The city is our garden.
The deep is our teacher.
your only limit is you
A Game of Spirits & Spark
Morning: a name, a face, people who need you. Night: the Spark, the bond, the dungeon. Sora holds both. Eventually they find each other.
Someone is waiting. The civilian life is real — not a cover, not optional. What you owe it follows you into the dark.
Eight degrees colder at the threshold. One delve per shift. Come back different, or don't come back.
Built in rings around a dungeon it was never quite ready to explain. The weight of the deep comes up through the streets. Most people stopped noticing.
The clearinghouse between power and the people who need it pointed at something. Merit absolute. Has been here longer than anyone's records agree on.
The weight of being correctly evaluated by someone who doesn't care about you.
One faith, one building, two sects in four hundred years of disagreement. The Cult reveres the deep. The Veneration reveres the will. They vote as one anyway.
Two certainties running through the same walls.
No ideology. Just the dungeon, and whether you're strong enough to deserve it. Their leader has worn suppressors for nine years. Nobody asks anymore.
The pressure-change of proximity to something that knows exactly what it can do.
Not yet on any register. Something is accumulating in Sora.
The fifth faction will be named when Sora is ready to name it.
"Only the afraid finish
what they started."
— a saying in Sora
The spirit is your Spark made real.
Not a tool. A relationship.
Someone at your back, going out swinging together.
It can break. In the instant of breaking, it can catch. It almost never does. When it does, it is the loudest thing in the room.
"What we feel we protect. What we protect we become."
Solo play · Desktop · Prototype