The Eight Commandments
I.
Thou Shalt Arrive Prepared, for The Wolfe Abhors a Mess.
Take a shower. Bring thy dice, thy warband, and thy rulebook. Arrive on time and ready for the session. Nobody wants yesterday's beer-stained pizza crumbs falling from thy hoodie onto the table, for The Wolfe of the Wastes solves problems, he does not create them. Be professional.
II.
Thou Shalt Bring Worthy Tribute for the Maw.
The battle is long and requires fuel. Bringeth snacks and drinks to the table, and share them, for Mawgar the Earth Gnasher teaches that all things are meant to be consumed. An offering of stale pizza and warm beer is an insult to the World-Chewer, and thy dice rolls shall be just as unsatisfying.
III.
Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Cheat to Live, for the Mandate is Absolute.
Know the rules, and follow them. Do not fudge a dice roll, nor move a warrior an extra inch when no one is looking. For Lord Vincel Rhames of the Mandate sees all, and the consequences for violating the sacred contract of the game are medieval and unpleasant for all involved.
IV.
Thou Shalt Pay Attention, Lest the Shepherd Find Thee Weak.
Thy phone is a distraction, a path to the tyranny of evil men. The Shepherd Grimm demands clarity and righteous action. A player scrolling through memes when it is their turn to act is weak, and their warband shall be smote with great vengeance and furious anger by those who are paying attention.
V.
Thou Shalt Embrace the Unforeseen Occurrence.
The dice will betray you. A plan will go horribly wrong. A Grot will somehow one-shot your mighty leader. This is the way of Saint Vincent, the Wanderer. Do not rage against the abyss; embrace it, for the story of a glorious failure is a finer tale than that of a boring victory. Enjoy the little differences.
VI.
Thou Shalt Endure Thy Defeat with Morbid Grace.
Suffering is inevitable; thy warband will be crushed. Schopenfester teaches this. But there is a choice. Thou can suffer the "bad pain" of a tantrum, or thou can choose the "good pain" of a hearty "well played" and a swig of ale. Choose thy suffering, and find the grim comfort in knowing there is always the next game.
VII.
Thou Shalt Be Cool, for the Shepherd's Path is Righteous.
The game is a sacred pact, and thy opponent is a fellow traveller, not a vessel for thy salt. Do not gloat in victory, nor whine in defeat. Do not argue over trivialities, nor engage in tactical dawdling. For The Shepherd Grimm demands Righteous Action, and to act the genital at the table is to invite the fury of good men. Be cool.
VIII.
Thou Shalt Keep the Pact of Silence.
What happens in the campaign, stays in the campaign. Do not speak of the plot twists to those who have not yet played them. Do not reveal the secret weakness of the final boss. The Veiled Dame teaches that the world is held together by unspoken secrets. To spoil the story is to break the pact, and for this, there is no forgiveness.
The Sink & The Drain
The realm of the abyss is not an abstract dimension of pure energy; it is The Sink.
The Sink
A universe-spanning basin where the metaphysical filth of all reality collects. It is a swirling, scum-slick void filled with the congealed grease of broken promises, the grime of moral compromises, the rotting food scraps of failed ambitions, and the sharp, dangerous potential of discarded ideas (the "knives and forks"). Floating on this cosmic filth are the iridescent, ephemeral soap bubbles of lost dreams and the caustic, chemical slicks of dishwashing liquid that represent pure, reality-bending magic.
The Drain
At the bottom of The Sink is the ultimate oblivion, the point of no return: The Drain. It is the gurgling, lightless maw that all things—grease, grime, bubbles, and souls—are inevitably pulled towards. To be lost to The Drain is to be utterly and finally erased.
The Deities - The Inner Square, the Wood Pulp Pantheon
Lord Vincel Rhames of the Mandate
God of Pride & Consequence. The Gilded Proprietor. The Final Word.
The Gilded Proprietor is the only god who’ll take your autograph as collateral. He sits on a mountain of briefcases, sipping sunlight while you drown in the rain. To Rhames, your soul is just a Shiner that hasn't been spent yet - the divine insistence that even if the world ends, the house still wins. Always.
