Risk: Medi­um - Effort: Low - Yield: Low

A swift ven­ture for new cut­ters.

INTRO

For the Book­keep­er.

South­ern Fir­lund. The Lothrheim bor­der, south of Sil­ton. The sea­son: Ear­ly win­ter.

War rages between Belvirine and Lothrheim. The Firl­ish Crown main­tains neu­tral­i­ty with its bat­tered south­ern neigh­bor, but increas­es its inter­est in recov­er­ing dis­used bor­der facil­i­ties.

Such a facil­i­ty stands south of Sil­ton: Tunnboldt Tow­er, an ancient castel­lum over­look­ing the riv­er Sten. The Crown has com­mis­sioned Tiber & Fel­lowes to sweep the tow­er with cut­ters, hop­ing the use of con­trac­tors defers poten­tial accu­sa­tions of bor­der aggres­sion.

Unbe­knownst to the Crown, Tunnboldt was recent­ly occupied—illegally—by the Lothrheimer Bun­deswehr. These occu­piers were them­selves dis­placed quite recent­ly by enter­pris­ing rag­wretch­es down from the Gorathi­an Moun­tains. While Lothrheim is not explic­it­ly at war with Fir­lund, the tak­ing of a Firl­ish bor­der post could cer­tain­ly be con­strued as ille­gal, if not an entree to war.

Cut­ters acquire this ven­ture at a near­by Con­sor­tium, prob­a­bly in Sil­ton. There, the ven­ture is list­ed thus­ly:

URGENT: CONDUCT SWEEP OF TUNNBOLDT TOWER

Brief for the cut­ters:

• By order of the Crown, Tunnbolt Tow­er must be swept and made ready for mil­i­tary repos­ses­sion. Tiber & Fel­lowes is hon­ored to ser­vice this request. Gain access to the castel­lum. Eject indi­gents, squat­ters, and ani­mals. Neu­tral­ize haz­ards and hos­tiles. Main­tain struc­tur­al integri­ty of facil­i­ty. Leave appli­ances and fix­tures unal­tered. Report any deviance from expect­ed state of facil­i­ty (vacant.) Avoid exter­nal con­flict.

Direc­tions down the south­ern road from Dar­ling­ton to the river­side are pro­vid­ed. Arrival occurs at 4:00 PM.

Rewards + defining success

Kill all wretch­es. Avoid con­flict with Lothrheimers.

Reward: £30 per cut­ter.

• − £15 if tow­er sig­nif­i­cant­ly dam­aged.
• − £15 if hos­tiles remain.
• + £10 if liv­ing Lothrheimers are seen, avoid­ed, and report­ed.

GUIDANCE

Time + the lothrheimers

Time is of the essence.

After night­fall, the wretch­es with­in Tunnbolt become active.

At dawn, an armored river­boat of Lothrheimer marines arrives, seek­ing what became of the Castel­lum’s pre­vi­ous occu­piers. A squad of 7, lead by one mus­ta­chioed and out­ra­geous Com­man­dant Seeger. Hos­tile to cutters—after all, they are at war because Lothrheim out­lawed adven­ture capital—but not so much as to not announce them­selves, intro­duce Seeg, and give an oppor­tu­ni­ty to sur­ren­der.

• If shot at with the rock­et gun in 2.1 | Unpack­ing, the marines retreat.

Remem­ber: Win­ter nights are cold. Shel­ter to camp is thin.

ragwretches

Famil­iar­ize your­self with rag­wretch­es. Cow­ard­ly preda­tors. Shirk­ing, in day­light, but con­fi­dent and lethal come the night. Foul maneaters. Their body odor smells of rot­ting flesh. They make red-brown leather from human skin. Their crude­ness belies cun­ning skill at human butch­ery.

7 wretch­es lurk in Tunnboldt. 6 nor­mal + Big Pop­pa. Para­noid, nasty, and crude. They sleep dur­ing the day but become con­fi­dent by night, guard­ing and fierce­ly con­fronting attempt­ed entry to the castel­lum.

• Dur­ing day, use the wretch­es’ giv­en start­ing sleep­ing posi­tions.
• At night, they butch­er the Lothrheimers in 0.0 | cel­lar and play with the gear in 2.1 | Unpack­ing, chat­ter­ing to each oth­er.

The wretch­es pos­sess a hand­ful of stolen mil­i­tary gun­springs. They are enthu­si­as­tic in using them, if not adept.

