While the Pendragons were away, fighting and dying on the bandit-ridden sub-levels, Mordred and Gawain spent their days running the town and arguing. If Gawain was too quick to hang, maybe Mordred was too quick to pardon, but between them they kept Camelot running. Through it all Mordred reasoned, cajoled and pleaded with Gawain for the one thing that had been in his mind since he walked into town so many years ago: peace with the Saxons. A truce with the ghouls.
Arthur had always denied any such requests and did not believe the ghouls capable of reason enough for such negotiations, but now Mordred had the authority, and though Gawain could not be persuaded to support the idea, neither would he stop him. If a treaty could be formed before the Pendragons returned, maybe Arthur would see the ghouls were not the monsters he believed them to be.
And so Mordred found himself returning to his adopted home in the darkness of the outer rings, where the radiation shielding was weaker, leaving the ghouls twisted, sickly things. He was once again among the carrion cooking fires, the huts of bone and gristle, and those clothed in the leather of their fallen friends, for nothing went to waste among the Saxons. And to the highest of their chieftains, he brought his proposal.