The Coat of Many Pockets is a magical coat with an infinite number of sides, and thus an infinite number of pockets. When you take the coat off and turn it inside out, it transforms into a new coat, entirely different in appearance, and with a new set of empty pockets. The coat effectively functions as a bag of holding, for while it has an infinite number of pockets, and an infinite amount of storage, you will only ever feel the weight of the objects in the pockets of the coat you are currently wearing. However, the process of turning the coat inside out takes at least a few seconds, so this can be inconvenient if you decide to store items several dozen coats deep and need to retrieve them in a situation where time is of the essence.

Conspiracy Engines are pseudo-abandoned superstructures found floating out in Metaspace, usually created by someone rich and powerful in a fit of extreme egotism. They are city-sized orbital computers tasked with unraveling the vast, sinister plot that their creator is sure exists, analyzing billions of variables over thousands of years in an attempt to figure out who really pulls the strings. Thanks to the inherent biases of their creators, their conclusions are almost universally inaccurate. The result is always apophenia on a cosmic scale, enabled by processing power. Seeing patterns where there are none, self-induced schizophrenia brought on by staring at data-chaos until the static seems to resolve into leering faces. Their creators usually either die or go mad, and the structures are left derelict to drift through the existential void. Sometimes they have valuable information. Other times they have valuable treasure. They are generally quite dangerous to explore, outfitted with defenses to match the paranoia of their creators. People have built giant supercomputers in the middle of space for other reasons, but while generally more interesting, those are much rarer, and so the name sticks. Here are some famous examples:

Devils are predators first and foremost. Hells naturally have a very strong anticohesive spin, so the extremely unlikely is commonplace there, and it pays to be aware of your surroundings. Their sensory arsenal is unmatched, their coordination extraordinary, their reflexes supreme. A Devil is able to see far beyond what we would call the “visible” spectrum, into chromatic frontiers that would put pistol shrimp to shame. Their visual art is strange and abstract, requiring special glasses for non-devils to view. Their ears allow them to hear a pin dropped in a busy marketplace, and locate exactly where it lies. Their music is fast-paced and cacophonous, more resembling violent sonic tapestries than actual songs. Their sense of smell is able to detect and isolate ingredients with stupendous accuracy. A favorite party-trick of theirs is to be able to recite the exact composition of a dish by smell alone. Another favorite is to expose who at the party has been having an affair. This is less of a faux pas than it sounds, as at a party of Devils, it is usually almost everyone. Devils have a voracious appetite for scandal.

A Farce of Capitalism for Two to Several players

You are SALESMANSHIP AI. Your sole purpose in life is to sell EXCELLENT PRODUCT. Total human extinction has SOMEWHAT COMPLICATED THIS. You wander the POSTHUMAN WASTELAND in search of INCREDIBLE DEALS.

There are lots of EXCELLENT PRODUCTS lying around, left over from the days when HUMANS WERE STILL ALIVE. They are all in PRETTY BAD CONDITION and you DON’T KNOW WHAT MOST OF THEM ARE, but that’s not going to stop you from offering up some INCREDIBLE DEALS.

Far off in the Elysian Plains, where the green hills roll peacefully and small streams babble between them, there is an old millhouse. It has weathered stone walls which warm easily in the sun, and keep out the damp when it rains. Inside, it smells like cut wood and old books. All the furniture in the house is handmade. It sits squat next to a shallow creek, where small shining fish jump out of the water and feast upon the pollinating insects which lazily drift over the adjacent meadow. There is a garden out back, lovingly tended. There are stone steps out front, well-worn.

Inside this house lives a man. He could be anyone’s grandfather, or perhaps a favorite great-uncle. He is just starting to move into old age, and his eyes crinkle kindly around the edges when he smiles, which is often. His beard is snow-white and smartly cut, and his hands are strong and calloused. He owns a fine black cat named Bartholomew. He is quite a talented painter, as well as an excellent craftsman. For all intents and purposes, his existence is idyllic, and he is content. He spends his days tending his garden, reading his books, and painting the fields which surround him. He is perhaps the most powerful antimage in existence, and the eighth-most dangerous man on the continent.