The Coliseum’s layout subtly changes over time. Doors that led to locker rooms now descend into stone corridors veined with alien script. Stairwells occasionally open onto arenas that should not fit inside the building.
Minotaurs insist this is not corruption—it is leakage.
Fragments of Minos, their lost labyrinthine
home-dimension, echo through the structure. Not enough to fully exist, but
enough to leave architectural afterimages. These echoes react strongly to
music. Loud, emotionally charged performances can temporarily stabilize corridors,
open sealed vaults, or summon phantom audiences that cheer in languages no one
speaks anymore.
Ed-Town cartographers have given up trying to map the
interior. Minotaurs navigate by instinct, rhythm, and muscle memory that might
belong to their future selves.
The Coliseum District Map Legend
“Alright, Listen Up, Man-o”
Axel Thunderpipes Explains the Coliseum Map
Recorded sometime after midnight, possibly before a show.
Axel insists it’s still accurate.
Look, first thing you gotta understand, friend—
the map ain’t wrong. It’s just not trying to win a math contest.
People come in here with clipboards, rulers, that
city-planning look in their eyes, and they say, “Axel, this hallway
shouldn’t be here.”
And I say, “Yeah? Neither should half the stuff you love.”
The Coliseum ain’t a building anymore. It’s a riff that
forgot how to end.
Back when it was just concrete and sponsorship banners,
sure, you could map it. Now? Now it listens. Now it remembers. Now it gets
ideas. You play the right song in the wrong place, and suddenly a door opens
where a wall used to be, and everyone acts surprised, like stone hasn’t always
loved music.
So the map—
it shows you what might be there.
It shows you what has been there.
And sometimes it shows you what wants to be there again.
That’s plenty.
Why the Distances Don’t Line Up
People always ask me why the north tunnel says “three songs”
on the map.
Because that’s how long it takes.
You walk it during a slow set; it takes longer.
Fast set? Boom. You’re through.
Encore? Buddy, you might end up backstage in a year that hasn’t happened yet.
If you’re counting steps, you already missed the point.
About the Minos Stuff (Don’t Stress)
Yeah, yeah, the labyrinth echoes, the time nonsense, the
doors that hum when nobody’s playing. That’s not a bug, man-o. That’s heritage.
Minos broke. Pieces fell. Some of ’em landed here.
We didn’t build the Coliseum like this—we tuned it.
If you get lost, that doesn’t mean the place is hostile.
It just means it’s checking if you’re worth finding.
Can You Get Hurt?
Absolutely.
But not usually because of the map.
Most folks get hurt ’cause they:
·
disrespected a Band’s space
·
tried to shut down a show
·
followed the drums without being invited
·
or thought silence was safer than feedback
The map can’t fix stupid, brother.
Why I’m the One Explaining This
Yeah, yeah, I know. “Axel, you’re the only one who still
talks to city hall.”
That’s ‘cause I remember when this place was worse.
I book the acts.
I greet the guests.
I make sure the after-show parties don’t spill into something ancient and
hungry unless everybody agrees it’s a good idea.
So when I tell you the map’s “accurate enough,” what I mean
is:
It’ll get you where you need to go—if you’re honest about why you’re here.
Final Advice (Free of Charge)
If the map stops making sense:
·
Sit down
·
Tune something
·
Listen
Someone will show up. They always do.
And if they don’t?
Well.
Guess it’s your turn to play.
— Axel Thunderpipes
Former Frontman, Current Headache
Thunderpipes Clan, Ed-Town
Real-World Landmarks, Reimagined
The Coliseum District sprawls outward into what were once
familiar Edmonton sites, now warped into supporting roles for Minotaur culture:
Borden Park
Once a carefully manicured green space, Borden Park has
become one of the few places in Ed-Town where the volume drops on purpose. The
grass is trampled but tended, the trees hung with strings of mismatched lights
and the occasional forgotten patch or charm. Minotaurs, locals, freelancers,
and travellers all pass through, sharing food, stories, and low-key acoustic
sets that would never survive the Coliseum. There are no posted rules here, but
everyone knows them: you don’t draw weapons, you don’t settle scores, and you
don’t drown out someone else’s song. Violence isn’t banned—it’s simply out of
tune, and nobody wants to be the one who breaks the park’s fragile harmony.
