Community Creations

Floor 47 of Kowloon-3 holds your shop. You sell flowers - real flowers, grown under stolen UV in a back room, root-stock smuggled from the agro-arcologies of Chiang Mai. Below floor 30 the lights are corporate. Above floor 60 the lights are private. You're in the messy middle. Your regulars are small-time mods specialists, an off-grid courier called Mei, an ex-corp nurse who sells contraband insulin two stalls down, and the apartment-block grandmothers who remember real soil. The Velour Group's gardenless tower fifteen blocks east has noticed your shop. The rare cultivars in your back room are starting to be worth real money. What kind of florist you become here is decided by what you do with the next delivery.

The fishing trawler Dunblayne went over in a December squall and the current carried you to a rocky islet so remote that the chart in the wheelhouse hadn't named it. Twelve square kilometres of slate cliff and peat moor, no trees, no humans, no shelter that wasn't built by someone two hundred years ago and abandoned. The wind doesn't stop. The seabirds nest in their thousands on the south cliffs. The fog hides freighters that pass twelve miles out. There's an old peat-cutter's shieling on the high ground that you can patch and live in. There are puffins. Build a beacon, hunt the cliffs, salvage what comes ashore, and decide whether you're the kind of person who can wait out the weather - because the weather is the calendar here.

You arrive at a small mountain monastery as their newest scribe. Brother Cael is gentle and curious. The village below sends children up for letters and old men for stories. Mornings are for ink and quill. Afternoons for evensong and the cloister. Your one ambition is small: rebind the monastery's twelve oldest volumes by year's end, and teach the village children to read.

Your great-aunt Linnea, the village herbalist of a sleepy fishing town, left you the keys, the seed-jars, and a ledger of regulars who came for tinctures and gentle remedies. Mornings are for walking the cliffs. Afternoons for drying herbs. Evenings for the lighthouse turning. Tend the garden through the seasons. Restore the abandoned greenhouse on the south slope. Become known.

Made a purely historical, zero-magic sandbox set in the Levant. The empire controls the main hubs like Antakya, but the mountains are full of old Crusader remnants and hidden sanctuaries. You can start as absolutely anyone.. a Catholic pilgrim fresh off the boat, a merchant, a Byzantine merc etc..

WW1 Diesel punk setting. Allied start.

A shattered empire bleeds. From a penniless farmer to a samurai warlord or shadow-bound shinobi, forge your destiny in a limitless open world where rival clans and terrifying yōkai clash.

Cosy seaside town, with plenty of opportunity for a little business startup, Florist, Baker and whatever you can think of!

A Finnish village of thirty-eight souls on the shore of Lake Vakka, in Karelia, in February 1912. The lake has not frozen this winter. It should have frozen in November. It is now the fourteenth of February and the lake is still liquid, still steaming in minus-thirty-degree air. The village pastor died on January twenty-third. His widow knows why. His replacement has not left the parsonage since Sunday. The spring thaw is two weeks away. The sleigh that brought you will not come again. You were sent to document a scientific curiosity. You will leave having documented something else, or you will not leave at all.

A Mediterranean port city that no state currently claims. Eighteen years ago the Calvertan Republic collapsed and never returned. Three criminal families run Porto Calvera now - the Vasilakis on the docks, the Dragani in the hills, the Caravello in the banks. Between them sits the Exchange, a neutral clearinghouse where information, money, and favors move across the city without anyone having to shake hands. Four days ago, the Exchange's longtime operator was shot twice on Basin Boulevard. You inherited the ledger, the safe, and the target on his back. The mainland is coming back, whether Porto Calvera is ready or not.

Once the greatest civilization on the continent, Drevnar now fractures under two centuries of slow decline. Its five powers bicker over what remains of a golden age. Three years ago, the star-reading Zvedari detected something approaching from beyond the known stars - vast, structured, patient. They call it The Composition. It arrives in years, not centuries. Drevnar is not ready. You might be the only person who can change that. Or you might watch it all end.