3.2 | Big Pop­pa does not awak­en unless dis­turbed, sleep­ing off a mas­sive meal. If he dies, the wretch­es may par­lay and leave the castel­lum; 6-in-6 chance, -1 per human in par­ty. If they do, they take all the loot, save the rock­et gun in 2.1 | Unpack­ing.

The small­er wretch­es’ names are Earput­ter, Slug­punch­er, Hoghumper, Stinkum, Deez, and Jim­my Piss.

sneaking

Clever cut­ters will sneak into the cas­tul­lum, using sub­tle­ty to move silent­ly. Famil­iar­ize your­self with the move silent­ly rules.

• If cut­ters make noise or fail to move silent­ly, wretch­es in the same room notice them imme­di­ate­ly.

Sleep­ing wretch­es and those in oth­er rooms roll Per­cep­tion to notice sound at -4 and -2, respec­tive­ly, pos­si­bly com­bin­ing to -6. Gun­shots are noticed at +6. They notice humans at +4.

Sounds of vio­lence attract wretch­es from adja­cent rooms. Noticed gun­shots may draw them from far­ther away.

climbing

Sev­er­al climb­ing oppor­tu­ni­ties appear in this mod­ule. Remem­ber: The sec­ond failed Might roll to climb results in a fall, not the first.

Also remem­ber: Short (~3 m) lengths of rope require no Might roll unless the climber suf­fers speed penal­ty

Maps

link to map files

12356

START

Out­doors. Salt air.

Grey sea­coastal land­scape. Patchy snow. Breeze astrin­gent with nat­ur­al griso­date from the near­by Bay of Grey.

A coun­try road clad in ancient dry­s­tone walls. Fields sur­round, rowed in sil­ver onions, their hol­low blue-green leaves flo­res­cent under a steely lam­bent sky.

Ahead lies the watch­tow­er.

the tower

The earth ris­es ahead. Rocky, wind­ing up through low shale out­crop­pings before ris­ing into a short, mean­der­ing lime­stone cliff over­look­ing a half-mile of icy allu­vial shore, then the riv­er Sten.

Upon this promon­to­ry lies a vast flat-topped boul­der, a nat­ur­al foun­da­tion for the castel­lum squat­ting atop it: A stout stone brick keep with a con­i­cal tow­er. For­est green bri­ars snarl the boul­der’s base, their thorns steely gray and knife­like. Hewn steps curve up along the boul­der, through the bri­ars.

• The boul­der is 3m high. Its sides crum­ble. -2 to climb.

The castel­lum is run­down and lichen-y, com­posed of a squar­ish keep with a crenelat­ed roof attached to a high­er con­i­cal tow­er, a sto­ry high­er, over­look­ing the riv­er.

• The keep: 2 sto­ries. Crenelat­ed top, bat­tle­ments fac­ing the road. One can­not see over the mer­lons from the road or the boul­der.
• The tow­er: 3 sto­ries. Round, with 6 arrowslits cov­ered by nar­row shut­ters per sto­ry over­look­ing the riv­er and the boul­der stair. Its con­i­cal roof lacks many of its green­ing cedar shin­gles, sport­ing dark gaps.

A wide steel chim­ney ris­es from the keep­s’s east side, spew­ing oily smoke stink­ing of burn­ing fat. It ris­es through the stone base up to the crenela­tions, bolt­ed to the east­ern wall.

An ama­ranth flag—that of the Lothrheimer Bundeswehr—flies on the bat­tle­ments. On it, a sil­ver eagle clutch­es black ros­es oppo­site a sheaf of arrows.

If the gang rotate around the entire tow­er to sur­vey it—which the rag­wretech­es inside notice—they find the east and west sides thick with bri­ars, but the east sports a clear patch and the south sports a nar­row path up to a boul­der stair.

Bri­ars. Around the boul­der thrive snarled, dense bri­ars with woody stems and three-inch dag­ger-thorns.

• Enter­ing a square of bri­ars requires Agili­ty -2 to dodge. Suc­cess avoids dam­age. Fail­ure caus­es 1d4 P * 2 and the char­ac­ter remains sta­tion­ary, caught by thorns.
• Cut­ting a square of bri­ars requires a rel­e­vant tool and a Wood­cut­ting roll. Fail­ure caus­es caus­es 1d4 P * 2 or 1 wear to the tool.

