In a fit of madness, I cobbled a spreadsheet that tabulates Incunabuli time segments (peril, danger, and peacetime.) In the words of Gary G: "You can not have a meaningful campaign if strict time records are not kept"

The Office of Northern Wilderland Management has rescheduled Mimingham Wood—formerly a Schedule 4 Forbidden Forest—to Schedule 3 ("risk to life and limb at all hours.") Mimingham locals are furious. This will destroy property values.

This is a well-made online rulebook! Still in development. It reminds me of Butterick's Practical Typography and his book-making process with Pollen (complimentary). Check out the game below. Link to Butterick in the reply. incunabuli.com/rulebook/

yet another new sort. 60 down, 66 to go incunabuli.com/rulebook/sor...

THIS WEBSITE IS HOT what the fuck i'm loving everything AND I JUST REALIZED WE'RE MUTUALS 😭🙏

yet another new sort: Prizefighter incunabuli.com/rulebook/sor...

new sort: Bindlestiff incunabuli.com/rulebook/sor...

another new sort: Quacksalver

Finally: Lore for a longtime Incunabuli monster. Warning: the dog dies in this one incunabuli.com/lore/beastmen/

Playtesting signup is now open to all!

The time has come again! Signup is Patrons-only for 24 hours, then live to all.

Witness: A new sizzle page for the game. The elevator pitch. The stuff you want to know. The hook incunabuli.com/about/

Crap shooters under the floorboards again. Clattering bones, raucous jeers, bouts of dismay. Cigarette smoke and gin fumes. The coppers won’t do anything —they’re down there too.

A crack of dynamite. Falling masonry. The way revealed. A rush of blood. Catacombs cold as tundra. Now you are the interstice between past and future. A lethal chemical reaction. Sweat, blood, fear, gunmetal, ancient sorcery.

130 years ago, the last grey wolves were shot in eastern Leah. These were the world’s own wolves, who hunted long before humans ever named it Nôren. What wolves stalk the hinterlands now do not belong there.

You never forget who taught you to write in blood.

Absolutely sickening dinkus

Further adventures in CSS: Dotted leaders.

Test run of a new title font for Incunabuli.com. 300% more gothic.

The Rug Merchants’ League has failed audit. The Gendarmerie is investigating. Only three verifiable carpet sales last year. The rest: Transported to and fro over the border—separatists rolled within the pile.

A note to all panel attendees: The honorable Magister Braun may pause before responding, careful to discern the phantom speakers from the real.

Nymph poaching is an ecological disaster.

It was a misdelivered letter that propelled her into magicianry. A red envelope stuffed with occult intimations. Read in rapture at the mail-slot. The threshold. The first of a thousand stolen secrets.

Something landed on the cottage last night. Slate shingles in the garden. A perceptible bow to the roofline. An unspeakable scat in the chimneypipe.

Operations ceased abruptly at Larch Valley Lead Mine. Miles of exclusion zone established overnight. Newshounds are flooding in. The Foremen downplays it; a cigarette trembling in hand. Only Berta talks, five drams in: Burials in the ore, she says. Lead skeletons in the deep galena.

A thinning in the summer air. An ozonic breeze from nowhere. A plum-bough sways in the still orchard. A sun-warm drupe falls, but it does not hit the ground.

Shieldbugs manifesting in your larder? The Office of Secrets wants to know. An incentive of three pounds monthly is available in exchange for unlimited excavation rights under your home.

First day of the melt. Send your children off to school with cricket bats and purses of lucky salt. What laid dead under the snow may want banishing.

Listen behind the walls. Use the earhorn your grandmother left you. She was never deaf, you’ll find.

We’ve reached the end of the microfiction backlog. They were originally posted on the bird app long ago. Incunabuli has grown depths since these were written. It’s an in-development TTRPG and novel-length fiction work, both. Interested in the rest? It’s all on incunabuli.com

To trek too far South is to enter a realm of dunes of sands; a land which long ago crumbled into madness and sour dust.

Such vapors under the old mill. Shaven boot-heel. Intoxicating coquelicot. Palpitation-inducing exotic praf. Languorous Yerba Roja. Cackling and fiddle-plucking and creatures lounging in stupor. The cutters enter not to slay those raggedy smokers, but to indulge in their rare supply.

In places, the sour dust of Jerosia is oddly thin. It's best not to dig in it. The things underneath shouldn't be assisted in escaping.

For eons, Serpents gnawed the roots between worlds. When they tasted blood on the root of a hangman’s tree, their interest was piqued.

A scorched knight wanders the astringent wastes of Jerosia. He'll pledge his service to anyone who offers up a cup of blood.

Some say that Serpents were enticed onto the Coast by the taste of blood-soaked tree roots; roots which reached between Worlds.

Sirens' seductive tricks are notorious, but they still work. Souls who've spent months at sea tend to be achingly, foolishly desperate.

Sirens lounge on the warm rocks. They flash white smiles at passing sailors, but keep their naked flipper-feet in the water.

Tomatoes bursting on the coals. Fat sausages sputtering on their sticks. A bottle of burgundy shared in tin cups. Oak leaves overhead, and a springtime moon. A tincture of laudanum shared between. Tonight, we’ve won; we forget the dark. Tomorrow, we die.

Sirens doze on soft, slimy mats of seaweed. Whilst asleep, they're nearly innocent, curled up in clouds of silky, floating hair.

Ragwretches dig their holes under root shelves. Their presence therein betrayed by rising coils of mushroom-smoke.

The shaping of steel, the coaxing of sultry fire. These are the arts of humanity. Creatures of the Otherworld are wary of both. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Fearfully nearby the Coast exists a world of blood. A universe of biological plasma. Within this hot, lightless broth exist competing microorganic colonies of incomprehensible scale and ludicrous collective intelligence. #blog #indierpg incunabuli.com/lore/daemoni...

Ælves come from the Otherworld's surreal depths. Their adaption to that misty realm lends them great power in our simple World. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

When traversing the spindly pines at night, mind the treetops. Ragwretches climb pine-boughs like huge, twisted, grinning spiders. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Hundred of statues were dragged roughly from the sea. When one broke, the truth was discovered; each statue had been cast around a corpse. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Tombs were found off Kenset Coast. Divers found figures of shaped marble and folded brass; hundreds of statues, yet not a single corpse. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Atop misty Mount Hellebore, a castle stands. It holds no purpose, as the mountain is of no strategic worth. No human purpose, that is. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Fire is humanity's key to the World. With it, they burn their mark in the pressing gloom of the Wilderness; they press back the Otherworld. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

All who attend the West Garden meetings bear an oath of secrecy. Come day, none speak of the secrets discussed those supernal nights.