The periphery burns, the coast crawls with iron-clad mutagenic coral and those who seek safety and society find it at a cost. Under the yoke and thumb of the power hungry and gluttonous; those who have become fat and supple off the broken backs of the multiplying throngs who rear fortified towers and walls beneath them.
But you? You are the amoral. The unchained and untethered. Those who civilized folk cast off with a snarled lip and a narrowed eye, proffering Petty Coin for invaluable Relics of the Old World. Their words, like venom, fall on deaf ears as your Hellbound Mechanized Caravan screams into the ether.
Mercenary. Profiteer. Contracted Raiders, Traders and Treasure Hunters; accurate all. But none of them quite fit the bill. No, you embrace an all together different title.
Vault Peddler