Mice can nav­i­gate the bri­ars with a suc­cess­ful Scur­ry roll to squeeze.

Descend­ing from the clifftop to the riv­er shore entails climb­ing down steep, chalky rocks (9 m, Might -2.) Bypass­ing the climb requires a pro­tract­ed detour east along the Sten, 1 hour each way.

CELLAR

0.0 | cellar

Hiss­ing flame. Wind. Hot-pen­ny blood and burn­ing flesh.

Swel­ter­ing hot. Wood­en struts and beams sup­port the soot-black­ened ceil­ing, bound in iron. An open fur­nace mouth shim­mers with heat, pal­pa­bly suck­ing in air. 3 fresh bod­ies slump against the dark-stained west wall. South, shelves span between upright beams, ful­ly of sup­plies and lumpen cloth.

• +2 Sub­tle­ty to sneak due to roar­ing fur­nace.

Dan­ger (day:) Cam­ou­flaged wretch­es sleep on the shelves.

A tow­er­ing iron fur­nace shim­mers in the north wall. Hiss­ing, suck­ing at the air, roar­ing with fuel injec­tion. Inside its open mouth, flames rip­ple over a bed of pink-hot, near-molten bones and twist­ed met­al. Lodged 1 m back, a ring of keys still clings to a charred belt and meaty hip­bone not yet ful­ly com­bust­ed.

• Flame melts the keyring in 1 hr.
• Thrust­ing a limb into the fur­nace earns it 1d4+2 burn stress.
• If robbed of fuel or doused from exter­nal fill hatch, the fur­nace cools sub­stan­tial­ly in 30 min­utes.

An upright, oblong cetasene tank stands bolt­ed to the north wall. Paint­ed blue, with a “BKS” word­mark. A hard steel fuel pipe feeds from from the north wall, over­head, and a small­er cop­per line snakes into the fur­nace, con­nect­ed by a valve.

Bod­ies: Slumped against the mason­ry wall. Metal­lic and uri­nous in pools of filth and gore. Clad in scraps of ama­ranth uni­forms. Lack­ing the meat of chests, fore­arms, calves, and but­tocks, bare bone black with­in. Each with a sawed-open skull dis­play­ing miss­ing round scoops of brain.

• They breathe. Stilt­ed and ago­nal. One vom­its, sense­less. Anoth­er man­ages “töte mich” on a wet breath— “kill me.”
• Under a stripped thigh­bone: A sticky red coin­purse with £3 11p.

Shelves: Far from the light of the fur­nace. Stuffed with pro­vi­sions. Can­is­ters, box­es, and bot­tles with eagle sig­ils and Lothrsprech text. Many fall­en to the floor. In their places: Filthy tex­tile lumps. Greasy, cross­hatched strips of mot­ley over limbs, backs, and heads curled like sleep­ing cats: 2 rag­wretch­es, curled around muni­tion hatch­ets.

Food­stuffs. 20 of each remain on the shelves:

• Tinned pork sausage (2/can, S)
• Jarred sauer­kraut (6/jar, 1#)
• Tinned rye bread (6/can, 1#)
• Chick­en bouil­lon cubes (12/box, S)
• Army crack­ers (12/box, S)
• Large pota­toes (2/potato, S)
• Car­rots (1/carrot, XS)
• Tinned cig­a­rettes (50/can, S)
• Sacks of oats

Keyring, if saved from the fur­nace:

• iron key (all inte­ri­or doors)
• gold­en key (doc­u­ment case)
• small steel key (all shut­ters)

FLOOR 1

1.1 | boulder base, N

Wet rocks, damp plants, burnt-meat smoke.

The thick­est area of bri­ars.

A cel­lar entrance slopes under the boul­ders, deep in the snarl. Its red steel door lit­tered in grav­el, bird drop­pings, and dry, dead bar­ri­cade pix­ies. Wet with melt­wa­ter. Warm, despite the shade. New-ish con­struc­tion. Sealed by a pad­lock.

• Stout hinges. Might -6 to force. Lock­smithy -2 to pick the pad­lock.

Down it: Dusty, dis­used stone steps into a hot, redlit dim (0.0 | cel­lar,) stink­ing of burnt hair and bone.

1.2 | boulder base, E

Shade, meat smoke, the near­by riv­er.

The boul­der’s shad­ed north­ern base. Bare of bri­ars. Over­head, the steel chim­ney exudes greasy, acrid black smoke.

