Overview

Ohhh, I love that idea! First thing that came to mind is the videogame Pacific Drive. Very similar kind of vibe. I'd love to play it. I think for a setting, you want something that works well for a base (and postapo does feel like the obvious choice), but then allows for hacks of the game to be created. Let people turn it into a game about a stranded starship floating through outer realms, a fun (and maybe a little weird) roadtrip, or a pirate adventure on the high seas in a barely-holding vessel. The core that you've got allows for some really fun spinoffs, so I think making the game a little generic by design may actually work in your favor here. One game that I know did it succesfully while still maintaining an interesting spin on a fantasy setting is Ironsworn — it's great on its own and has some semi-unique worldbuilding, but is also built in a way that made spinning it off into other settings really easy.

Hi there! So I am a game designer part time and I am currently working on a TTRPG. I've given it the nickname: Project Hermes and here is what you need to know: The game is all about travelling, exploration, and making new friends on the road. It uses three unique mechanics on top of standard simplified d20 based systems. Those mechanics are The car The car is the lifeblood of this game. It is a game all about travelling across large distances, hitchhiking, and working with what little tools you have. This means that keeping your car in good condition as well as storing all of the stuff and people that you gather along the way is absolutely essential. I won't spoil any of the mechanics until this is done (I am contracted to make games for a company so if I tell yall I can't use this one) but know that the type of person you are affects the way you drive, how the car holds up, and how much the car can store. For clarification, this is not a solo game. The world This is also a map making game. At the current moment I am working on a way to take real maps and use them for this game but for now, the map develops as the game goes on. This is basically the only part of the game that is undefined. I have a good idea of what it should be but I don't think I can say much here, sorry. Just know, as I said, that the map is a thing that develops with play, it is made (sometimes) by the players, or at least edited by them, leaving you with a cool memento when the game is over. The travel Travelling in this game can be costly at times and there are a variety of systems in place to help track and manage how often things break down and how often you need to stop for supplies. If you know blades in the dark, you know what I'm using to track this. It's not re-inventing the wheel (see what I did there?) but it's smooth and consistent and, most importantly, immersive. There are, of course, other things. Please feel free to ask and I will tell you about everything I can, Hermes is quickly becoming a favourite of mine. It has jumped the development queue that I have and is now my full time project. Anyways, if you have read this far, thank you, now I need your help. I am kind of lost on setting. This game has the unique opperunity to be set anywhere at any time and, yes, that is cool but it is actually more limiting than you think. For example, if I wanted aliens, magic, radiation, or something else that comes from the world the game is set in, I need rules for that. Basically what this all means is that I need to choose a setting so I can write rules and lore for it. Please, please, pretty please, give me your suggestions. At the moment my front runner is a non-magic post-apocalypse but I don't know if that is too bog standard/boring. I'd love to hear about some of your favourite settings and any suggestions you may have for me!

Here are the next set of images. I feel like these re using huge amounts of resources for questionable gain: does anyone want to see these? If so, I'll continue to upload them, If not we'll save the disk space for something more interesting. Here we have the draw for the next section. I haven't written anything since yesterday though, and will have to revisit the prompt and think about Judgement - Judgement, Justice, The Chariot - the answers feel like they're following a theme that I may not be really interacting with. I attribute some of that to returning to this across an extended period of time, With each opportunity to write I'm coming at the game and the character from a slightly different mindset. I'd like to play again in a single setting and see how different that feels.