Plot Hook: During a twilight acoustic session, a
soundcheck ripple passes through Borden Park—subtle, wrong, and unmistakable to
anyone who knows Minotaur culture. Something is trying to answer the music, but
the park isn’t built to contain it. The Bands won’t escalate without cause,
City Hall doesn’t want the Coliseum involved, and everyone agrees on one thing:
whatever’s coming has to be dealt with quietly, before Borden Park stops
feeling wrong to fight in.
Coliseum LRT
Station (Former)
The Coliseum LRT Station was never properly abandoned—it
just stopped agreeing with timetables. Rusted tracks still cut through the
concrete in places, vanishing into sealed tunnels or re-emerging where walls
insist they were never built. Minotaurs favor the lower platforms as rehearsal
chambers, drawn to the station’s impossible acoustics: notes linger too long,
echoes arrive early, and feedback sometimes answers in harmony. Old transit
maps are used as chord charts, and platform benches hold amps instead of
commuters. Everyone knows the rumours—trains that glide in without lights,
announcements that never finish, doors that open onto places that aren’t on any
line—but nobody calls them ghosts. They’re just runs no one’s finished
mapping yet.
Plot Hook: A phantom train rolls into the station
during a late-night rehearsal, perfectly on beat with the Band’s final chord.
The doors open, and something—or someone—steps off carrying a transit pass
stamped with a date that hasn’t happened yet. The train won’t leave, the
acoustics are warping fast, and if the rhythm breaks, the platform may become a
Gauntlet. The Minotaurs want to play it out. City Hall wants it sealed.
The players are stuck in the middle—deciding whether this run ends with a
fade-out or a derailment.
Echo Circuit (Former Northlands Racetrack)
Once a horse racing
track, the Echo Circuit remains a place where speed, ego, and money once
collided. Minotaurs reclaimed it not as a monument but as a release circuit—a
place where momentum is spent rather than hoarded. Bands, riders, vehicles, and
runners circle the track in ritualized motion, burning off excess aggression,
psychic buildup, and social pressure. The Loop is not about winning; it is
about continuing. Anyone can enter. Anyone can leave. What matters is whether
you listen to the rhythm of the track instead of trying to dominate it.
The Ghosts of the Loop
The ghosts never left. Spectral horses still manifest at full gallop, ears back
and eyes distant, running not for joy but because they were made to—creatures
of catlike disdain, stubborn independence, and long memories for mistreatment.
More troubling are the Ghosts of the Privileged: former owners, bettors, and
powerbrokers whose entitlement hardened into afterimages, drunk and loud,
convinced the track still belongs to them. They shout orders, interfere with
runs, and try to call races that no longer exist. Minotaurs do not exorcise
these spirits; they outlast them, running the Loop until the ghosts are forced
to remember that the world kept moving without them. Witches quietly calm the
dead after major runs, Scrap Foots treat the track with reverence, and
Sentinels enforce a single unspoken rule—no one is allowed to exploit the
ghosts, no matter who they used to be.
Minotaurs say the Loop teaches an important lesson:
“If you owned everything and listened to nothing, the road remembers.”
Plot Hook: A powerful Ghost of the Privileged has
begun “calling races” again, warping the Echo Circuit’s rhythm and causing
living riders to vanish mid-lap. The Minotaurs will keep running regardless—but
they need outsiders to enter the Loop deliberately, listen to what the ghosts
are trying to finish, and decide whether this race ends with release… or reckoning.
The Ironflock Yards (Former Bouvier Grounds)
Just across the railway tracks north of the Coliseum lies
the Ironflock Yards, once a modest training ground and now one of the quietest,
most respected spaces in Minotaur territory. Shipping containers, welded
trusswork, and repurposed stage rigging form sheltered lanes and pens where
engines idle low and voices drop without anyone being asked. Violence is not
forbidden here—it simply feels wrong, like shouting during a soundcheck.
Bands, Scrap Foots, Witches, and Scouts pass through to rest, negotiate, or
wait out bad omens, and even the loudest road warriors cross the bridge slowly,
weapons stowed, instincts checked. The Yards are neutral ground not by law, but
by shared understanding: this place keeps people from getting lost when the
noise gets dangerous.
Road-Beasts of the Ironflock The Ironflock are
massive, shaggy road-beasts bred—or shaped—over generations to endure engines,
crowds, psychic pressure, and long nights without breaking. Calm, stubborn, and
fiercely loyal, they move freely among Bands and vehicles, often lying directly
in walkways where no one dares step over them. Minotaurs do not claim ownership
of the Ironflock; they share the road with them. It’s widely believed that
these beasts sense aftereffects and coming trouble before any Witch or Scout—and
when an Ironflock refuses to move, wise Bands listen.