A cop­per down­spout runs down from a cor­ner of the keep­’s roof into the ros­es. 6 m up, it joins the gut­ters ring­ing the crenela­tions.

In a lee in the boul­der, a met­al disc cov­ered in snow lies in shad­ow.

• A fill port for fuel deliv­ery. Sound­ly screwed shut, requir­ing heavy a ded­i­cat­ed hex key to unlock.

The boul­der’s near-ver­ti­cal sur­face is crumbly and light­ly icy. -2 to climb with Might.

1.3 | boulder top, E

Wind. Wet grav­el. Char of burn­ing meat.

A flat stone sur­face strewn with grav­el and sparse soil under snow. A 1 m-wide steel chim­ney bumps out from the keep­’s orig­i­nal chim­neystack, bolt­ed on. The cop­per down­spout stands with­in reach. A died-down net­tle patch lan­guish­es under snow, south.

• A sin­gle trail of heavy foot­prints mars the snow, lead­ing from the south­ern cliff edge to the down­spout.

Chim­ney: Split­ting hot. Attempts to cut it release bil­low­ing, greasy car­cass-smoke (dodge -2 or suf­fer 1 Burn stress.)

Down­spout: Met­al loops fix it to the stone. 3 m climb up to the gut­ter ring­ing the crag­gy bat­tle­ment. Might -2 to ascend.

• The weath­er-worn gut­ter bears shiny scuffs, dents, and scratch­es, as if some­thing bear­like and large climbed it clum­si­ly.

Net­tles: Some­thing peeps soft­ly with­in the net­tles, like a chick.

• A lumpen, puce mince toad squats in the net­tles. Among cut­ters, it is aus­pi­cious to find one’s own toad, rather than buy one.

South, the bold­er over­looks iron-grey ice and sand—the riv­er Sten’s shore. West ris­es the castel­lum’s tow­er, cold and lich­ened. A floor up it, a red­dish wood­en garder­obe projects.

• A foul hairy rope dan­gles from the garder­obe, 9 m long, grap­nelled up through the wood­en privy.
  • Might -4 to jump­ing to jump, grab, and climb the rope. Ascends into 2.3 | garder­obe. Fail­ing means a 9 meter fall.

A floor above the gardrobe, a sec­tion of curved tow­er wall is absent where two arrow loops should over­look the riv­er, filled with a stretched tarp tacked into the stone. Pale, dusty, fresh­ly cut lime­stone mason­ry frames the tarp.

Down the cliff, south across the silty shore, an elon­gat­ed leather craft (1.9 | sneak­box) lies in a clutch of rocks by the water.

1.4 | boulder base, W

Snow-dap­pled thorns and rock, burnt meat on the wind.

Rough-cut stairs lead 3m steeply up to a steel-bound front door. Bro­ken ice lit­ters the steps, as if recent­ly bro­ken by boot­nails.

An upgrowth of bri­ars flanks the stairs, leav­ing lit­tle space to climb, and lit­tle between them and the heavy door, up top.

A bretèche over­hangs the door­way. Under it, between the sup­port­ing cor­bels, a machico­la­tion opens down­ward. A dark, stained, down­ward-fac­ing stone slot men­ac­ing the door.

1.5 | boulder top, W

Wind. Wet grav­el.

Up the hewn stairs, crunchy with ice. Snow and ice over stone, trod­den and slushy. Marked with over­lap­ping boot­prints.

• Prints like clawed stock­ing-feet thread through­out. Some: Deep­er, larg­er, with bear­like claw-dots ter­mi­nat­ing the toes.

A nar­row shut­ter stands waist high in the curve the tow­er to the door’s right. Sol­id wood, but grey with age and lichen. Locked from the inside (requires small steel key.)

• If destroyed, the shut­ter reveals a nar­row arrowslit. Not intra­vers­a­ble. Agili­ty -4 to squeeze for crea­tures larg­er than mice.

Front door: Dark lac­quered oak. Steel case­ment.

• Might -6 to force. Lock­smithy -2 to pick.

From the bretèche above, a dark­ened machico­la­tion over­looks the door. Those keep­ing watch or exam­in­ing notice pin­prick red eyes in the black.

