The following takes place in an alternate future, where electricity was never invented. Instead, an ancient art was discovered: the art of runecrafting. Society evolved around these runes, creating logic-calculators, weapons, displays, even starships and space stations.
Our heroes find themselves on one of these many stations, being bustled into an elevator along with a number of others, not entirely sure how they got there.
The elevator is close, cramped and claustrophic as it plummets at unnerving speeds into the belly of the station. Brightly-garbed people of varying ages clump together in the centre of elevator, while men and women dressed in browns and greys stand in each corner, their hands clasped around emblazoned metal hafts.
Slowly, the elevator comes to a halt, towering metal doors opening with a soft hum onto a vast hall. Row upon row of wooden pews, masterfully carved and etched with a score of emblems, stretch out towards the front of the hall, where a solitary man stands atop a podium, garbed in a chain coat of pure white metal. His hands rest upon a bright white lecturn of solid Arkenite, the substance on which runes have the most power.
The guards step from the elevator first, moving forwards to positions at the ends of each row. One, the largest, remains by the elevator. Standing aside the door, he gestures with a hand towards the group in the elevator who, in turn, begin to file into the room.
Sishio struts out from somewhere amid the group, making his way brazenly to a pew near the front the of great hall, seating himself with a loud thud. Newt and Gravy slowly make their way to seats further back, the former stopping to take a long glance at the outline of a mythical beast, delicately carved into the woodwork of the bench.
“Oh wow, somebody spent a lot of time working on that body..” mumbled Newt as he took a seat. One of the nearby guards slowly turned and, eyeing Newt up and down, gave her a soft wink and thanks.
“My body’s better!” came a shout from a pew a few rows further forward. This was met by a harsh shushing from another of the nearby guards.
As the last of people take their seats, the chain-clad man hits a long, metal rod against the bright-white of lecturn. The lights rapidly dim, leaving only the man illuminated by the soft glow of the lecturn. A sudden silence sweeps the room, not even a single whisper audible within the murky darkness. After what seems like age, the man at the front begins to speak.
Insanity in a Nutshell 