For years the people of the Tradelands, one of many valleys crisscrossing the Barrier Peaks between the Deadlands and Grass Plains (to the east) and the Lost Paradise (to the west), have been prey to raiders and beasts from the wastes. Though situated on the main trade routes, the towns of the Tradelands are remote enough to lack the protection and civilization of the major trading houses.
Introduction:
Born into this hostile world, you each have struggled relentlessly to survive despite the best efforts of many men and mutants. Each of you has a long story to tell of a childhood amongst the ruins - stories of siblings who were killed during the hunt, friends who were lost to raiders, or neighbours caught by the disease gods as they sifted the sands to separate the weak from the strong. You have lived, however, and learned. Facing adversity, you have grown wiser and remained strong.
You now find yourselves in a dusty chamber, lit only through portals blocked with slowly rotating blades, allowing a little circulation into this dirty room. Around the walls sit chairs bearing delegates from the most influential communities of the area: Bazaar (the town hosting the council), Dry Fort, and Spilunk. You have been introduced to a few of the representatives, standing in a group in the center of the room, being examined from all sides like animals ready for sale.
"They looking like not much, eh?" states the pale Elder Vilic of Spilunk. "Are you sure will do?" he says with a look of worry easily discernable on his hideous face, seemingly composed of a mass of chunky tumors and subtly misplaced features.
"More like grubs than bronze, eh?" says the cleanly clad Trademaster Gorgel of the merchants.
"Trash. All of them trash. You have wasted my time, Gorgel," mutters Captain Ulz, an apparent veteran soldier from the settlement of Dry Fort, his proud bearing marred by deformations and hunched back; clearly a mutant as well from his withered nose, jagged teeth, and misaligned eyes.
"They answered the call. No others. Our future may depend on these scags." These words come from Trademaster Gorgel of Bazaar - who now motions to you with his hand, revealing short, stubby fingers.
"You may have come seeking profit or to answer the duty of your various communities. You may or may not even be from the Tradelands - I do not know. But I will tell you what is happening. Raiders have been much trouble over these many years. Time and time again supplies have been taken, homes destroyed, our women stolen.
"This cannot continue. We, the people of Bazaar, Dry Fort, and Spilunk comprise a secret alliance of towns unwilling to suffer this humiliation any longer."
"You..."
His voice lingers for a moment, as if he too were on the verge of reconsidering.
"...are to help us win our freedom. Simple, no?"
"Ahem..." cuts in Elder Vilic. "About the..."
"Yes, I will get to that," interrupts Trademaster Gorgel. "As we do not know the true strength of our enemy, we cannot risk the raiders thinking you work for us. The Wastelords, as they are known, are legendary for their brutal reprisals. You will be 'simple wanderers' or 'phantoms' if you fail or are captured. Understood?"
"I can see worry on your faces. We must survive and trade is important to survival. If you help, you will get much. If you do as needed, we are willing to give you each five hundred credits. In addition, the leaders of the communities will give you more... maybe."
"What do you say?"
(FYI - 'credits' are the common currency of the major trading houses. They are actually Ancient ID cards, credit cards, telephone cards, security cards, etc. Made out of durable plastic, hundreds of millions have survived intact into the current age and are now used as a form of cash.)