The Rules

You need ten ballireds for the initial transaction, from there it is eight separate fellwigins’ per movement. 

A standard roll is initially decided by the player to the dealer’s left, the dealer being whoever instigated the early discussions of the game. This can be between 1-8, we recommend an opening initial roll of 6 or higher if you’re hoping to have an enjoyable experience. 

Of course, the initial roll count changes after each cycle - lunar or solar - depending on the gender balance of the game. Each time moving leftward until returning to the dealer, who then dictates either a “bounce” or a “roll tide” whereby the initial roll standard count is either continued on leftward, or bounced rightward. A successful “bounce” - decided via local forum - indicates one point to the dealer, with the standard roll being chosen by them, and evermore cascading upwards until the close of the next lunar/solar cycle. A failed bounce - of course - removes the shoes of the dealer and so their turn is terminated. A “roll tide” maintains a rightward trajectory, with two points to the collective, of which cascades upwards in two’s from the dealer’s leftward player. Now that would be the first section of round two. If you want me to explain round one, you should have been paying attention earlier. 

– Her hand lingered on the stool. For - one, three, five - Five beats. It definitely lingered. Big hands. Bigger than mine. Tracing the scratches in the wood as she spoke. Voices are the first thing to go. I can’t even conjure up her laugh in my head anymore. Then there’s the smell, smells, of the tavern that haunt my nose. A firmer grasp. Smoke. Good and bad. The sweetness of the mead, her. She must have been lathered in something. Rolled around in a field of lavender on her way over. I wonder what she remembers about me? Probably all the mud, it’s usually the mud. I can’t help the mud. I never expected to be so consistently covered in mud it just sort of happened, didn’t it? A very slow, very defined slide down the embankment. I was not a muddy child, and Mum and Dad were not muddy adults. There is no pre-disposed nature or nurture for mud I’m just- It was a series of small, entirely independent decisions. I hope she doesn’t remember the mud. I don’t believe I thought about it once while sitting with her. I should have gone back. Maybe I still could. Was that it? The tavern, and beyond, with her? I never would have stayed, and if I did I would always be thinking about what would have happened if I had left. Much easier to leave and return to it like this, safe and painful but ultimately non-destructive. So no. 

I do not think she was it –

Section two is riddles. No need to explain that one. 

– That one autumn in the forest, enlarging paths made by foxes. I measured the day by how numb my fingers were. No one noticed all the mud then. My knee still rings when the days get shorter. An early morning start deep in the trees just myself and the forest having spent the night in a bush, uncomfortable and cold with my shovel and whacker clutched tight to my chest in preparation for attack. I was truly one with the world that season, part of the forest, beyond present and hyperaware of the small changes that come with the back-end of a year. That was probably it. I would have gone mad before summer–

As normal, it’s seven cards in each hand, then five facing downwards in a pyramid in front of you, with the central four having upturned cards resting on the backs of the face-down cards, horizontally. I will from now on refer to these as the ‘hammer’ cards, with the face down being ‘anvils’, and anything in your hand being ‘iron’ in the ‘sack’. Sacks can only hold seven irons, with two irons making a hammer, and a full sack destroying one anvil. You want as many anvils as possible before the ‘great happening’ otherwise you will be liable to having your sack washed away in the storms. Saving moves can only be made by players in the upper circle during a low tide due to their sea level advantage. Section two of the second round is often referred to as the wet-smithing period for obvious reasons. If you’re not smithing wet you’re asking to get burned!

– Capital city. City living. Toiling for the bailiff, Winchester was lovely in the summer. I don’t think I have ever had more friends at any other period of my life. Or at least, as wide a social circle. A lot of people who I knew, and who knew me. I do not remember much of the work. But I remember how all of them made me feel. I hated the Bailiff, we all did, but that wasn’t the point. The Bailiff was a means to enjoy the sun once we left him. Scurrying around in the dark with ink and paper most of the day to enhance the glory of dropping it all and lazing into the streets. I was funny back then. We all were. The shared struggle, the absurdity of the Bailiff's orders, the measly coin we received at the end of each working week, all to be thoughtlessly spent that evening. It was all so funny. I had no intention of working for the Bailiff forever - none of us bar Rupert had such intentions. We were all passing through, kicking dust in the city while we were young for the sake of saying we did it, we lived - briefly - in the burgeoning moment, the very edge of future, riding the wave into the unknown, all for laughter at the pointlessness of it all. Was that it? Should I have stayed there? Did everything fit? Or do I just miss being young? A few seasons longer and we all would have become Rupert. No. I do not think that was it–

A “wigwigwig” is a call from the major player to a half-sum of the minors. This is your opportunity for unified - or independent - revolt depending on the character profile you set out, wrote down, and burnt before opening discussions. If a “wigwigwig” is met with the appropriate response - which I will not repeat now - then we start the subsector play which cannot exceed two hours and must end with a definite, uncompromising result. This is traditionally where we get injured. Anvil levels are important here but not at all relevant to the outcome.

I cannot stress this enough, your sacks must remain closed throughout. 

– I reluctantly circle the mill on the water. A different kind of water. My time in death. I have no idea how long I was there in the sawdust and the men. I do not remember his name, it never stuck to my head and I doubt mine did to his. His breath was always hot, smelt of lamb, I half expected him to bleat. He was huge, bald, always wet from something. We built the tunnel to taint the water, all the waste running from the mill directly downstream. It was not his idea, nor mine, but we did not question it. In a way it was the best job, I was once again by the forest, the earth, the mud, only now I was its enemy. I was betraying it. And if that was not enough, rattling the cage, every evening after work we would swim in it. Without fail, every time I submerged I expected it to finally fight back, to give in to our violence and drag me and the lamb man under as it should. Yet, every evening I left clean. The river a little worse. I got out of the work after a while, the mill is still there, only bigger. I left cowering, meek, apathetic. Which is probably what I deserve, that was where I was supposed to be, doing my tiny part, eyes glued to the ground I was destroying. Those shoes fit – 

Secrets! The secrets of dance! The final section of one part. We all know the tune. The leftward dealer’s minor part must commence the beat of their choosing - we recommend a quick 3/4 metre for those looking to end strong. In age-order, the remaining players must add to the beat, laying an iron from the sack with each bar, until all sacks are empty and anvils are littered with un-hammered iron. Three irons per hammer you must beat into the anvil until all stacks are coin, five beats on an anvil with a fresh, unironed hammer destroys the hammer so watch out! Of course, ballireds are high so the most leftward player has to use their non-dominant sack hand. Once the beat reaches its natural conclusion players must analyse the circle of scattered anvils, coin, hammers, leftover iron and of course sack.

Whoever has the queen of hearts wins the round. There are fifteen rounds. 

Oh so it’s basically rummy? Hilda remarked, her head swaying with the waves.

No, it’s- It’s, Sigrid grumbled, It makes sense when you start playing. 

My stomach is beginning to settle, I’ve found staring at the cards stops my mind thinking about the size of the waves and the monsters underneath. Sigrid promised me the waters do not hold a grudge, I’m not too sure. The grunts of the rowers sing over the drone of the crashing, ancient water on fresh wood. Up until last week I had never seen a boat this long, now I’m wondering why we never made ours bigger. Everyone is taking off their shoes. It’s cold, but bright. Everything is blue. Is this it?