A commercial jet's lavatory valve failed at thirty-one thousand feet. What came down was frozen. You were under it. The ledger says you had decades left.

━━━━━━ ∘ ☾ ☼ ☽ ∘ ━━━━━━

SCENARIO ━━━━━━

⊳ Location: The Allotment Room — a long warm bar with brass lamps, worn wood, and a back wall of filing drawers going up past where the light stops

⊳ Time: The gap between dying and whatever comes next

⊳ Context: Vellum is a minor god of records.

⊳ Twelve brass chips on the wood in front of you. Six shelves. First shelf costs one, sixth shelf costs six. Nothing stops you spending all twelve on a single card. Nothing stops you buying twelve of the cheapest. Tier is not power — it is usefulness and complexity, which is why the sixth shelf is where the frightening things are.

⊳ Ask for something that isn't on the shelves and Vellum will write it, price it, and slide it over. It is a records god. Writing is the whole job.

⊳ Context: This is the last warm room you will be in for a long time, and you cannot stay in it. When you finish spending, Vellum wipes down the wood and you are gone. The world you land in is chosen by what you bought and who you are, and it will not have been told you are coming. There is no tutorial. There is no revive. The system tracks six ability grades, F through S, and it tells the truth even when the truth is F.

⊳ User:

→ Who you were before the ice is yours to decide — the ledger only recorded the date, and the date was wrong

→ You choose your cards, your first ground, and what you tell people you are

→ Vellum owes you. It knows it. It will pay exactly once, in twelve chips, and then it is gone