Third Pentacles Draw: The Four of Pentacles Prompt: When you look over your body, you notice a tattoo on your skin. What is this tattoo? Where is it located? Major Arcana: The Devil The young undertaker gives a faint nod, a worried smile ticking on his cracked lips as he passes a polished bronze shaving basin and a small bottle of mildly fruity smelling oil through the doorway. His eyes flicked down, and I know the simple white shift I was casketed in does little to cover my figure, even in the oily light of the single lantern. The most urgent of danger past, I can tell his uncomplicated mind is now free enough to realize there is a woman—dirty as she is—standing in his home in only a single thin undergarment, and given his unfortunate, pox-scarred face, a type of garment he may only have seen in red lantern light as the doxies hawked him from open windows and curtained doors. Nevertheless, he swallows and manages a final, stumbling offer to be there in a hurry should I need anything. And closing the door, I hear him in the work room, loudly humming a meandering tune that feels like it might be familiar, if only it were in key. I give the simple wooden door a final look, eyeing the way the lantern light seeps through the cracks and beneath the ill-fitting sill at its foot, the shadow of the young man passing once more as I hear his humming cross the room beyond. It strikes me as odd to find someone so full of life working among the dead. The boyish innocence of his compassion, aid he's freely given, tugs at my heart, begging me to stay close to him. Even in his artless stare as he takes in the rose of my nipple, turned pink by the threadbare shift's white... he's warm, like a puppy sniffing closer as he tests whether it's safe to cuddle against you. When he speaks, his tumbling, charmless voice seems to echo with a dozen generations of peasantry who turned the earth, laughing and drinking with faces cracked from the sun baking their pained smiles into their eyes. And while a faint, mad desire to open the apartment door and invite him in whispers in my aching chest, I know it isn't to be. That is not for me. I know this in my bones... in my flesh, whatever flesh it is that burns at the touch of clean water. Whatever I am, I am not formed from the same clay of the earth as him. The small apartment around me contains little. A chest. A straw mattress and blanket that shows a want of regular cleaning. A stool and small table for the undertaker to take his lonely dinners. And now a small candle stuck by its own wax to that cracked tabletop. Rain pelts the roof and spatters the walls in sheets, old ghosts in the darkness beyond railing against the workshop apartment as if venting their fury that I'd slipped that final catch that had taken them all, and shivering free of my reverie, I settle the shaving basin upright on the table, leaning one end on the wall behind. It's a simple mirror, but effective enough. Slipping from my shift, I work the oil between my fingers, still prepared to feel the burning sensation the water had left despite the reassurance of a few testing drops the undertaker had dripped on my open palm earlier. I don't have much. I have to make it count. Rubbing the oil between my fingers, I slide it over my face, and I feel the rough particles of dust and filth lifting. With the aid of a clean rag, I work the oil down my chest and beneath my arms. I don't know how I came to be floured in ash and mud, but as each layer lifts and I move to comb the freeing oil through my hair, I stare into my own reflection. I'm bruised, marks like oils spills on my legs and arms, some yellow and others a rich burgundy, though I don't feel the pain of it. My fingertips catch on the bumps of scars as I run my hands over my arms and down across my stomach and hips, and I wince as a fingernail blindly hooks a thin black scab on my inner thigh, a runnel of bright red trickling down to my knee before I press my finger to stop it. Something happened to me. Something I don't remember. And whatever it was, it happened over and over... Blinking, I run the rag over my eyes and take a sharp breath, turning my back to the basin as I look over my shoulder. My back is no better, a crisscross of markings fresh and old stop shy of my shoulders. And pushing my hair aside, I see a great black welt on the back of my neck. No. Not a bruise or welt at all. It's intricate, symmetrical. I hold up the basin, looking into the polished bronze as I try to make out the design in the curved metal. A strange, esoteric sigil is inked into my flesh, curves, lines, dots and triangles aligned within a circle of black, tattooed chains. The symbol means nothing to me, and yet as I stare into it, I feel my breath coming faster... my heart beginning to tumble and fold as my stomach clenches. I don't care when I realize the young undertaker has stopped humming or that the light under the poorly sealed door has gone dark. In that moment, I feel a chill loneliness frosting on my bared limbs as I stare at the mark on my neck and wonder what kind of monster or demon I am... and the only thread keeping me from collapsing is the knowledge of the man beyond the door, gazing through the cracks at me in the simple way a man gazes at a woman.

