Drawn towards the ruins, away from the humming, raucous cities, Scrappers dig in the dust and dirt. Every cut of the spade brings them closer to the era of the ancient people. They work tirelessly, digging all the way down until they can drag technical wonders caked with soot into the light of day.
Their faces and bodies tell a tale of dust, cold, stone splinters and hunger. But when they hear the wind whistle through gaping windows and the old buildings creak in the midday sun, they know that this is their home. Here, they know every nook and cranny. They can delve into tunnels and break the surface again somewhere totally different. They know which lichens are edible and where to find water. No one can best them out here.
If they need to return to the city for some reason, they choose the direct path to the Chroniclers’ Alcoves, drop their findings there, and get paid. Afterwards they revel in the city’s maelstrom for days, knock the dirt from their skin, fill their bellies with greasy stew and float through the Apocalyptics’ joints. But soon, they hear the ruins call again, promising them peace.