Tavern Break

The first world

THE LAST LANTERN

The classic table, complete: twelve classes to level twenty, full spellbooks, a bestiary of 220+ monsters, and the whole familiar fifth-edition-style progression — feats, subclasses, downtime, magic items — enforced by an engine that never fudges.

Combat looks like a place, not a spreadsheet. Real tactical battle maps with honest fog of war — torchlight falls off into darkness your character genuinely cannot see past.
The dice are cinema. Rolls that land while you're away wait under a wax seal; break it to watch them tumble.
A live score, and whispers. Music follows the scene and rain falls when it rains — and sometimes the Game Master leans over to tell only you: something heavy, dragging, beyond the east door.

Twelve classes, every race and calling — your party, drawn in torchlight.

A second world at the same table

RED CENTURY

2495. A megacorp owns every rock from Mercury to the Belt, and your crew flies for the resistance — now with a ship of your own under your boots. Same friends, same table, a different century — percentile dice, six careers, splice heroes, and physics with teeth. No magic. No faster-than-light. No aliens. No mercy.

A wrecked convoy drifting in pixel-art vacuum

Capt. Kestrel · gunrunner of the Pact

"Burn window is four minutes. Strap in, or stay bought."

Every roll is a ledger line. The dice are percentile — written d%: roll 1-100 and you want UNDER your skill. "d% 34 vs Pilot 62, Hard 31 — miss" reads: you rolled 34 against Pilot 62, but hard conditions halved the target to 31. The server rolls, the math is shown, nobody fudges.
Six careers, eight splices. Rocketjock, Trooper, Scout, Wrench, Operator, Sawbones — baseline human, or a SPLICE: people the megacorp engineered with animal genes for hostile space (gill-lunged divers, shark-jawed dockhands, low-g hollow bones). Made, not born — the "no aliens" rule holds.
The vacuum keeps score. Dodge and soak instead of armor class, a dying window measured in your own VIGOR, and healing that takes a medic, a kit, and an hour.
Ship fights run by stations. Helm, guns, wrench-bay, medbay — every crewmate mans a post, damage lands on hull, engine, controls, and life support, and boarding cuts straight to the deck grid.

Take the contract Or put on the mask — THE BRIGHT AGE ›

A tactical station battle map with Compliance troopers

Round 1 — a Compliance snatch squad, zones and overwatch, on a station deck battle map.

The crew forge — origins, careers, and a d% skill sheet built in five steps.

Six careers, human or spliced — the crew that flies for the resistance.

A third world at the same table

THE BRIGHT AGE

Aurelia has had heroes for ninety years and grief for ten. Since Everbright fell, the sanctioned team is understaffed, the masterminds have learned the city's rhythms — and you're the generation pulling on masks. Four-color superheroes: twelve archetypes, dice that land in color bands, and a city where the hot-dog vendor has a name.

Downtown Aurelia at golden hour, in pixel art

Sal · corner vendor, the Terraces

"Cape's crooked, kid. And the bus is still on the bridge. Go — I'll hold your change."

The dice roll in color. Same percentile dice (d% — roll 1-100 under your rating, server-rolled), but here the MARGIN paints a color: white misses, green hits, yellow hits hard — and red is the spectacular your strongest powers wait for.
Rescues score like knockouts. The thrown bus lands somewhere. Catch it, and the ledger pays you like you decked the villain. Heroes KO — and the city remembers.
A Weakness and a Nemesis, mandatory. The creation wizard builds your hero in minutes: archetype, powers, the flaw that can drop you, and one sentence the Game Master turns into a personal villain who comes back smarter every time.
Masterminds run schemes. Somewhere under the gala, the plan is already moving. Rank up, unlock deeper powers, and be there when it surfaces.

Answer the call I was summoned

d% 28 vs Might 62 — YELLOW: hit, Slam 3

Every roll lands in a band — the band is both the math and the panel it paints.

White · missGreen · hitYellow · strongRed · spectacular

Twelve archetypes — the generation pulling on masks.

A fourth world at the same table

THE GALLOWS TIDE

Every flag on the Halter Sea owes the rope a debt, and yours is no different. Golden-age piracy with the varnish stripped: fistfuls of d6s, six berths, a ship that takes wounds like a crewmate — and a sea that remembers every risk you take. Push your luck and the Toll comes due: the storyteller spends your bad luck back as storms, reversals, and old enemies.

Mother Keel · harbormistress of Pardon

"The wind's free, love. Everything else in this port is invoiced."

