On a monsoon summer night, an apprentice, a healer, and a warrior gather around a fire. One has come for refuge, another for healing, and the last to discover her truth. As each woman begins to tell her story, she finds she has so securely wrapped herself in silence that it is difficult to find a way out.
But the fire is warm, as are their companions. And on this night, they say to the world and to the obstacles inside themselves: Let. Me. Speak.
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Breathe, pull, and choose your way through three women’s stories in this dark yet comforting narrative game about healing the worlds inside us.
Sakari didn’t think her search for magic (the kind deemed illegal, much to her discontent) would lead her to leave her homeland. She didn’t think it would lead her to a violet-haired alchemist and her crow, or to find family in two fellow apprentices, both searching for the same thing. She didn’t think it would lead them all into the jungle time and again, where the animals would watch them curiously but without judgment. But it did.
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And it led her to a poet who would use his words to twist her search into his own, her magic into his own. Her air into his own.
Help Sakari tell her story by breathing life back into the world inside her.
“Everything is magic before you know how it works.”
SAKARI
JILIN
Jilin’s mother is not a healer. This would not be a problem, but for the fact that she seems to believe it is, somehow, Jilin’s responsibility to make up for this perceived deficiency. It’s hardly any wonder that Jilin tries to escape, first into the gardens, then down into town, and then into the arms of half of the women she meets there. And then into the solid embrace of one woman in particular. A woman who is also not a healer. And why, you may ask, does this matter?
Because Jilin somehow, miraculously, despite her parentage, was born a healer in a country governed by healers. And if she sees fit to tarnish her legacy by courting a commoner, her mother (in an enduring fit of hypocrisy), her grandmother, and her country will visit such lasting hardships upon her that they will become part of who she is.
Help Jilin tell her story by uprooting the influences of others from the world inside her. Pull out the parts of her heritage that pain her, so the parts that nurture her can grow.
“Shall I tell you what a real miracle is?”
Death can become a part of you, if you let it. So says Araz’s country, after requiring her to dole out death on a daily basis. You don’t have to take it home with you, they say. Leave it on the battlefield. And so Araz does. She thinks she does. She is, of course, incorrect. But to be fair, thinking is not an exercise with which she is overly familiar. Her country has never allowed her the space for it.
She gives birth to two children. They are always rosy-cheeked from the cold in their northern home. Yet they spend hours in the snow, waiting for foxes. They curl up next to her when she returns from war, and she forgets that there is anything but home, anything but this. Until one night, when she sees them laughing, running around the house. And she imagines them in a few years time, conscripted, running onto a field of death.
Help Araz tell her story by choosing your way through the paths in her past. Help her define what it means to choose, and to choose right.
“How can you live in the mountains and not see the stars?”
ARAZ
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