• Dan­ger: Per­sis­tent door-knock­ing or attempts to breach yield croak­ing words from above: “Shove off. Army busi­ness in here. Only army busi­ness.” The speak­er claims to be “Sack Pri­vate Krieger, Eleven­ty-Six­teenth War Divi­sion.”
• Relent­less atten­tion at the door yields threats a sharp snap in the dark as an apfel­granate fuse ignites. The wretch “cooks” it for a turn before rolling it out, caus­ing it to blow imme­di­ate­ly after appear­ing from the slot (on init. 6.) No choice but dodge.

1.6 | “Bacon” room

Dark. Mildew, oil, burn­ing bacon.

Low-ceilinged, heavy stone room. Dirt and dried blood speck­le the floor. Crusty brown foot­prints mean­der through­out.

Across from the door shim­mers a fur­nace hearth draped in meat. Against the north­ern wall reside a desk and 2 chairs, one top­pled and lack­ing a leg. To the right: An aged low door. To the right, far­ther back: A nar­row­er door.

Fur­nace hearth: A cook­ing fix­ture retro­fit under the aged man­tle. A black iron hump with pro­trud­ing tongue­like hot­plate. 32 meat strips backed in ched­dar-yel­low fat siz­zle on it, start­ing to burn.

• The hump bears a set­ting dial set to near-zero, but it remains rip­ping hot. Flame rush­es pow­er­ful­ly under the floor.

Also on the cook­top: A steam­ing black ket­tle. Inside swim glands in salt broth, cooked spongy and gray, trail­ing ragged tubes.

Desk and chairs: Bat­tered, notched wood. On the desk: A torn let­ter. Inde­ci­pher­able (cod­ed.) A spilled inkpot just missed it. A moth­er of pearl pen (£3) lies in the lagoon of tacky ink.

• Under the desk: A pale dis­em­bod­ied fin­ger wear­ing a sil­ver class ring with an emer­ald set­ting. Grad­u­at­ing year: 3.430; 20 years ago.

Low door: Dry, thick oak. Opens into 1.6 | tow­er floor 1. Locked form that side (requires iron key.) Old iron mor­tise lock: -2 to pick.

Nar­row door: Unlocked. Reveals a spi­ral stair down to 0.0 | cel­lar. When opened, air rush­es through the door in a last­ing breeze. Down the steps, rush­ing flame grows audi­ble.

Dan­ger (night:) 3 wretch­es from 1.7 | wretch nest may squeeze out the ground-floor embra­sure described in 1.4 | boul­der base W to ambush through the front door.

1.7 | wretch nest

Dark. Rot­ten meat.

A round tow­er room. Down feath­ers and tacky red smears dirty the floor. 6 inward-flared embra­sures cir­cle the walls, shut­tered.

Shred­ded tick mat­tress­es and lumpy brown army blan­kets pile the room’s cen­ter, .5 m high. Mal­odor­ous, blood-spat­tered, and greasy. Ama­ranth uni­forms lie amidst, torn and dark­ly stained. Gun­spring sabot-bits crunch under­foot.

• Dan­ger (day:) 4 rag­wretch­es sleep with­in the filthy pile, near-indis­tin­guish­able. 2 with hatch­et; 2 with ser­vice gun­srings. A fifth lies dead; bled out from half-healed gun­shot wounds mid-sleep.

In the nest:

• 2 bot­tles of pep­per vod­ka, a jammed LMW Sturm­caliv­er with full coil and full 330gr mag­a­zine, a can of tur­pen­tine, a crow­bar, a sil­ver mel­on spoon (£2,) and a tin bowl of pink, fat­ty, veined flesh-scoops.

East, a spi­ral stair­case ascends, cov­ered in feath­er tick­ing adhered by dried blood. A armor stand at its foot wears a shin­ing cuirass and plumed hel­met.

Shut­ters: Exter­nal shut­ters locked from with­in (requir­ing small steel key.)

Armor: Pine armor stand wear­ing:

• an ornate hard leather mus­cle cuirass w. embossed Lothrheimer eagle, ful­ly gild­ed in sil­ver (5|3 chest.)
• a match­ing parade pickelhaube—also silvered—w. brass buc­cu­lae (cheek guards) and osten­ta­tious ama­ranth plume (5|2.)

1.8 | tower foot

Faint sewage, dimmed by the cold.

A mound of human waste slopes against the tow­er’s curv­ing lime­stone foun­da­tion, the mason­ry above stained and etched by urine. Deposit­ed by the over­hang­ing cedar 2.3 | garder­obe.

A knife blade pro­trudes from the piled feces.

