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To Sleep in the Treebanks of Ancestors

This is a game about families. If you do not want to ape at the feeling of telling your family heritage gossip tsismis as if it were fabled archelogized, witty, this is not the game for you. I am pained that i must say this, that we must be so terrified of telling the stories of how we are who we are and how we’ve become but we are here in a hard knocked life and I guess I just invite you to have fun w/ a glory heart open, surgeoned. 

Life is hard, the game is, but it doesn’t mean that we it can’t be fun. 

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Plays 2-3 hours for 1-3 players.

Themes: lyrical-emotional, ancestry, self

StatusReleased
Rating
Rated 5.0 out of 5 stars
(9)
AuthorMaria Mison
GenreRole Playing, Adventure
Tagslyric, rpgsea

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Buy Now$4.44 USD or more

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To Sleep in the Tree Banks of Ancestors.pdf 2 MB

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Hi.

Of flame and metal shaped to cradle, a creature this game hops over the fence. This game brushes sleep from your eyes. There is morning in the good. This game leads you along to a place you both know to get to. But you don’t. Unless it’s thunder. Or unusually hot. Or some other distraction, you don’t. Come here.

This game does not ask you for your hand. The way you approach this game is animal. Since you and this game’s words first met, it’s poured. In all your spirit, sit.

When I play this game, I default bad-side. The words precipice agnostic, soar or fall, I don’t the former. Stories of forced marriages and disapproval, generations of disownment and addiction, one world on another every decade, decisions made given, an inherited grief into mine and me.

Splat.

When I play this game, I am 14 weeks past losing my dad. I am 1 week til I lose my grandmother. My mother, the land, a wreck. Her sibling, a mountain up and sky like that, just can’t. And no one of old age. I find their jewelry finding me, my finger a childhood friendship ring, a friend who I don’t know of who I love who I find gives also The Lady Is Not For Burning one year later, my wrist a late-stage pain relief ॐ etched on genuine leather, my neck a microlake pebble geode torn in two repaired apology with gold, my industrial wearing wrong a hoop appearing at the casting in the easiled photo decades prior worn correctly. With what they carried, believing in their value, weighing me down.

But when I play this game again, I will choose good-side. I will gather little lets, tiny loves. I will preen them quietly. Here is hoping. Next fly-down in time, I’ll open wings. This game is hard. Maybe land gracefully.

there is rare beauty found in laced words; traced with the idea of our humanity intercoiled in the webbing of our fingers. They told me that there are points here that are connected to my organs. I wish my organs to hold yours. For intestines to splay and for our realities to shudder with being held so viscerally. I am thankful from heaven to back from incise to bone that you are so honest and verbose in your experience. I am honored to have you here. Your family, bone and tree is happy to have you. Welcome. Welcome home(s)