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Play a story that answers to the world you built
That world has attributes and skills. The story is written from them, and your choices are tested against them.
Now showingA rain-soaked port city
Now showingA survey ship, six months dark
Now showingNormandy, June 1944
Now showingA court that runs on debts
You wrote this. It built the world from it.
What came back
The perpetual drizzle clung to your trench coat, a cold, insistent reminder of this city's melancholic grip as you navigated the slick, uneven cobblestones of the waterfront. Under the sickly yellow glow of a flickering gas lamp, the overturned fishing trawler, the 'Sea Serpent,' listed heavily against the barnacle-encrusted pier, its splintered hull a gaping maw to the unforgiving grey sky. A lone, uniformed figure, clearly a beat cop too far from his usual patrol, stood silhouetted against the unnatural twilight, his shoulders hunched, his hat brim pulled low, the faint glint of something metallic in his hand suggesting a fresh, illicit payment. You felt the familiar knot in your gut, the one that always tightened when a job pulled you back into the murky waters you'd sworn to leave behind, but the dead man sprawled across the trawler's deck, half-submerged in a growing pool of crimson, wasn't going to investigate himself.
And then you have to decide.
The option you take is checked against one of those skills. Miss the number, and the story bends to the failure instead of ignoring it.
- "Runner, you say? I'm requisitioning your assistance."
- Offer the cop your own coins to point out the runner's path.You chose this
- Ignore the cop and move towards the alley's mouth, scanning for tracks.
- Snatch the paper-wrapped coins from the cop and dash into the alley.
StreetwiseFailedrolled 7, needed 12
You reached into your coat, pulling out a small leather pouch, its weight a familiar comfort. As you extended it toward the beat cop, a glint of hope in your eyes, he merely chuckled, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the damp air. He held up the roll of coins already in his hand, a mocking gesture, then casually let it drop into his coat pocket. "Already bought and paid for, Vaughn," he rasped, his eyes still fixed on yours, the earlier smirk now a full-blown sneer. "And you're too late."
You wrote this. It built the world from it.
What came back
The hum of the ship's life support systems, usually a comforting drone, now felt like a low thrum against your very bones, a constant reminder of the six months you'd been adrift in the void. You traced the faded text on the ancient data pad: 'Cargo Manifest, Stardate 247.03.12.' Your finger hovered over the discrepancy, a single line item, 'Cryo-Containment Unit, Experimental,' that had appeared in the maintenance logs two months prior, a ghost on the ship's internal records that no one else seemed to have noticed, or perhaps, bothered to look for. The flickering emergency lights in the narrow corridor ahead cast long, shifting shadows, making the ship feel less like a vessel and more like a tomb as you headed toward the cargo hold, a sickly premonition coiling in your gut.
And then you have to decide.
The option you take is checked against one of those skills. Miss the number, and the story bends to the failure instead of ignoring it.
- Review ship logs for cargo hold anomalies.
- Route remaining life support to this section.You chose this
- Prepare a hazmat suit and entry tools.
- Open the cargo hold blast doors and trigger an emergency purge.
EngineeringFailedrolled 8, needed 12
You slammed your palm against the ancient console, trying to force the power conduit over, but the failing systems responded with a whine of protest. Instead of rerouting, the remaining life support flickered erratically, the dim emergency lights in the corridor ahead dying completely, plunging the passage into an oppressive, inky blackness. The rhythmic thrum from the cargo hold now echoed louder, more distinct, a singular heartbeat in the suffocating silence, a stark counterpoint to the growing chill that seeped into your bones.
You wrote this. It built the world from it.
What came back
The stench of damp earth and shattered concrete clung to the air as you pushed through the tangled briars, the heavy M1 Garand feeling like a lead weight in your hands. The distant rumble of artillery, a constant, sickening heartbeat, vibrated through the soles of your worn boots, reminding you of the chaos you'd barely escaped on the beach. Sweat stung your eyes, blurring the already dense hedgerow ahead, a green, impenetrable wall that seemed to swallow sound and light, making every rustle a potential enemy. You glance back at the four grim faces following you, your new squad, the burden of their lives now resting squarely on your shoulders, a corporal by circumstance, not choice.
And then you have to decide.
The option you take is checked against one of those skills. Miss the number, and the story bends to the failure instead of ignoring it.
- Halt movement and listen intently for any enemy response.
- Backtrack carefully, finding a new, less obvious route.You chose this
- Push through the hedgerow, ignoring the noise for now.
- Deliberately snap another branch to mask the first sound.
StealthFailedrolled 11, needed 12
You shift your weight, easing back from the snagging branches, trying to retrace your steps without disturbing a single leaf. The snap of the rifle, however, had already echoed too far. A twig under your boot gives way with a sharp crack, followed by the rustle of disturbed leaves just ahead, off the main trail. You freeze, pressing yourself against the rough bark of a thick oak, your M1 Garand now held tightly across your chest, its cold steel a stark contrast to the sudden clammy sweat on your palms.
You wrote this. It built the world from it.
What came back
The flickering glow of a single tallow candle casts long, dancing shadows across the meticulously stacked ledgers, their leather-bound spines groaning under the weight of countless obligations. Each page, filled with the elegant script of debts owed and favors granted, represents a life intricately woven into the court's unforgiving fabric, and you, a junior clerk, feel the chilling echo of that power as you carefully turn a brittle leaf. A sudden, sharp rap on the heavy oaken door sends a tremor through the quiet chamber, the sound too abrupt, too insistent for a casual visitor, pulling your gaze from the intricate web of ancient promises. You instinctively adjust the worn satchel at your hip, the familiar weight of your own uncalled debt a cold comfort against the sudden, unwelcome intrusion, as the latch clicks with an ominous finality.
And then you have to decide.
The option you take is checked against one of those skills. Miss the number, and the story bends to the failure instead of ignoring it.
- Point out the precise, elegant script on the brittle page.
- Ask Master Theron to specify which entry concerns him.You chose this
- Offer a subtle explanation for the ledger's nuanced entries.
- Casually tear the brittle page from the ledger, offering to rewrite it.
NegotiationFailedrolled 10, needed 12
Master Theron’s eyes narrow, the flicker of the candle catching a cold glint within their depths. He doesn't answer your question directly. Instead, his gaze drifts from your face to the ledger, then back again, a silent, weighty assessment that prickles your skin. The air in the small chamber seems to grow heavier, pressing down on you until the quiet hum of the court's distant machinery feels like a judgment.