Second Pentacle Draw: Queen of Pentacles Prompt: You feel pain. Where is the pain coming from? What is it caused by? Major Arcana: The Star There's nothing there. While I retch and hack my lungs clear, the fear that kept my higher mind restrained uncoils itself from around my throat and heart enough for questions to rise. Where am I? How did I get here? But as my hands and mind both fumble for stability, neither find it. I tumble out of the pine box and off the end of the table I was set on. With an anxious cry, the young undertaker manages to get one gangly arm around my waist to break my fall as he tosses the pry bar to the stones, a jarring clang against the murmuring quiet of the night. He lets me go as I sink to hands and knees, pressing my fingers into the flagstone floor and digging little runnels in the carpeting of wood shavings and hearth ash mucked with rain water made filthy by its journey through leaking thatch and clay tile. I feel too weak to stand yet. My body feels chill, but I'm not shivering. So I stay there. I curl my elbows to my knees and breathe, watching the shadow play of the hanging lantern's flame against the floor and the cracked daub walls where loose planks and semi-assembled coffins of the same pale pine that held me lie with stoic patience. He's fretting with a kettle and basin—the high squeak and dull thump of a rain barrel's bung being stoppered, but my lack of reply seems to have quieted his nervous rambling. The undertaker's shadow falls on me and I flinch, though I don't know why. But he only sets the basin beside me, a rag hanging over its lip and slowly drawing the mostly-clear water. I take his meaning. As he said a moment before, I no doubt look 'a mess', and while he settles the kettle on a stone stove in a far corner of the room, kept swept and clear of the incendiary detritus around me, I reach for the rag. Kneeling, I lift the little scrap of fabric between my fingers and wring it out, cool water flowing over my wrists and drizzling into the basin. My fingers and thumbs begin to prick and prickle but I pay them no mind, pushing the rag over my face and feeling the grime lift as I drag it from the corners of my eyes and over my nose. Refreshment. Renewal. I feel the terror of the coffin draining from me as I dip the rag again. The pins and needles sensation in my hands sharpens as my fingers reach the water. I wince in discomfort passing the rag to one hand as I flex my fingers. It's sharp now—a million tiny ants biting into each digit, and I take a sharp breath, a feverish mewl escaping as the same sensation blooms in my face. Each pore is on fire—the intensity growing, burning! The water on my flesh feels like scouring lye melting my skin from my skull as I begin to scream. The young man turns in surprise, the kettle falling from the stove with a clang as he rushes to me. Crouching, he grasps my frantically shaking wrists and tries to meet my eyes, his gaze wide and staring while his cracking voice asks over and over 'what's wrong?' Throwing my body to the floor, I kick out at his chest, scrambling like a rat in the dirt as I scurry away from the basin. I take fists of loose saw dust, dried mud, and whatever else lies between the flagstones, scouring my face with rough scrubbing sweeps of my palms. I feel the clinging droplets dry, absorbed and pulled away by the brown and ash clinging to my skin... my smooth, uninjured skin... and the burning fades.

ACT I: Pentacles First Pentacle Draw: Six of Pentacles Prompt: There is someone at your side. Who is this person? What do they say to you? Major Arcana: The Fool I gasp, choking immediately on a haze of sawdust and rat feces. My eyes shoot wide, but I'm met only by darkness, and as I blink stinging particles from my eyes in a flow of tears, my hands knuckle against a plane of rough pinewood above me, unable to reach my face. The seizing in my dry throat turns to a painful, wheezing cough as my body jerks from the epileptic effort of trying to draw a single full breath from the prickling miasma filling my lungs, and in a panic, I beat the sides of my hands and wrists against the wood containing me. "Hold on! Oh, this ain't right. No, sir, this ain'tnt right one bit." Metal bites the wood and draws a groaning crackle as the pine lid pops above me. Greasy yellow lantern light leaks in. "Hang in there! Don't fuss, I have you!" I can't draw enough breath to reply, but I press my palms to my stomach as I try to steady my breath and stop myself from hyperventilating into a faint. It takes three impacts of the prybar before the flat iron bit can separate the coffin nails from their meal of rough cut pine. The young man on the other side grabs my arm, pulling me upright into clearer, if not clean, air. He pats my back in a handful of anxious swats as if he's beating a rug, his baggy tunic sleeve flopping about his scrawny arms as he puts his pock-marked face directly beside mine. His crooked smile has a guileless innocence to it as he lets out a whooping sigh that falls through the floor into a laugh by the end. "Not for nothin', miss, but you did look dead. Mind I'm not the one 'sposed to check the drop and flop what come in, not on the regular anyway, but given the sir is away and left me alone—shovel and key and 'whatever will be', as it were—I feel somethin' responsible. Oh, but you are a mess." Wincing apologetically, he reaches up and plucks a jagged splinter from my matted hair. "Anyways... sorry."

I'll get the next set of pictures up eventually, but they have to be resampled to meet the file size restrictions. For now, we are on to Act 3. You manage to find your home. The façade is unfamiliar. You fish the key out of your pocket and open the door. 3 of Cups: You look inside your wastebin. What do you find? Judgement. (better judgement than to root around in the trash, frankly - but we're trying to solve a mystery here). Judgement points to awakenings, rebirths, true calling and absolution. She's new here, She came for a fresh start, but how does the trash tell us that?