Count the sixes. Pool 6d6 trade [6,5,3,2,1,1] vs Blades need 1 — 2 hits, STRONG. Stat plus skill in dice, need set before the roll, every face server-rolled and printed. An audit recomputes every line.
PUSH, and the sea collects. Reroll everything that missed — but every 1 banks a Toll the Game Master spends back as reversals, complications, and weather with your name on it. The Toll sits on the table in plain view.
The ship is a crewmate. Hull, rig, crew, and hold take wounds like the rest of you — and when the grapples bite, the fight cuts straight from gun-deck to boarding deck.
Sign the Articles. Take a ready berth or build your own pirate in two minutes — your stats, your skills, and your mark on the ship's charter, which the whole crew plays under.

Sign the Articles Or raise a banner — THE HUNDRED BANNERS ›

A live GALLOWS TIDE boarding fight on a dock battle map

Round 2 on the quay — marines on the seawall, the crew off the boats, every pool printed.

Six berths under the Articles — the crew the rope hasn't caught.

A fifth world at the same table

THE HUNDRED BANNERS

A hundred banners, one throne, and honor that keeps score. Sengoku Japan at the lantern's edge: roll handfuls of d10s and keep the best, walk one of six paths, settle duels in three formal breaths — and set, at your own table, whether the ghosts are grief, folklore, or real and hungry.

A castle town beneath a white keep, in pixel art

The Go Master · keeper of the crossing house

"Sit. The board remembers every war this province has had. So do I."

Roll many, keep what you are. 6k3: roll six d10s, keep the three highest, sum against the target. A kept 10 can flare — once, cleanly — and the table hears the taiko when it does.
Stake your honor on a roll. Declare a PRESS and the task gets harder on purpose — in front of witnesses, for the glory of doing it the hard way. And when a moment is too important to leave to chance, a Kiai shout buys one more die.
Duty and heart keep separate books. Obligations to your banner on one page, the people you love on the other — the game remembers every promise you keep and every one you break, and never tells you which to betray.
The duel is three breaths. Assess, center, cut — one roll each, the stakes declared before the first. Poetry duels run the same steel, and cost face instead of blood.

Raise your banner Or open the register — THE MIDNIGHT LEDGER ›

A HUNDRED BANNERS table on a snowbound mountain pass

Beat one, the snow pass — a ronin under the prayer-flags, petals on the wind, the tale waiting.

Six paths through the long autumn — the company under one banner.

A sixth world at the same table

THE MIDNIGHT LEDGER

Gravenhithe, 1926 — a port city that keeps a second ledger of what it owes the dark. Two d12s fall on every roll: the pale lamp is your act, and skill moves it; the black gulf is the world's attention, and nothing you do ever moves it. Dread climbs as you learn what's true — and the strongest tools cost a piece of your calm that never comes back.

The Stranger · seen twice, never introduced

"The register is never wrong, madam. That is precisely what troubles me."

The lamp and the gulf. Every test rolls both: lamp + your skill against 8, 11, or 14. If the gulf reaches past your calm, something noticed — succeed or fail, the dark keeps its own count.
The trade. Once a scene, resolve on the gulf's face instead of the lamp. It always stirs, and dread always rises — the dark can carry you, and the dark keeps receipts.
Clues cannot dead-end. A successful search always finds something true — the mystery can never strand you. And each truth you piece together offers a bargain: real power against the thing you've named, in exchange for a fear that never fully leaves you.
The dice cannot be bent. Every roll is server-made, printed in full, and recomputed by an audit — in a game about an untrustworthy ledger, yours is the one book that never lies.

Open the register I was summoned

A MIDNIGHT LEDGER table in the Gravenhithe archive

Beat one, the civic archive at three in the morning — the November volume open, the names arriving before the bodies.

Six callings in the Society — the ones who read the register back.

Your party. Real dice.
An AI Game Master who never cancels.

One table. Six worlds. Your party in all of them.

THE LAST LANTERN

RED CENTURY

THE BRIGHT AGE

THE GALLOWS TIDE

THE HUNDRED BANNERS

THE MIDNIGHT LEDGER

A tabletop night that fits in the cracks of a real week

The tale is written for you

Real rules, real danger

Friends first

Or take the Director's chair

Your seat is waiting

Your party. Real dice.An AI Game Master who never cancels.

One table. Six worlds. Your party in all of them.

THE LAST LANTERN

RED CENTURY

THE BRIGHT AGE

THE GALLOWS TIDE

THE HUNDRED BANNERS

THE MIDNIGHT LEDGER

A tabletop night that fits in the cracks of a real week

The tale is written for you

Real rules, real danger

Friends first

Or take the Director's chair

Your seat is waiting

Your party. Real dice.
An AI Game Master who never cancels.