Four things, yours to keep. No email, no locked section, no “full version”.
A valley in the bottom of a lake that is not there.
Three hundred years ago the lake drained overnight. People moved into the bottom of it, because everything grows there.
Download free — 21 pages or get it on itch.ioSixty miles of road, and every stop has noticed the same thing.
Fifteen stops keep the road running, and every one of them has just noticed that something which should keep does not keep any more.
Download free — 22 pages or get it on itch.ioAn evening in Lowmere. Two hours, four players, 1st level.
Every sack of grain in the valley goes through one wheel, and six nights ago that wheel stopped turning for six seconds. Nobody heard it but the miller, and he has not slept since.
Download free — 33 pages or get it on itch.ioAn evening on the Salt Road. Two hours, four players, 1st level.
A caravan is stopped nine miles short of the auction with a cracked axle, and the weighing closes at first light. The salt can wait. The tally-stick cannot.
Download free — 30 pages or get it on itch.ioOne evening each. Four players, levels 1 to 5.

One night a year the whole valley walks up to Candle Fen, lights every niche on the hillside, and reads the dead out of the register - all nine generations of them, in order, until dawn.
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On the longest night of the year every fire in Marrowdown is put out and the whole town goes underground. Nine hundred people, one fire, sixteen hours, in cellars that have always been colder than they should be.
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Every caravan this road has ever lost has a cairn out here, and every traveller who passes adds one stone. Nobody founded the custom.
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Once a year the hill village of Coldstile mourns the drowning of a valley that nobody in it drowned in - two hundred people who have spent three hundred years being the only ones who were never under the water.
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Forty drovers, a hundred head of stock, and a ring of stones with a fire in it that has not been out in living memory.
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One boat, one family, three generations, and a crossing fee that has to be exact because Marl Vance has never once made change.
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For one hundred years the village of Marrowdown has aged a single wheel of cheese in a sealed cellar. Tonight it is finally cut.
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One stone span, on a road that crosses everything else by wood or water. Nobody east or west can say who built it.
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Nine rooms, three days short of the border, built to hold a caravan that looks wrong. Eight of them have been empty for nine years and everyone on this road can tell you the number.
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Four square miles of standing water never drained at the low end of Lowmere, and across them run causeways of packed reed over stone - straight, old, and never once sunk.
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The last real market before the border, five hundred people, and one bell that is rung exactly once per lot and has never in living memory been rung twice.
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One room, one keeper, and a blessing every caravan takes before the empty stretch east. The floor is inlaid with salt in a pattern the masons built around rather than over, because it was already here when they raised the walls.
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Every wheel of cheese that leaves this valley passes through the customs house at Saltless, weighed against one sealed bronze standard.
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Three ships have stood upright in a wheat field forty miles from the sea for three hundred years, since the water that stranded them went away.
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Eight hundred people, eleven warehouses and one street, and if a thing is true anywhere on this road it is on the noticeboard here within the week.
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There is a line on the old stone in this valley, about nine feet up, on everything older than the town. Nobody in Lowmere mentions it, and every house any of them has ever lived in stands below it.
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One grave, alone, a mile short of the border, with no village near enough to explain it. Everybody who passes pulls a weed and leaves a pinch of salt on the stone.
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Once a year Marrowdown lays out everything the Weir has caught that year, and half the valley comes to look for something they lost.
€5.99on Etsy →Written for a pair rather than a party, and they say so on their own covers.

Once a year Nettlecombe stops feuding for a day. Nine hundred apple trees come into flower at once, the first blossom is cut from the oldest tree at dawn, and it is given to somebody.
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There is one way through the range for forty miles in either direction, and somebody cut it by hand long before there was a road that needed it.
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Two weeks after the first cart gets through, Lowmere has a day with no festival in it. The work starts again, the valley goes back to being ordinary, and everything that was lent out in November goes home - tools, stock, a…
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Two towers on a rise above the salt pans, ninety-five feet apart, lit in the same minute every dusk for ninety-one years by two people who have not spoken in ten of them.
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Two families, three sheds, and one hearth that has not been allowed to go fully cold since before anybody currently alive was born.
€4.99on Etsy →One clock, stated out loud in the first minute, and every check tells you what happens when it fails.

Marrowdown casts one small bell a year, hangs it on a frame that already holds two hundred and eight others, and rings it once.
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Every year, when the mud on the valley road finally sets hard enough to take a wheel, Marrowdown sends the first cart up to Coldstile.
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A line of whitewashed stones marks the safe footing across the old ford, and whoever reaches the water first each spring repaints them.
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Three hundred people here make their whole living out of other people's horses, and every argument this road cannot take to the border courts gets settled on one bench, by whoever the crowd trusts that week.
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Once a year Lowmere puts one table down the valley road, a mile of it, and four hundred people bring a dish and sit wherever they land.
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There is a bell in the yard of an inn in Marrowdown that rings once a year, on no fixed date. Nobody living has stopped it or explained it.
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Everything that travels this road pays the same toll: a coin, and a pinch of whatever the cart is carrying, into a barrel by the gate.
€4.99on Etsy →Sixteen adventures bound together, plus a finale that is sold nowhere else.

Sixteen evenings in one valley, told in the order they happen - Bell Founding in spring to The Draining at the year's end, the adventure that only exists here.
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Sixty miles of working road. Salt comes out of the hills at the western end and goes to the border markets in the east, and everything in this book happens in between: a ford, a tollgate, three smokehouses, a horse fair, a…
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