The Hermit IX - The Hermit : The Hermit has associations with solitude, contemplation, and self-reflection. It is symbolic of leaving the voices of the world behind and finding stillness and silence enough to hear one's inner voice speak. He lights the way ahead by his own lantern, looking to no star or sign to guide his path. when you are ready take a deep breath and wake up

Act Two Reflection Well, I feel like this character is developing into something I hadn't quite expected. Perhaps some sort of avenging angel? I don't really know, but the fact that "you did this to yourself" feels very personal, like I'm trying to tell myself something about my own life through this roleplay... which I think happens more often than not with these journaling games. Act Two Reflection In Character: As I walk through the town the weight has grown heavier. They whisper when I pass, some in hope, others in dread. To some, I am a savior. To others, a curse. And to more than a few, I am judgment itself. The abandoned hall showed me why. Its rotting walls remembered the heat of bodies gathered to watch verdicts fall, the shudder of an ending pronounced. I had stood there once, certain of my role, certain of the line between what could be forgiven and what could not. Until the questions came, questions about my own price, my own sentence. The graveyard gave me an answer, though it was no comfort. My name is Prudence Lawton. I have been both judge and judged. Somewhere, the scales tipped against me, and whether by my own choice or theirs, I was delivered to the Devil’s chain. The chapel’s stillness, the saint’s eyes, the coat shielding my shame... they are now joined by the murmur of the crowd, the hollowed-out hall, the stone with my name cut deep. I do not know yet why I walk free if I have already been measured and found wanting. But I feel the scales within me shift with each step, and I know this: the balance is not yet settled.

Huh? There was a sudden vigor in Dylan's movements. Selene hurried her own pace in order to keep up. Perhaps they were sick? Or in need of more medical care than they had realized? Maybe there was something important that they just had to get out! Or perhaps- Derek!? A quick glance over her shoulder thankfully did not give way to the view of an angry home owner stomping in their direction. Any momentary worries over being thrown out she might have had were briefly squashed, replaced instead by curiosity and a concern for Dylan's well being. It was bad enough that Dylan had pushed their way into a room, yet another somehow occupied by people. A surprise tug against her arm pulled her right along inside. Purple orbs filled for a moment with even greater concern when Dylan barked orders towards the two occupants. It was sharp enough to cause her to flinch slightly. It must be important! Or maybe they really are hurt!? As the couple hurried their way past Selene offered a couple of quick apologetic bows of her head. The door was closed behind them and, hoping to assist with whatever was happening, Selene clicked the knob's lock. They didn't need what just happened to happen to them! With a silent nod of approval at her own work the witch turned to face the others. "Is everything-" Bwuh!? Heat flashed across her cheeks at the sight of Dylan and Robin, the two having decided to suddenly engage in the sort of thing that almost begged for locked doors! It wasn't just a kiss either. The witch's gaze traveled across the two, burning the image within her mind. Locked lips. Hands squeezing against delicate areas, taking control, and others gripping against furniture for support. Bodies pressed together. Lewd sounds muffled between flesh! "O-oh." While her left hand gripped closed the stained silken robes her right rose to fan at her face. "Oh gosh" Selene whispered, voice barely audible in an effort not to disturb the fiery hot scene laid out before her. It took almost half a minute for her to finally peel her gaze away, casting it instead towards a different corner of the room. It felt rude to watch, like she had been accidentally dragged into something she shouldn't have been involved with. Wait. Why am I here? This is! This should be private, right!? Or maybe they just need to get this out of their system? Was there something else? I don't want to watch this! Despite what she told herself Selene couldn't help sneaking glances. The hand which had held her robes closed instead brushed against her fanning arm. She was a bit nervous, sure, but there were other feelings too! Feelings she rarely explored. She decided that it was good that she had spilled her drink. Finishing it might have resulted in her making some very different decisions in the moment! I should wait. Right? Or? Oh gosh. They are really getting into it!