The Shepherd Grimm
God of Clarity & Righteous Action
A wall of meat in an ironed apron of stiffened intent. Grimm doesn’t do "mercy" - that’s for people who still have their teeth. He’s the silence before the gavel breaks your ribs. He is the anchor in the mud, the grim promise that even when reality fails, someone’s still coming to collect the fine.
Saint Vincent, the Wanderer
God of the Chaotic Journey
The god of the desperate mile and the survivor who’s too stubborn to stay dead. Vincent is the ghost who crawls back to the pub when the crows are already picking their teeth with his ribs. He’s the patron of the long walk, the saint of Unforeseen Luck that keeps you standing.
The Veiled Dame
Goddess of Taboo & The Secret
She’s the shadow at the edge of the bar, the one who knows exactly why you shouldn't look in that cellar. The Dame is the goddess of restraint, the architect of the holy "No." She teaches that to survive the Sink, you’d better know which doors to leave bolted and barred.
The Wolfe of the Wastes
God of Restoration & Competence
The Wolfe is professionalism with a kill count. He loathes the jury-rigged mess others call a strategy. He treats a slaughter like a surgical trade, sharp and clinical. He’s the divine reminder that in a land of scrambling fools, the man with the sharpened blade and the steady hand is king.
The Deities - The Outer Circle
Leviakh
The Saturation Doctrine
The Drowning God who wrote the book on the salt-stained apocalypse. He teaches that the universe is a circle of blood and the only way to find the calm is to trigger the storm. He’s the architect of the bloody dawn, the necessary tide that has to drown the world to clean it.
Mawgar, the Earth Gnasher
God of Consumption
The Maw made manifest. Mawgar doesn't pray; he chews. He views the entire world as a slow-motion buffet of stone and bone. To follow him is to accept that you are what you eat - and if you’re lucky, you’ll be the one doing the grinding instead of being the grist.
Kierka-Vayu
The Pinewood Sentinel
The god of the jagged spark and the smoke in the liquid. She is the sensory riot of the Rugged Start, the vibrating focus of a heart-rate pushed to the redline. She’s the divine adrenaline that strikes when you realize you’re free, alone, and the most dangerous thing in the room.
Kragnik, The Cunning-Kind
God of the Dirty Trick
The spider in the silt and the god of the hidden snare. Kragnik mocks your big muscles and your loud roars. He’s the soft laughter in a hollow log, the divine proof that the cleverly placed trap outlasts the titan every time. He’s the god of the Dirty Trick, and proves that it works.
Grolnok, the All-Gorged
God of Primal Strength
The hunter who drinks the sunset straight from the jug. Grolnok isn't looking for calories; he’s looking for the thrum. He is the spiritual furnace fueled by the hearts of predators. He’s the belief that if you eat the beast, you get the fury - a holy, bloody internal combustion engine.
Seda
The Copper-Glow Stoic
The goddess of the amber end. Seda is the soft, copper light that settles when the day’s madness finally ebbs. She offers the Path of Ataraxia - a cynical, soothing peace for those who’ve opted out of the Churning and just want to watch the final sunset with a quiet glass.
Baudriarch, the Gilded Null
The Path of the Simulacrum
The weaver of the beautiful lie. Baudriarch thinks reality is a dirty first draft and offers you the simulation instead. He is the god of the song that stops your heart, the performance so real it overwrites your memories. Why settle for the truth when the copy is perfected?
Obol-Shoth
The Ledger Wraith
Draped in the yellowed parchment of a thousand unpaid tabs, Obol-Shoth is the divine auditor of your soul, the cold insistence that every breath you take is a predatory loan. He’s the terrifying reminder that in the end, every Shiner you spend is balanced against a drop of your own blood.
Nzzetche
The Will-Shaper
The patron of the self-forged and the king of the arrogant. Nzzetche burns your maps and tells you to draw your own. He whispers that reality is just a lump of clay for a hand strong enough to squeeze it. Truth isn't discovered here; it’s hammered out in a forge.
