Adventurers do not abide the competition. Should a rival venturing party be meet in pursuit of the same goal, they are often swiftly bound to violence. In the field, or in the hole, as it may be, a gang of cutters faced with a fellow gang will near-invariably set upon each other like lions. Cautious, skirting diplomacy may sometimes occur, rarely. But when it does, it is backed by a slow retreat, by hands left uneasily to rest on gun-grips and...
Everyone's got a teaspoon of salt in their coin purse. Everyone civilized, at least. And not typical salt, either, but the magical and curative grey salt grisodate; the mineral by which tenuous civilization survives. * Steely grey grains, crushed to powder among the pence and the little farthings.
A name surrounds these mercenaries, these hunters: The Sate of Bandelier. A serpent of contempt, they say, who wields its hate for cutter-kind as a twisted, vengeful business venture. A worm with broken wings who curls in smoking darkness, orchestrating wide-ranging revenge by the behest of all harmed by careless venturing kind, and in perverse service to its own bloody hurt.
Linkenden: Carriers of lanterns, candelabras, and torches for stronger parties. Always the first down a darkened hall, sent to scrub away the clinging shadows. Light is precious, to cutters, for the realms in which they labor are rarely graced by the weal of the sun. The dark is the deadly advantage of the enemy, of ragwretches and grues and the eyeless thralls of foul sorcery, and it must be lifted for their banishment to be prosecuted. For this reason, the light always goes first.
Death mechanics from the Incunabuli system playtest. Venturing is a dangerous job. People die. A venturesome cutter will likely witness the demise of many comrades over the course of their career. That is, if the selfsame cutter does not themselves meet a horrid end.