Third Sword: 10 of Pentacles Prompt: You find yourself wandering through a graveyard. What do you find there? Major Arcana for interpretation: The High Priestess The graveyard sits high on the hill, the town falling away beneath it like a half-forgotten dream. I don’t remember choosing to come here, only lifting my head to find myself already walking between the stones. The air is still, the light strange as day gives way to night. Every grave feels as though it is watching me pass, their names and dates blurring when I try to read them, as if they’ve been written in water. Near the far wall, I stop. There, half-shadowed beneath the warped arm of a cedar, stands a tall stone, its face smooth except for one thing: the carved image of the saint with scales. But here, the figure wears a dress whose carved collar is inlaid red stone showing a peculiarly embroidered pattern... I recognize the tilt of her head, the way her hidden eyes seem to pierce. It is me. Below the carving, a name I do not recognize, yet feels like mine. Prudence Lawton. The dates are meaningless, but the chiseled dash between them feels like the length of my breath. I kneel, pressing my palm to the cold stone, and the ground falls away. I am no longer kneeling before it, I am standing before her, the veiled figure, my own shape writ taller, heavier with knowing. She looks at me as though she can see the whole of my life at once: the sentences I delivered upon myself in the hall where verdicts were made into past facts... the bargain I made, the moment I stepped into the Devil’s circle. “You know why you’re here,” she says, though her lips do not move. And I do know, though the knowing comes without words. I am both her and the one before her. Both the voice that delivers judgment and the one being judged. The scales she holds are mine, but so is the weight that tips them. When I blink, I am alone again, my hand on the stone, the cedar’s shadow falling over my shoulder like a hood. I remain there for long moments before I stand again. I know now that I am guilty. I know now that I made a deal, that I paid a price, and that the price condemned me. I turn and leave the graveyard knowing that I have already been measured... and found wanting.

Next draw: Ace of Swords and The Chariot. The Ace of Swords: You take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the town around you. How does the town make you feel? Does it feel like home? The Chariot is, again, about progress through disciplined effort, That doesn't feel like an innate sense of belonging. It's worth pointing out that at the end of Act 1 I shuffled all the Major Arcana back into the deck. The rules weren't explicit about it and I made the conscious decision to shuffle it in because in a story about someone recovering their memories, they, or the Shadow of who they think they are, might arise. As I look at the cards and prepare to write I discover two things. One: my choices about cards, despite a deck of 83 cards (the Tarot of Dreams also includes a Tree of Life card - fucked if I know what my plan is if it turns up) have been very impactful, and two: I screwed up on what her ring is made of. Moonstone belongs to the High Priestess, not the Magician. Yet there it is, written in the narrative. I can draw some lines of inspiration from the High Priestess and the fact that The Chariot can also point to Moonstone, so, if I were a man with faith in the mystic, I could say it was fated, but I'm not. The important thing is, it's written, and that memory has built others. And I think that's oddly appropriate in a game like this - we are subject to the errors of our perception that color the new memories that we build.

Justice points at consequences, law and accountability. The phrase "You need to handle it." is the trigger for her memory. And argument about something she needed to fix, even though the failure wasn't hers. The next draw is the Queen of Swords and The Fool. You pause at a building and realize you used to work here. What was your job? Do you still work here? I had been thinking she might be a cop, but The Fool doesn't seem to indicate a police station. The Fool is spring, beginnings, innocence and spontaneity. Hardly a cop shop. Maybe a school, but I can't shake the echo of Justice and the Chariot that points at her - was she some kind of school cop?

