WELCOME TO NEO-NEW HAMPSHIRE


Neo-New Hampshire is a failed city built atop a forgotten war. Its Wards stretch like open wounds across the map—each one ruled by its own sickness.
No central governance. No gods left to pray to. Just towers of light feeding on the dark below. Surveillance is constant. Power is fractured.

Somewhere in the static, the Crown of Blades is carving open the myth.
Welcome to the fracture point. You made it.


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N. N. H

WELCOME TO NEO-NEW HAMPSHIRE!

Welcome to your personal paradise of corporate sleaze and industrial-scale atrocity.

Breathe deep — that’s the scent of progress rotting in the sun. The world’s gone to hell, and you’ll be begging for the past… but only after you’ve earned your keep.

The obscene. The hellish. The hypermodern.

All colliding in this twisted realm where the only certainty is someone’s not making it out alive tonight.

The world’s gone mad — but no one’s madder than the bastards pulling the strings. Section Break
Crown
RECOVERY SPECIALISTS
Relics aren’t just found. They’re bled for. No stone goes unturned in the pursuit of the wild, the rare, the insane — and above all, the profitable.

Our hunters are the sharpest edge in all of N.N.H. Cut-throat, coordinated, and committed to bringing you the best… while giving your enemies hell.

Just don’t mess with their quota — or your first responder will be scraping you off the pavement with a shovel. Assuming you’ve got insurance.

They’re the best we’ve got. So they’ll give you the best you can get.

RELIC Text Image
Pod Image

Relics are treasures from a bygone age prior to the war and before the neon hell-scape came to be.

Our specialists hunt for these antiques of a an time where the skies were clear and your brain was filled with microplastics.

For the highest bidders or those inclined. You can grab a bit of the past through our trusted suppliers. You won't find any better deals outside the Underwarrens.

Latest broadcast from DeadVision Syndicate

Prophet of the red throne
He is the inevitable. the undeniable. what he has seen will make the bedrock of the world tremble.

Through him we carve our crimson path. Through his eyes we will emerge as the bloodied sons of ruin.

For a reasonable fee of course....

Gutter Jim
Gutter Jim
MEMO #013-A
ID: HollowCrutch
Zone: Sector 3 Slum Verge, Outer Landfill Crest
Timestamp: 02:11:47 / NNH Protocol

WARD 3 ACQUISITION LOG — VERBAL TRANSMISSION
Recovered from: “Gutter Jim”
Begin Log:

“I seen it once. The Crown. Not the man, no—no one sees the man and comes back able to scream about it. I saw the sigil. Carved into the back of a corpse, deep enough it cracked the spine. And it wasn’t there when we found ‘im. We scanned. We tagged. We stripped him for parts like normal. But overnight? There it was. Burned into the skin like it grew out of the bone. A cracked crown. Bleeding down the ribs like it’d been weeping for years.”

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“Now, I ain’t a holy man. I ain’t a Belter or a Domeborn or one of those Pulse-worship freaks from Ward 9. But even I knew not to speak it out loud. The old stories say it came from before the zoning—back when the city still had a name that meant something. Said he was buried alive beneath the first dome. Or maybe wired into the city’s lungs when they still used that fancy fuckin coolant that ran like blood through the city's veins to cool grid. Pre-fusion shit. Or maybe—maybe he wasn’t ever alive at all.”

“One of ours—Fritz, you remember him, yeah? Always twitching, always running his mouth. Well, he got drunk and decided he’d carve the Crown into the side of his duster. Said he wanted protection. Said he wanted ‘a little chaos to spice things up.’ Next morning, he woke up with six shadows. I don’t mean metaphorical, I mean literal. Found 'im in his tent screaming bloody murder with them clawin' all over him like feral cats. One of ‘em moved backwards. One of ‘em tried to strangle him. We had to make him stand in the camp fire just to burn ‘em off.”

“But the weird part? He grew taller after that. An inch and a half, easy. Hair came back too. And for a while, Fritz could see the future. He called three drone raids before they happened. He found a cache of pre-fall stimulants buried in an elevator shaft. But he wouldn’t shut up. Kept laughing. Kept saying, ‘The Prophet likes me. I’m his favorite mistake.’”

“Then he vanished. One night he just walked into the Crater. No suit. No mask. Just stripped naked and marched toward the bloom.”

“We heard him scream. But the sound didn’t go up. It went down. Like the city swallowed it.”

“So yeah. You can draw the Crown if you want. Maybe you’ll teleport halfway through a wall. Maybe you’ll piss razors for three weeks. Or maybe you’ll just get lucky and die fast. But me? I don’t draw that sigil. I don’t even think it. Because whatever the Prophet is—man, machine, god, ghost—he ain’t asleep anymore, he's watchin' you, watchin' all of us now.”

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