• Knife: A knuck­le knife stuck han­dle-down in the shit. Stout mil­i­tary mod­el. Han­dle wrapped in foul, fleshy red leather. Under it, a heather-stem armor­er’s stamp sug­gests Ward Ranger issue.

9 m over­head, a hairy rope dan­gles from a grap­nel lodged in the garder­obe’s toi­let rim.

A sin­gle trail of heavy foot­prints indent the silt, lead­ing down to 1.9 | sneak­box. Large, but soft, like stock­ing feet.

Scroung­ing the beach yields 2d6 units of north­ern sea grape. A Saltre­s­tri­an del­i­ca­cy. Usu­al­ly pick­led, typ­i­cal of Saltre­s­tri­an del­i­ca­cies, but good fresh.

1.9 | sneakbox

Wind. Frozen riv­er slime. Shore­bird drop­pings.

Chilly shore­line. Wet with snow and lengths of veg­e­tal riv­er algae. The riv­er Sten is vast, hard-dri­ving, and steely grey.

A dark, elon­gat­ed boat lies at the water’s edge, wedged among waist-high lime­stone rocks, sprin­kled in snow. Stretched, oily hide over a bent wood­en frame. Entire­ly enclosed, save four oar­locks and a for­ward peep-hole. Stinks of jerky and bad breath. A flap reveals its pun­gent, black inte­ri­or, con­tain­ing:

• 4 carved oars with gnawed han­dles
• A human skull sans mandible with 16 gold­en teeth (£ ea.)

FLOOR 2

2.0 | floor 2 stairs

Dark. Strong, dry putrescine from above, like bad breath.

A dusty inter­me­di­ate land­ing. All worn stone. Brown-red stock­ing foot­prints tracked through­out. Smears show in the gore and grime where toe-claws dragged.

A nar­row door leads west, unlocked, to 2.1 | unpack­ing.

Con­tin­u­ing up leads to 3.0 | floor 3 stairs.

2.1 | Unpacking

Dim.

A low square room. Rafter clothed in cot­tony spi­der­webs. Dead insects crunch under­foot.

2 nar­row win­dows look out­ward from the north wall, glaz­ing thick and begrimed. Sullen beams of win­ter light illu­mi­nate 4 crates and a jum­ble of large card­board tubes piled against the east­ern wall.

The west­ern wall bumps out to form the bretèche inte­ri­or. The floor slot per­mits cold light. Above it, the wood­en ceil­ing slopes out­ward. From it hangs a hideous, dent­ed milk can on an iron hook. Fat green flies wan­der over the lid.

Crates: Steel-band­ed. Pine. Stamped with block text, inven­to­ry num­bers, and the red rose-clutch­ing eagle bla­zon of Lothrheim. 3 large, 1 dou­bly long. Open, save the longest.

1. “LMW Sturm­caliv­er Dienst­waffe, Kaliber 330, 6-Stück.” x2 6-shot 330gr mags (emt.,) x6 gun oil­ers, x5 loose 330gr flechettes. No guns remain.
2. “Muni­tions­bat­ter­iespule, 12-Stück.” x1 muni­tions coil (6/6) and a pile of bone-white feces wrig­gling with grubs.
3. “Bad Salz Nitro-Work­shop Apfel­muster Hand­granate, 4-Stück.” x2 apple grenades packed like pre­cious fruit in straw nests, . (or x1 if the wretch­es threw one.)
4. “LMW 23 Mehrfachraketen­wer­fer­sys­tem.” Longest crate (2m.) Sealed with sta­pled met­al bands. Might -6 to open. Con­tains an array of 3 black steel tubes: A triple rock­et gun. Unloaded. 24 bur­den.

Card­board tubes: 4 tubes stamped “raketenpfeil HE - 60 mm.” 3 emp­ty, tin caps dis­card­ed. The sealed tube con­tains 1 bal­sa wood-sabot­ed rock­et with a gleam­ing pen­e­tra­tor tip.

Milk can: Full (2 #) and putrid. Paint­ed in gory hand­prints. The large green flies cir­cle it, bril­liant-faceted blue eyes glit­ter­ing, pal­pa­bly smack­ing into things. In the can, dozens of inch-long grubs with bul­bous, blind­ly-wav­ing heads wrig­gle through a pud­ding of organ meats and coag­u­lat­ing blood, chew­ing audi­bly.

Low door: Dry, thick oak. Opens into 2.2 | bunkroom.