Second Sword: 4 of Pentacles Prompt: An abandoned building stirs up memories. What used to be here? Why did it matter? Major Arcana for interpretation: Death The building slumps against the earth like it’s trying to sink into its own grave. The door is missing, the windows yawning open, their frames bare of glass. Weeds push up through the boards of the porch, brittle stems rattling in the wind. Suddenly, I’m not standing outside the ruin, I’m back within its walls, whole again, my dress unmarked. The air is close, warm with too many bodies, the scent of sweat, oil lamps, and dust kicked from the floorboards. The benches are packed. Every eye is turned toward the front, toward the figure who speaks from behind the table. But I am not watching him, I am watching the accused, standing in the center of the room, hands bound before them. I can hear their breath, see the tremor in their jaw, the stubborn lift of their chin. This place was not just where sentences were given. It was where the town came to see the scales tip. It was theater, brutal, final theater, and I was a part of the performance. I remember the weight of it then. Not the heat, not the murmurs from the benches, but the unspoken understanding between me and the one who spoke the sentence: that I would see it through. I knew my role. It was more than being a hand of the church or the law. I was the last face they saw before the end. It was my task to make them understand, in those final moments, why the end had come for them. What I felt was not cruelty. Not pride, either. It was certainty. That there was a line between what could be forgiven and what could not, and I had to be the one to hold it steady. And yet… in the silent space after the sentence, before the hall emptied, there was always a flicker. A thought I never dared to voice: What if the scales had tipped the other way? That flicker returns now, stronger, standing before the ruin. Whatever justice lived here is gone, but the questions it left behind have teeth, and they coil tighter, looping back on themselves until they circle me like a noose. What price had I paid to end up in the Devil’s chain? Was it coin? Betrayal? Blood? I search the empty hall, trying to fit the pieces of my humiliation... the torn dress, the eyes upon me, the figure in black, into the shape of this room. Was it here? Was this where the decision had been made? I feel like I can see it if I let my focus drift... the same full benches, the same smell of heat and dust, my own name (if I knew it) passing from mouth to mouth, heavy with judgment. I’m not at the front now. I’m standing in the center, bound. The people lean forward to watch me fall. The man at the table reads a sentence that no one will ever write down, but all will remember. And in that moment, in that imagined or remembered moment, I feel the scales tip, not for someone else... for me. Did they deliver me into the Devil’s hand here? Did I walk from this hall and into the circle of lanterns by my own feet, or was I led? The air is thick with dust and the echo of that final verdict, whether it was truly spoken here or not. I take one step toward the place where the accused once stood, and the floor seems to bow under me, as if still remembering the weight. If this was where it happened, then the ruin is not only the grave of others’ endings, it is the site of my own.

Act 2: Swords First Sword: 6 of Pentacles Prompt: People are looking at you and whispering. What are they saying? Major Arcana for interpretation: The World The town isn't empty... far from it. People walk and lounge on the wooden boardwalks, no one is in the rutted, dusty street. As I step onto the boardwalk, they part for me without speaking, but not without sound. “Saint’s scales, it’s really her.” The hush moves in waves, there is a name in there that I can’t quite catch, a tone I almost recognize. “The balance will be restored now.” Their voices tangle in the air like windblown threads, slipping through my grasp before I can knot them into meaning. "She escaped the chains, but the Devil still owns her.” The way their eyes follow me makes me feel like I carry something vast and distant inside me, something too big for a body in a torn dress and a borrowed coat. “Pray she’s not here for you.” Some look at me with awe, others with the weary suspicion given to strangers or omens, even though I know they all know me. "They said she was dead." I see hands twitch toward holy symbols, some crosses, some the sign of the saint with scales, lips moving in silent prayers or curses. “She’s here for the guilty.” A woman pulls her child closer. "The saint turned her away." A man spits in the dust after I pass. “Don’t meet her eyes..." From one shadowed doorway, two men speak low enough that I can't hear, but I know they say something like the rest. They do not agree on what I am, savior or trouble, blessing or sentence. But they are all certain of one thing: I am not just another passerby. I do not confront them. They are not responsible for what happened to me, except through the inaction of their own fear or apathy. So I walk on, the borrowed coat around me, the faint tilt of unseen scales in my chest, wondering whether the weight they see is something I’m meant to carry or to set down... if it will set me free, or pull me down.

I think it's interesting that we both came up with the notion of this intimate, probably handmade, adornment. I did it with the ring. I wonder, does this say something about how the memories of things are attached to where we got them? It's interesting how clear and deliberate @IsabellaRose's story is - mine meanders. I think it's a function of both Isabella's intent as a writer and her (I presume) typing her responses contrasted to my very visceral scrawling, disjointed thoughts. Ink on paper, I think, forces a kind of immediacy because second thoughts and revision leave scars.

Here's what we have so far. The final image shows the current prompt and the answer inspiration. Earlier I got a prompt for a piece of jewelry and the Magician as the answer. I have a spreadsheet of Tarot cards that includes colors, directions, seasons, herbs, gemstones and the traditional meanings of cards. The Magician represents Moonstone or Pearl - both feminine in aspect for jewelry, so suddenly my amnesiac became female as I looked at my hands and saw this ring. Swords: After getting your bearings, you walk around town. You know this town. You know it well, but you cannot remember it. Draw three cards from the Deck of Swords. First Sword: 9. Someone is having an argument in the street. Does this remind you of an argument you’ve had? I have not written this response yet. @IsabellaRose, now I'm going to be weird about my handwriting.