Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the 38-1/2 foot pole in the center of our fair settlement was carved by Ratskins, but not everyone knows the story behind it. Seeing as this is the first issue of the very first Ratspole monthly newspaper, our editors thought it best to give you readers a little history lesson.
The entrance to the great network of domes that now contains nearly twenty settlements, including Ratspole, was first discovered by the notorious outlaw Harwyck Varkson, better known as Black Harry.
Harry was on the run after killing a Guilder in Parson's Pit, and was being chased down hard by a ready alliance of gangs and bounty hunters from that area. Just when it looked like they had him cornered, old Harry heard a sound like a heavy stubber going off right inside his skull. Then the ground gave way beneath his feet, and Harry went for the ride of his life.
Well, it just so happened that a hive quake had broken the ceiling of the Ratspole dome. After sliding for over a quarter mile, the outlaw found himself in a huge open area, covered with archeotech! When he finally made his way back to P's Pit, he had dredged up enough ancient gear to retire a wealthy man. Unfortunately for Harry, though, he was still recognized by the Watchmen thereabouts. When they brought him up for trial, Black Harry tried to barter for his life - he would tell the guilders where his hidden cache of archeotech was if they would spare his life. Pretending to along with him, the Watchmen took his directions, found the collapsed dome, then hanged him anyway! Which just goes to show you that, as the great Marshal Gape Frakkinhead once said, "Justice in the Underhive ain't for sale!"
From that point on, settlers and prospectors have flowed into Ratspole dome by the hundreds, eventually collecting themselves together and founding the towns we live in today. Still, every once in a while, some green prospector runs into a big load of 'tech, only to be driven off by an ornery looking outlaw with a big black beard. The locals usually say something like, "That'd be ol' Black Harry's ghost, protectin' his claim. You'd best stay clear o' them parts, son. Somethin' always seems to happen to folks who take what belongs to the dead." Stories like that one are part of the great legend that surrounds our home.
Indeed, it wasn't long before the settlers ran into trouble - big trouble. As it turned out, a very large tribe of Ratskins had decided sometime before that the dome was sacred land, and that those who tread on it must be slaughtered. The very first settlement to be founded in these parts was burned to the ground in a single night, all inhabitants murdered in their sleep. A bounty of 25 credits was put up by some enterprising guilders, including Chang Logair, for the hide of any Ratskin found in the area. Immediately, scores of the toughest hombres in the Underhive were making their way over to do business.
The investment paid off. Within three months, there was not a Ratskin left in the area. Ratskin raids had ceased completely. The only sign that the savages had ever inhabited the place is the giant pole of dried fungus that appeared in the center of our town, seemingly out of nowhere, on its founding day. At the very top of the great monument is the carved face of a huge, grinning rat. After a fearful week expecting an attack from the Ratskins, the townsfolk eventually came to the realization that this was simply a parting gift. The dome's former inhabitants had moved on. In appreciation of this final peace, Founding Guilder Bavvy G. Yurble dubbed the new town "Ratspole".
These days, we no longer believe that the Ratskins left the pole as a good luck charm - rather the opposite. I was recently able to interview Grey Spider, a Ratskin guide passing through Central Square. Here are his comments:
"Bad medicine. Bad, very bad, medicine. This place cursed by old Spider Tongue tribe. No good for anyone who live here. Go from here, you want stay 'live. I not stay for thousand credits."
And, indeed, the old fellow left town as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him. I just didn't have the heart to tell him the pole had been here since before he was born, and that, in the time since, the town hasn't suffered anything worse than a run of fever. So much for primitive superstition!