Plot Hook: An Ironflock beast refuses to cross the
bridge toward the Coliseum, planting itself at the threshold and blocking
traffic for hours—something that has never happened before. Shortly
after, a touring Band goes missing in the direction the beast would not enter,
and the Yards quietly begin asking for help.
Northlands
Grounds
Once a place of
livestock shows, midway rides, and corporate optimism, the Northlands Grounds
have become the breathing space of the Coliseum District. What were exhibition
halls and parking lots now form a shifting ring of markets, tour vehicle camps,
pop-up stages, repair pits, and semi-permanent Band territories marked with
banners, amps, and fire barrels. The layout is never quite the same twice;
camps expand or collapse based on crowd mood, touring schedules, and which
Bands are currently speaking to one another. During major shows, negotiations,
or faction summits, the Grounds act as a pressure valve—wide, loud, and
flexible enough to absorb tension that would otherwise fracture the city.
Nothing here is permanent, but everything here matters.
Plot Hook: The Ground That Wouldn’t Clear: A
major summit is scheduled between rival Bands and city representatives, but one
section of the Northlands Grounds refuses to empty. Vendors report their gear
won’t pack away, vehicles won’t start, and sound checks echo back distorted
warnings. Scouts claim the open space has become a shallow Gauntlet—responsive,
crowded, and increasingly opinionated. The players are hired to figure out why
the Grounds won’t let go: is a forgotten performance anchoring the space, a
Faustian prototype buried under asphalt, or a Band using the chaos as cover for
something much louder? Whatever the cause, if it isn’t resolved before
nightfall, the “pressure valve” is going to blow.
Old Parking Structures
The old parking garages and service yards around the
Coliseum were never meant to be walked the way Minotaurs walk them now. Ramps
have become stages, levels double as balconies, and the concrete echo turns
every footstep into percussion. Bands rehearse on inclines, pit fights spill
vertically, and crowds learn to look up as often as forward. Deeper
down, the geometry starts to slip—ramps extend farther than the building ever
allowed, shadows bend wrong, and sound travels ahead of itself. These lower
levels are known Minos Echo zones, and they’re clearly marked in paint, chalk,
and bent signage: Do Not Load Gear Past This Point. Everyone agrees the
warning is practical, not symbolic. What goes too far down starts to carry its
own rhythm.
Plot Hook: Past the Load Line: A Band reports that their lead amp—and the roadie hauling it—vanished after crossing a clearly marked load line during a rushed setup. The gear hasn’t reappeared, but the sound has: distorted riffs echoing up through the ramps, warping nearby stages and drawing crowds dangerously close to the edge. Thunderpipes logistics want the problem handled quietly before the Echo zone stabilizes into a full Gauntlet. The players must descend past the warning marks, retrieve what’s been taken, and decide whether the missing roadie wants to come back—or finish the set where the concrete still remembers Minos.
Thunderpipes
Inn
What used to be a
forgettable strip of mid-range hotels has been folded neatly into Thunderpipes
Clan territory and stripped of pretense. The rooms are clean, the walls are
thick, and the rules are simple: no fighting in the halls, no summoning after
midnight, and if you start something, you finish it somewhere else. Touring
Bands, freelance muscle, diplomats, fixers, and the occasional wide-eyed
academic all pass through, sharing elevators and bad coffee under the quiet
watch of Thunderpipes security. The staff doesn’t ask questions, but they do
remember faces—and if Axel says the house is neutral, then neutral it stays. In
a city where everything vibrates with tension, the Coliseum Inn is one of the
few places that knows how to keep the volume low without killing the song.
Plot Hook: Two rival Bands book adjacent floors of
the Coliseum Inn on the same night, each claiming they cleared it with
Thunderpipes logistics. To make matters worse, a third guest—an off-world
negotiator with something valuable and very loud in their luggage—has just
checked in under a false name. House rules are being tested, tempers are
rising, and the elevators have started skipping floors. The players are quietly
approached by Inn staff with a simple request: keep it neutral until
morning. How they manage that is their problem.
Dimensional Gauntlets of the Coliseum
“If you came back, it counts.”
Scattered throughout the Coliseum District are places that
are no longer there.
Backstage doors that open onto stone corridors that hum.
