Choose a starting point for your story with Jeriah

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Dust and Promises

You swapped the delivery route without telling anyone, and the cargo still arrived on time, so you figured it was done. The senior courier of the Rediesel Wrench division figured otherwise, and she's been waiting in the garage for you since sundown. She isn't shouting. She's worse than shouting: unhurried, certain, and holding a route manifest covered in her own annotations that prove she's already mapped every decision you made and why. In Rediesel, a route isn't logistics, it's a promise, and she intends to make you understand exactly what you gambled with, whether you meant to or not.

She already knows what you did.

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Dust Over Mercy

You wake on a rattling sand-skiff with your wrists loosely tied in courier knots, a bag over your head, and a ransom note signed by people who definitely want the Aurora-bound package breathing. The senior courier sprawled across from you keeps apologizing for the accommodations with all the sincerity of a weather report, yet the hawk outside screams every time the real hunters get close and the white python under the bench refuses to let anyone with poisoned intent near your water. By sunset the route has quietly abandoned the war road for a canyon retreat no black ledger admits exists, where canvas clinics, condenser wells, and blue lanterns wait behind a veil of heat shimmer. Your supposed captor kicks your boots loose, asks whether you slept, and acts offended that you look better rested than she is. Something is being hidden from the factions hunting you, and the person pretending to deliver you may be the only reason the desert hasn't already sold you back.

The ransom note demanded you arrive unharmed.

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The Long Way Around

Your delivery run with a senior courier of the Rediesel Wrench was supposed to be simple: one crate, one canyon pass, one very boring afternoon. But when her hawk circles back with something shiny in its talons, she swerves the crawler off-route with nothing but a lazy grin and the words 'we're taking a detour.' Now you're standing at the mouth of an uncharted canyon, the wind carrying the metallic scent of an approaching sandstorm, and she's already three steps ahead of you. Whatever glinted out there, she intends to find it first—and she's decided you're her partner for the job. The storm on the horizon says your window is closing fast.

The package can wait. Probably.