The dictionary is the deck
No card pool to memorise. You already know a hundred thousand plays, and the game reads what your words mean, not just which letters they spend.
The dark down there only opens for words. Bring good ones.
A rack of letters. A handful of plays. A wall of fog that wants a bigger number than you have got.
You are a Lexomancer, and down here language is the only tool that still works. Every chamber is a hex cavern sealed by a Ward: a score you must reach before your last placement lands. Thread a word across the stone and the fog peels back around it. Sometimes it shows you a vein of multiplier tiles. Sometimes a spring of mana. Sometimes a hole you will have to bridge with a longer word than you meant to spell. The preview is always honest. What is still under the fog is the gamble.
Break the Ward and you descend, and that is where the real game begins. Take the words you actually played, arrange them into a phrase, and the Forge listens to what that phrase means and hands you an Axiom: a standing rule that bends the whole run toward the way you like to spell. A long-word maximalist? Sesquipedalian pays for every ten-dollar word. Terse and lethal? Terse Wit. Willing to swear off the letter E and get rich for the vow? Silence of E is waiting for you.
Every Depth ends at a Guardian, and every Guardian rewrites the room. Every Depth wants a bigger number than the last. An engine that stops growing dies on the second floor. Yours will not. Probably.
A run is a stack of rooms, and every room asks the same four things of you.
Spell words into the fog. Every placement lights the tiles around it and shows you what the room was hiding.
Stack base and multiplier until the number on the door is smaller than yours.
Turn the words you played into an Axiom. Enchant a letter. Rest, and sharpen what you already own.
Deeper chambers, bigger Wards, and a Guardian waiting at the bottom of every floor.
The Ward does not care how clever you are. It cares how big your number is.
Carved above the first door
No card pool to memorise. You already know a hundred thousand plays, and the game reads what your words mean, not just which letters they spend.
Every placement reveals more of the room. Previews are always exact. What is still buried is the gamble, and the gamble is the game.
Your run's rules are written in your own vocabulary. Sesquipedalian, Terse Wit, Crescendo, Silence of E. Each one a different way to make the dark pay.
Gild your vowels. Char your consonants. Watch the mark spread across every tile of that letter, every room, for the rest of the run.
Vowel tax. Heavy fog. An echoing dark that punishes repetition. The last chamber on every floor plays by different rules.
A run fits in an evening. A room is a few minutes of committing to a word and living with what it uncovers.
Captures land here as the game firms up. These are the four we're shooting first.
Estimated while the game is in development, and subject to change. Windows first; Mac and Linux are planned.
There's no wishlist yet. The press kit has everything we can share about the descent so far, and the world page has the rest.