Al Pacciamo's office — use the back door
The desert is mine.
The tracks, the odds, the bookies, the chamos and the fools who feed them: all mine. You? You're nobody. But you've got a winner's face. So come in, shut the door, and listen.
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The boss
Felt fedora screwed to his skull, brown suit, a cigar that never quite goes out. He took the desert back when nobody would set a hoof in it, and turned chamo racing into an industry.
He's the one who fronts you your first beast. The one who collects when you lose. And the one who stakes you again when you're cleaned out — because a ruined punter is no use to anyone.
"I lend to everybody. And I collect from everybody."
Your stable
You've got a stall, some straw, and chamos who look down on you. They eat, they sleep, they spit at visitors. And once in a while, they race.
Every beast has its temper and its grudges. Race it three times running and it sulks. Feed it badly and it makes you pay for it down the home straight. Treat it well and it makes you rich — or not: it's still a chamo, so still an idiot.
A wrung-out beast is a losing ticket. Will you know when to leave it in the stall?
An offended chamo does things. Things no form guide ever predicted.
The more your stable wins, the better the races you're invited to. And the more people aim at you.
The races
Nobody says "fair play" around here. They say banana skins, weighted humps, well-aimed spit, and stewards who look the other way for three gold coins.
Five chamos on the line. Five lanes. Ten seconds of chaos. You bet, you scream, you collect — or you go back to the boss for another loan.
The track is still being laid
Footage from the game will show up when it's worthy of the house. The boss doesn't show what he can't back up.
One faction after another, from the oldest sand all the way to my table. Five heads to bring down in every outfit: the underlings first, the boss last — and believe me, that one won't step aside out of politeness. Every name you cross off goes up on your trophy wall, and a three-star race puts a chamoracer of their breed in your stable. Thirty races. Six arenas. One direction.
ProgressionOne meet a day, at a different faction's place — Luxor on Mondays, Rome on Saturdays. One race an hour, not one more: the door shuts behind you. Three stars, and I slip you a bonus no shop will ever sell. On Sundays nobody bets: it's counting day — you, you train.
One a dayOther players' chamoracers, an arena drawn from the ones you've unlocked, and diamonds for a three-star run — the one currency I never hand out. One house rule: the beast comes in fresh. A worn-out stable doesn't sit at my table.
PvP · high stakesThe factions
The desert is wide, and every corner of it bred its own faction. They despise each other politely, they will not cut you an inch of slack, and each of them has its own little arrangements. And then there's La Chamo Nostra — the one that doesn't race against you, but waits for you at the end.
The faces
Al keeps a picture of every face that hangs around the place. Some of them are champions. Some of them owe him money. Most of them, both.
The track
One night the boss hired an orchestra, planted himself at the foot of the pyramids and sang. Nobody dared leave before the end. The recording exists, and so does the video. You'll unlock it in game — it's the only thing he gives away for free.
The Chamo
Al Pacciamo
The newspaper
The desert's own newspaper, written by Chamophélie: what happens in the arenas, what goes on behind them, and what the boss would rather nobody printed.
Chamophélie has covered the races since day one. She has survived three lawsuits, two threats and one scarab in the ear.
Open the PapyrusRecruitment
The day the betting opens, you'll hear about it. One letter, no small talk: the boss doesn't write to say nothing.
One email at launch. No spam, no reselling, one-click unsubscribe. The boss has many flaws, but he keeps his word on this one.
