EpicRoll.ai

Your world. Your rules. Your roll.A role-playing game you play in your own words.The dice decide. The world remembers.EpicRoll is not open yet. This page is a preview with a waitlist. The example below is one of five playable worlds, shown in full so you can see how a turn actually works.The example: a fantasy worldAldous Vance. Court scholar to a kingdom in its long autumn. Genre: Fantasy.Act one: The parchment is rewriting itselfMaeve brought it back three nights ago, singed at one corner, and you copied it out twice before you slept. Both copies now say something else. The original is warm under your hand and the strokes are still moving.A player types what they do in ordinary language. The system reads it as a skill check, rolls real Fudge dice, and narrates the band the dice landed on. Three things this character could do here, and the skill each one tests:

Read it while the strokes are still moving (Arcana, needs 2)

Fix the ink with the counter-draught from my kit (Alchemy, needs 3)

Burn the parchment and every copy of it (Fireball, needs 1)

The dice decide what the narration is allowed to say. Rolling badly on the first of those actions reads:You get four words and lose the fifth, and the fifth is the one that governs the rest. Old, southern, and past that the page will not hold still long enough to argue with.Say what you do, in your own words. The dice decide how it goes, and nobody gets to take it back. Not the AI, not you.Act two: More than a chatbot.They remember. They think. They have their own reasons.The study, late. Maeve has been gone three days. She is on the lectern with a scrap of parchment under one foot, refusing to look at him.Maeve: "You won't like where I had to go to get this. Don't ask."What the player can say, and what it surfaces in the other character's memory:

What did it cost you, Maeve? It recalls "he bound me out of pity" and "the second eye was the price", and they think "he asked first. he never does".

Give it here. We don't have time. It recalls "he asks the wrong thing first" and "the archive knew my old name", and they think "scholar first, friend after".

You went to her, didn't you. It recalls "her sigil was kind to me once" and "I flew where I cannot twice", and they think "he has read me three times".

Lie to the innkeeper and she remembers the lie. Come back a year later. She still does.Act three: Build the world by playing in it.You don't explore a finished world. You cause one.Maeve brings you parchment from places a raven should not reach, and the last scrap came back singed. Something under the archives is awake, and the court would rather you stopped reading.Places come into being when the player reaches for them, and what the player changes stays changed. The three in this world:

The warded archive. The seal was set by a hand you were taught to admire, and it was set from the inside. In it: The slate sigil, Silver run into slate, older than the archive. It starts Grooves still warm, and cooling fast; after the player acts it is Dark. The rubbing has the seventh stroke.

The walled garden. The frost has taken every print in this garden but one, and that one is smaller than a man and larger than a child. In it: The iron gate, Wrought iron, waist high, hung on one hinge. It starts Ajar by a hand-width, frost unbroken under it; after the player acts it is Swung wide. One print, too light for the court.

The deep stair. This is the room you have spent thirty years explaining to yourself was sealed for somebody else and their reasons. In it: The iron door, Banded iron, and no handle on this side. It starts Shut fast, and the seam is glowing; after the player acts it is Standing open. Dust walked through, both ways.

Go somewhere and it becomes real. Leave, and it keeps running without you. A coffee shop or a galaxy, same game.Read the terms and privacy at /legal.