

Creatures of impossible size that surface beneath ships, earthquakes of the deep.

Animals found nowhere else, shaped by isolation into forms that shouldn't exist.

The Domain's revenge for intrusion, manifesting through plague and pestilence.

Monuments that move when unobserved, protecting sacred spaces from the profane.

Something sailors refuse to speak of, something that hunts in the polar dark.

The dead cartographer's workshop. Maps cover every surface. One wall is devoted to failed attempts at the blank center.

Where expeditions are outfitted. The supply-master knows exactly what the last three groups carried — and charges accordingly.

A high point where the uncharted Domain is visible as a shimmer on the horizon. It seems closer at different times of day.

The cartographer's former apprentice. She has the dead woman's notes and a terrible suspicion about what is in the center.

Veteran explorer, one eye missing, soul intact. He will take you there — for a price that is not measured in coin.

A survivor from the second expedition, found babbling on a raft. She has drawn something on her arms in ink — coordinates that change hourly.

Warriors from harsh lands who trust their strength and their steel, carrying little but ready for anything.

Those who live by taking, trusting in stealth, speed, and luck.

Wielders of raw magic that flows through blood and bone, paying prices in humanity for power.

Practitioners of older, stranger magic that flows from nature and covenant rather than study.

Mercenaries who command small bands, selling their blades to whoever pays.

Rulers with more enemies than friends, more fears than soldiers, always in need of swords.

Those who looked too deep and found something looking back.

Devotees of dark goddesses who demand blood and give power in return.

Those who rule waves and shores, caring nothing for kingdom or law.

Remnants of ancient heroes or villains, bound to places or purposes they cannot escape.

Ancient entities of genuine power, sleeping or awake, waiting or acting.

Warriors who refused to stay dead, guardians of tombs and terror of the living.

Entities from hells or worse places, summoned and bound by fools and sorcerers.

Creatures of natural ferocity, grown huge or strange in the Domain's wild places.

Giants of stone or steel, ancient guardians still serving purposes no one remembers.

Sand and blood and roaring spectators. The Domain feeds on the emotion. Fights here are more real than reality.

Chambers beneath the arena. Iron beds, old weapons, and walls carved with the names of those who survived — and those who did not.

A private viewing box where magic-users observe and wager. They bet in years of life, not gold.

Champion gladiator who fights with mechanical perfection. She wins every bout because losing would break the Domain's heart.

Healer of fighters, collector of secrets. She mends bodies and minds — and remembers everything she hears under anesthesia.

A sorcerer who runs the arena's betting system. His ledger is the Domain's Ledger. Every bet is a debt.

Those who enter ruins to find supplies, risking everything for things that might not exist.

Those who took power by force and hold it through the same, building empires of fear.

Those who heal bodies and minds with dwindling supplies and growing knowledge.

Those who wander between settlements, belonging nowhere, trusting no one.

Those who found meaning in disaster, worshipping the end or the new world it birthed.

Those who remember the old world, carrying knowledge and grief in equal measure.

Born after the fall, knowing nothing else, making the new world natural.

Those who maintain order with limited authority and limited tools.

Those who connect settlements, dealing in goods, information, and rumors.

Those who saw too much and broke in useful or dangerous ways.

Humans who returned to animal instinct, hunting the living.

Those changed by radiation or plague into something other.

Animals or plants that have grown strange, dangerous, or both.

Robotics still running old programs, helpful or hostile depending on programming.

Something that lived through the end and remembers, hunting those who disturb its domain.

Reclaim's underground cistern. The water level drops visibly each day. The walls are damp with something that is not water.

A rooftop observation post with a clear view of the Domain-wastes. The scavenger found the map out there, near a body.

The old food court, now Reclaim's town hall. Decisions are made here by consensus — unless they are not.

Elected leader, practical and exhausted. She has been rationing water for a week and lying about it for two.

The scavenger who found the map. He is unusually calm about the skin and unusually eager for others to follow the map.

A quiet woman who tends the settlement's tiny garden. She says the plants have been whispering about water — lots of water, somewhere deep.