Farmers cross the River Sten only at noon, when the Water Lilies have hidden their fanged faces.

The getyegon: A cultural implement, in the North. Your grandmother owns one. A besom of iron wires on a long broompole. An aide in the persuasion of fairy-life from crawlspaces, barn eaves, and chimneystacks.

Cair Severin pass is emerald green in the summer. Blanketed in lush moss. Untenable, underfoot: A rolling mulch of skulls.

Best hope the party cook is half decent. If not, the cooking mishap table awaits. #ttrpg #osr

Observe the mist. Train yourself to truly see: Swirls belie the lift of wrists. Eddies, the step of unseen feet. Lissome dancers on a clouded glade.

Pixies are unable to tell the difference between flowers and dead pixies. They ecstatically present people with both as gifts. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

An eon bent under emerald lamps. Veined eyes. Onyx pen in trembling fingers. Thumb-pad aching, crusted, pecked open unending with the thirsty clotted nib. The book writes back. Vellum warm as skin. Mocking you in borrowed blood. #incunabuli #lore #ttrpg

Feared. Mistrusted. The dynamite mishap table:

Pixies are prone to braid things. Grass, willow branches, people's hair. A delightful behavior, to children. Less delightful: Your yarn braided to the wheat. Your cat to the willow tree. Your hair to the bedframe.

A greening shipwreck languishes in the belly of Loc Chorine. Sunk with intention 30 years back. Something down there needed stopping-up.

Black eyes are the gates to damnation. So said parochial school. But now, upon the snow-country, can you be sure? At your mission. Black eyes in a parchment face. At your window every night. The forest boughs without. A sympathy unfounding. A love. Fingertips on a millimeter of glass.

Such times with the ragmen: Stories over rolled smokes and brown bottles and green tomatoes and pork rinds on the smoking steel. The sincere cat-tooth grins in the autumn night. The conveyance of deep woes and sacred loves under the tent. What misery when you leave. A freedom never felt again.

A dram of the walking spirits. A pour from the bottle with the wrinkled mandrake root. One hundred proof. One hundred aching leagues a pour. The mind renewed. No memories but dreams along the way. The drink of poets and madmen alike.

That stew had lasted a thousand years. Dutifully maintained by a succession of loving publicans. Radishes, turnips, potatoes. Rabbits, ham hocks, veal. A culture entire in a pot of brown. Last night, a drunken scullery boy ate the last dregs. They hanged him in the streets.

The wightjar calls only at midnight. Its croaky call, always the same: “whom, whom.”

62% of Firls prefer to bank with mice. So publishes the Gazette. Outrage. The Clerk's Union in disarray. Panic over human wages. The Times’ editor calls it mouse-baiting. Unfortunate phrasing. The Gazette fires back: A comic of a bankerly mouse squashed in a pantry trap.

A twinge of unease. A pall of moonlight over the duvet. The chill autumn air. A tear in the drapes not there the day before.

The Rolvian Wood burns orange in autumn. Älves celebrate this by drinking lots of other people's wine.

The first mice emerged from beneath the roots of elms. From where they came, they'll never say. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Those streams are cold enough to stop a man's heart. The townsfolk claim a nice swim builds constitution.

Misty mornings. The best time to spot älves. They lounge in the trees like cats made of silk.

Many an ancient duel was fought atop Dorr Cliff. A ring of steel still echoes on the breeze.

Mandrakes grow in protected solitude. They relocate nightly to fool their enemies.

He lived a century in that forlorn subterranea. Amidst the mineral colonies and the blind nymphs, where the water flows milk white through a geometry inhumane. He will not speak of it. He didn’t age a year.

A rule we're trying. "Fun" is allowing the Intellectuals to metagame a little. #osr #ttrpg #gamedesign

That cave had eaten dozens. Yet every spring, a daring handful try. They don their tackle, spark their lamps, and boldly vanish. Legend grows of the fateful gullet. Its repute a swelling bait for generations of prey.

A thousand acres of cabbage crops lost to mammoths, so says the morning edition. A dozen farming families lost. Lies. The Crown will publish anything to cover the truth.

Faindun's orchards have long grown the finest peaches. Sweeter, they say, then the kiss of an ælf. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

A copper cup of Arenlandish vodka. Clotted in ice. A living minnow garlish, indignant.

Daylight shines for but three hours on the moors. Fell wisps light the way, come nighttime.

How do you flavor NPC interaction in a game with next-to-zero social systems? With guidelines, mate. Here, I have recorded three of mine: incunabuli.com/resources/so... #ttrpg #osr #blog

Come sunset in Lothrheim, the bees sing themselves to bed. Their humming chorus fades with the light.

Out there, on the tundra: Incandescent mounds. Snow over fires unknown. Céilí-shadows round the flames. Burning every seductive night.

They say to gaze upon the Snow Queen is to know true beauty. An experience unsurvivable.

A ledger of books is kept. Of every wrinkled tome on the barred shelves. Names and dates. Regular openings, readings, and correspondences by diligent librarians. It keeps the books sane. The librarians: not so much.

Three eggs a day. Sparrow, quail, robin. Always on your pillow. An entreaty by some small visitor.

I have been asked: Is any part of your writing AI? Incunabuli (microfiction skeets + long-form fiction and game rules on Incunabuli.com, all) is entirely human-made. 90% of my microfiction posts originally appeared on Twitter long before LLMs existed. I am #antiAI

Beastmen leave omens of their coming. Stone cairns. Stick-men woven in trees. Intricate piles of bloody bones. Art for a patron unseen. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Fires in the night. Torches veiled by driving snow. Black-thorn staves and iron tools. All towards the Auldenwood. None back come the morning. Failure. This will be the hamlet's last winter. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The forests of Noîtra abound with wild-eyed beastmen. The mad servants of the Snow Queen. They please her, they say. Aesthetically: Sweated, red-wet, rippling-hewed. Brutal muses on her boreal canvas. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

What are they building out there? On the chilly heather-downs, tall enough now to observe your cottage window: The structure of a man. An icon of sticks. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

When the pines wear white, beware the wisps. They are lanternmen, some say, who light highways to another world. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Noîtra’s pines are beyond counting. They will never be felled, all. They say one stands for every soul who has succumbed to the snow. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

In cold Noiträ, disparate dreamers may awaken in odd places, stranded, united on the snow. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

In the far north, few dare to settle the snow-land of Noîtra. The pines have a habit of changing places. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The wildmen from the High Steppe believe the sun sees all. Its gaze must sense no weakness. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Anghenfeldt freezes over in late summer. Its rhyme-frosted moors are home to all manor of beastmen. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The summer fields of Anghenfeldt are rife with song. Few can see the flowers' petaled lips. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

In chilly Anghenfeldt, a second sun can be seen for a split second at dawn. Red as anger, glaring with an intensity unfounded. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Pull up the rope ladder when you come aboard: There’s no use helping skeletons out of the sea. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg