
The Standing Archarchival pigment, 50 × 70 cm
From the threshold of the second city. Recorded once, in winter, before the gates fell.
A solo dark fantasy game of survival, reckoning, and ruin.
You are old now in the way that only survivors of impossible things become old. Worn but not diminished, reduced to something harder and more essential.
You do not mistake survival for mastery.
Veyrun's magnificence was such that it was mistaken for permanence.
Its domes and spires and squares and boulevards rose and sprawled in a landscape of marble and gilt. Its scholars learned the dead language of creation itself. Its alchemists bent substance to their will with a casualness that later ages would mistake for mastery.
At the summit sat a class of people who elevated themselves above the banality of humility and consequences. They pressed through every boundary that nature had set for human knowledge. They found the threshold between the divine and the damned, and they crossed it searching for greater power.
The rift opened without ceremony. What came through was the answer to a question that should never have been asked, and it was delivered without mercy to the people who asked it. The power was consumptive. Infinite like a virus. Indifferent in its appetite. They became the Svelgna. The devoured.
Veyrun's towers are broken shells. Its libraries are tombs of lost knowledge. The great market squares are hunting grounds. You are one of the last of your generation who remember it as it was.
Each landscape recorded in pencil and ink. Numbered editions; signed in the lower margin.

From the threshold of the second city. Recorded once, in winter, before the gates fell.

Where the high courts once stood. The water came from underneath.

A solitary stone on the road south. The Vitna did not record what is buried beneath it.

Growth of the kind the Svelgna leave behind on what they have claimed.

The wide road that no one walks now. Statuary still standing, watching it.

The keep above the sea. Recorded by a watchman who did not return.
The complete game. You are Vitna. You walk the ruins. You carry Kvern — Rist, Dreft, Seithr — broken and dangerous and necessary, unstable as a wound that will not close. The Narrative Die descends, hex by hex, from the wide road of the d20 to the hard red of the d4. When the d4 shows a 1, the Drottnar is encountered. Everything you have endured has been in service of that moment.
The game and the volumes around it. Each item numbered by hand, shipped wrapped in unbleached muslin. The work is what it is. We do not say more than that.
Survivor accounts of the rift, gathered from the borderlands across forty years. Sewn binding, deckled edge. Difficult to read in one sitting.
d20 through d4 in solid brass, cast one set at a time. The descent from the wide road to the red. Surface marks are not flaws but evidence.
The opening plate of the manual, reproduced from the original ink and watercolour. Numbered edition of 200, signed in pencil at the lower edge.
A second hunt set in the corrupted forests south of Veyrun, where the second guild rooted itself in the years of exile. Originally numbered 1–600.
For tracking HP and the hunt. Ruled in sepia. Holds the names of the dead, the hexes laid, and whatever else is worth keeping after the d4 falls.
The mark of the six guilds, struck at 18 mm. Worn historically by survivors of the borderlands exile. We do not check whether you have earned it.
Not a single die, but a sequence. Each new hex laid is a roll. A 1 steps the chain down. The Svelgna grow worse and the probability of the next betrayal grows higher. When the d4 shows a 1, the Drottnar is encountered.
When you are rolling the d4, you are in the red. Every hex you lay carries a one in four chance that your quest ends.
The knowledge that remains is not without cost. It was broken along with everything else — warped by the rift, stripped of the scholars who understood it, left to survive in fragments. What you practice now is not the Kvern of the old kingdom. It is what Kvern became after the fall: dangerous, unstable, and necessary. You work it anyway. There is nothing else.
They broke into six guilds and dispersed — each into a different territory beyond the reach of Veyrun's authority, each rooting itself in a different landscape, learning it and surviving in it and building in the wilderness what they had been prevented from building inside the kingdom. The connections that once bound guild to guild have thinned to silence. Each member fights alone and none carry the fallen.
Each Narrative Die is cast individually, by a single hand, and each one is therefore marked by the small accidents of that hand. We do not consider these flaws. A die without an accident is a die that has not been made. We do not promise you the work will be uniform. We promise it will be ours.
Each specimen drawn from field-record. Edition of two hundred per plate, signed in pencil at the lower margin.

Recorded once, in a field outside the third gate. No second sighting.

Found at sea. Found at the sea-bottom. The Vitna assume one creature.

Walks the broken shrines. Sings only when alone.

Catalogued posthumously. The last record of a creature that recorded its own death.

Larger than what made it. Smaller than what feeds it.
Seen at every funeral the Vitna remember. Seen at none of their own.
Has no fixed shape. Has a fixed appetite.
If found, do not engage. The Codex permits no rite for this encounter.