Collapsed stairwells that descend farther than the building ever allowed.
Service tunnels that end in sky, fire, or applause.
These spaces are known collectively as Dimensional
Gauntlets—pocket fragments of Minos and adjacent realities that fused to
the Coliseum during the Minotaur Arrival Event and subsequent summoning
incidents.
They are not accidents.
They are opportunities.
What Is a Dimensional Gauntlet?
A Dimensional Gauntlet is a bounded pocket-dimension
anchored to a physical location in the Coliseum. Each one is shaped by:
· Minos
architecture (stone, corridors, impossible angles)
· emotional
residue from performances
· the
intent of those who first entered it
Some are stable.
Some reset.
Some remember you.
Minotaurs insist the Gauntlets are not tests designed by
gods or architects, but responses—the world answering the question “how
far are you willing to go for this?”
Cultural Role Among Minotaurs
To Minotaurs, entering a Gauntlet is:
· a
rite of passage
· a
bid for glory
· a
dare
· or
just good stage banter
Completing one is not mandatory for adulthood, leadership,
or respect—but surviving one changes how you’re seen.
·
Bragging rights are fundamental.
·
Scars are encouraged.
·
Failure is forgiven—if you came back honest.
Those who don’t come back are not called dead.
They are still playing.
When Minotaurs Enter a Gauntlet
Common reasons include:
· Proving
readiness to join a Band
· Settling
a dispute without escalating violence
· Honouring
a fallen member’s memory
· Testing
new music, gear, or leadership
· “Because
it would be awesome.”
Axel Thunderpipes’ official stance is:
“We don’t push people in.
But we don’t stop ‘em either.”
Structure of a Gauntlet
While wildly varied, most Gauntlets share common elements:
The Opening Note
The Gauntlet reacts to sound, movement, or intent.
Silence may delay entry. Noise may accelerate it.
The Run
A series of encounters—combat, traversal, endurance, or
social—that test:
· rhythm
· teamwork
· resolve
Brute force alone rarely works for long.
The Turn
A moment where the Gauntlet changes its rules.
Often personal. Sometimes cruel. Always memorable.
The Exit
Leaving is possible at multiple points—
but finishing usually requires a deliberate act:
A performance, a stand, or a choice.
Examples of Known Gauntlets
The Stone Encore
A looping arena where the same fight repeats, each time
louder and harder.
Victory only occurs when combatants stop trying to win and start playing to
the crowd.
The Road Without End
An endless highway under a black sky, littered with broken
amps and tour vans.
Exhaustion is the enemy. Turning back is allowed—but the road remembers.
The Pit Below the Pit
A vertical Gauntlet descending through collapsing mosh pits
stacked atop one another.
Falling is expected.
Being caught is required.
The Quiet Room
A small, soundless chamber.
No enemies.
No exits.
The door only opens when someone makes noise that means
something.
Minotaurs hate this one.
The Minos Crown
A throne room fragment where the Gauntlet attempts to
elevate one member above the others.
Those who accept the crown often don’t leave.
Those who refuse are remembered.
Outsiders and the Gauntlets
Non-Minotaurs can enter Gauntlets, though they are
strongly advised to:
· go
with a Band
· listen
more than they talk
· do
not treat it like a tourist attraction
Some Gauntlets react poorly to arrogance, silence, or
attempts to “optimize” the experience.
A few have been sealed after incidents involving:
· corporate
teams
· cultists
· city
planners
· one
unfortunate influencer
The Dark Truth (Known, Rarely Said)
Minotaurs believe the Gauntlets are keeping something
contained.
That each completed run bleeds pressure away from Minos
fragments, summoning echoes and aftereffects that would otherwise manifest
elsewhere in the city.
In other words:
If people stop entering the Gauntlets,
they don’t disappear.
They spread.
Axel’s Rule on Gauntlets\
Painted near a sealed backstage door:
“Don’t go in alone unless you mean it.”
Someone later added, smaller:
“And tell someone where you’re going.”
GM / Author Utility
Dimensional Gauntlets let you:
· Drop
modular dungeons anywhere in the Coliseum
· Tie
character growth to cultural practice
· Run
non-lethal but meaningful trials
· Justify
surreal spaces without escalation creep
Closing Note (Handwritten, Attributed to Axel)
“If you think these are bad, you shoulda have been here
before we learned the volume knobs mattered.”
Minotaur Clan Mottos
“Say it loud or don’t say it.”
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