Mulk-The-Sorrow
Curator-Scion of Displaced Treasures
The divine mourner who finds the ghost of The Good Times in the gutter. Mulk is the god of the rusted locket and the faded photograph. She teaches that nothing is trash if it holds a memory, preserving the fragments of a world that everyone else was too busy eating.
Ghybber, the Chittering Gloom
God of Madness and Multitudes
A psychic rot in the garden of your mind. Ghybber is the many-voiced anarchy of the swarm, the sweet, homicidal surrender to the chorus. He is the chittering joy of a thousand throats screaming one insane proclamation in the dark. It’s a riot, and everyone’s invited, as long as they’ve lost their sanity.
Putzrosh'eth
The Fermenter of Slag
The divine chemist dwelling where the world’s bile meets the earth’s rot. He is the patron of the deep ferment, the god who breaks your trauma down into the silt of survival. He distills the world’s filth into a hardened, functional truth. It’s bitter, but it keeps you moving.
Riz-Chancc
Divine Scrivener of the Loaded Long-Shot
The patron of the kinetic hustle and the grifted miracle. Riz-Chance is the god of jury-rigged hope, the architect who nudges the dice until they show a favoured flaw. He’s the king of the silver-tongued speculators, the one who talks the void into handing over its wallet.
Schopenfester
The Great Pendulum
The divine philosopher of the inevitable ache. Schopenfester is the god of the survivor who sees the void and greets it with a hedonistic roar. He’s the master of the Chosen Suffering - if life is going to be a tragedy, you might as well perform it while you’re spectacular and drunk.
Archotek, the Silent Architect
The Tyranny of Perfection
The mason who thinks your skin is a disordered cage. He seeks the Tyranny of Perfection, the day when the last heart stops and the Sink is filtered into a geometric necropolis. He’s the architect of the silent blueprint - clean, cold, and dead. No mess, just bone.
Krank, the Manic Spark
God of Manic Invention
The god of the wrench and the glorious wreckage. Krank is the divine tinkerer of "violent improvement," believing perfection is a machine so over-engineered it defies the laws of physics. He’s building the MAAAWWWW! Engine - a project of pure industrial spite intended to scream louder than the end itself.
Currencies of The Eightpints
Three determinations of your worth.
Shiners
It's not gold, not really. A Shiner is a thick, grimy brass token, its face worn smooth by the thumbs of a thousand desperate souls. They say the first ones were minted by a brewery consortium, which is why so many still have the faint outline of a hop leaf on one side. But the name stuck for a different reason. A good brawl means you get a purse full of Shiners; a bad one means you get paid with a shiner. It’s the only currency that matters when the ale is low and the knives are out. It’s the price of a meal, a blade, a life, and another round. In the end, it’s all the same.
Metvél-Kaltos
A full purse of Shiners will get you a drink, but it won't tell you if the man who sold it to you has a blade hidden under the bar. That is the currency of Metvél-Kaltos. It is the quiet, internal coin of the survivor, minted from a fusion of raw cunning, strategic wisdom, and gritty ingenuity. It’s the ability to see the trap before it’s sprung, to read the lie in a rich man's smile, to know the unwritten rules of a back-alley deal. Metvél-Kaltos is the wealth of the mind, and unlike a Shiner, it's the one currency you can't afford to lose, because no one will ever know you've spent your last drop until it's far too late.
Clout
Clout is the heaviest currency in the world, and it doesn't make a sound. It’s the weight of your name, the shadow your reputation casts when you walk into a room. It’s not earned with coin, but forged in the fires of a hundred desperate brawls, impossible victories, and terrifying acts of cruelty or kindness. It’s the reason a warlord’s command is obeyed without question, the reason a merchant unseals his "special stock," and the reason a thug in an alley decides you are not the easy mark they were looking for. Shiners can buy you a sword, but only Clout can make your enemies too afraid to make you draw it.
Testimony from a Drunk in a Tavern
A hulking brute whose laughter sounds like the grinding of ships' hulls. He sees every battle as a sacred offering to the great Leviathan, a necessary act of chaos to bring about the final, perfect order.
Tide-Lord Kor'gath, the Breaker
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