It gets to stay. Added to:
incunabuli.com/lore/unto-th...
02.03.2026 23:32
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Absolutely sickening dinkus
O, how I adore a dinkus.
Or, should I say, double column leaders where there hadn't been before.
Further adventures in CSS: Dotted leaders.
Wordpress, Oxygen Builder, and a lot of unskilled CSS in a giant stylesheet.
I truck with the gamebook-as-site deeply.
Tastes like blackletter.
Font Durer Black from Justified Ink
shop.justifiedink.com/product/dure...
Test run of a new title font for Incunabuli.com. 300% more gothic.
The Rug Merchants’ League has failed audit. The Gendarmerie is investigating. Only three verifiable carpet sales last year. The rest: Transported to and fro over the border—separatists rolled within the pile.
A note to all panel attendees:
The honorable Magister Braun may pause before responding, careful to discern the phantom speakers from the real.
Nymph poaching is an ecological disaster.
It was a misdelivered letter that propelled her into magicianry. A red envelope stuffed with occult intimations. Read in rapture at the mail-slot. The threshold. The first of a thousand stolen secrets.
Something landed on the cottage last night. Slate shingles in the garden. A perceptible bow to the roofline. An unspeakable scat in the chimneypipe.
Operations ceased abruptly at Larch Valley Lead Mine. Miles of exclusion zone established overnight. Newshounds are flooding in. The Foremen downplays it; a cigarette trembling in hand. Only Berta talks, five drams in: Burials in the ore, she says. Lead skeletons in the deep galena.
A thinning in the summer air. An ozonic breeze from nowhere. A plum-bough sways in the still orchard. A sun-warm drupe falls, but it does not hit the ground.
More on the Office of Secrets: incunabuli.com/lore/the-off...
Shieldbugs manifesting in your larder?
The Office of Secrets wants to know. An incentive of three pounds monthly is available in exchange for unlimited excavation rights under your home.
First day of the melt. Send your children off to school with cricket bats and purses of lucky salt. What laid dead under the snow may want banishing.
Listen behind the walls. Use the earhorn your grandmother left you. She was never deaf, you’ll find.
We’ve reached the end of the microfiction backlog. They were originally posted on the bird app long ago.
Incunabuli has grown depths since these were written. It’s an in-development TTRPG and novel-length fiction work, both. Interested in the rest? It’s all on incunabuli.com
To trek too far South is to enter a realm of dunes of sands; a land which long ago crumbled into madness and sour dust.
Such vapors under the old mill. Shaven boot-heel. Intoxicating coquelicot. Palpitation-inducing exotic praf. Languorous Yerba Roja. Cackling and fiddle-plucking and creatures lounging in stupor.
The cutters enter not to slay those raggedy smokers, but to indulge in their rare supply.
In places, the sour dust of Jerosia is oddly thin. It's best not to dig in it. The things underneath shouldn't be assisted in escaping.
For eons, Serpents gnawed the roots between worlds. When they tasted blood on the root of a hangman’s tree, their interest was piqued.
A scorched knight wanders the astringent wastes of Jerosia. He'll pledge his service to anyone who offers up a cup of blood.
Some say that Serpents were enticed onto the Coast by the taste of blood-soaked tree roots; roots which reached between Worlds.
Sirens' seductive tricks are notorious, but they still work. Souls who've spent months at sea tend to be achingly, foolishly desperate.
Sirens lounge on the warm rocks. They flash white smiles at passing sailors, but keep their naked flipper-feet in the water.
Tomatoes bursting on the coals. Fat sausages sputtering on their sticks. A bottle of burgundy shared in tin cups. Oak leaves overhead, and a springtime moon.
A tincture of laudanum shared between. Tonight, we’ve won; we forget the dark.
Tomorrow, we die.