If you have any trouble, the Venerable Knight will, I am sure, do all he can to guide you and offer advice. Let us know how you get along. We had a fantastic and memorable time at Tabletop Northeast!

The Crimson Veil: Shadows at the Black Distillery The mist of Dun Shael was a living thing, coiling through the Low Quarter’s alleys like a serpent, muffling sound and swallowing light. Faolan Shadowblades moved with purpose, his cloak a tattered shadow against the damp cobbles. At his side, Faust, the Barguest, padded silently, its void-black fur drinking in the sallow moonlight. The beast’s eyes burned like embers, and its presence was a weight on the air, a promise of souls to be reaped. Faolan’s own eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the streets for trouble. He’d learned long ago that trouble didn’t need an invitation in this city, especially not tonight. The Gilded Maw’s cryptic summons still gnawed at him, passing notes in the moonlight. You’re Faolan Shadowblades, Headhunter. They say you’re nastier than most. That you leave bodies where others leave promises. He’d had half a mind to retort: I didn’t come here for you to tell me who I fucking am, I know who I am, don’t I? You seem to prefer hiding behind a fucking mask, though, so I find you suspect, and I’ll take my leave! It had been in his mind to speak these words, but others tumbled out of his mouth when he set his tongue to wagging. Funny that, he didn’t normally mince his words. It wasn’t down to some supernatural power of the mysterious patron in his midst. Some inveiglement of pacification. No, it weren’t that. It had a lot to do with how skint he was and how hunger dampens the fire of an incendiary spirit, though. Besides, he liked getting paid. The Veiled Patron’s gold was heavy in his pouch, but their words were heavier: Cumhact na Nanam owes dues. Persuade him. The Red Mist gathers. They’d been cagey, their obsidian mask hiding more than just a face. Faolan wasn’t fool enough to trust a client who spoke in riddles, but work was scarce, and the promise of a favor from one so shrouded in power was a rare coin indeed. Still, something stank worse than the Low Quarter’s gutters. Why him? Why not their “usual boys”? He’d find out soon enough. The Black Distillery loomed at the city’s edge, a squat fortress of blackened stone, its chimneys belching fumes that stung the throat. Its iron-bound doors, pitted and warded with Sidhe runes, barred the way to his payday. The surrounding courtyard, usually alive with the raucous laughter of anamtine-drunk patrons, was eerily silent. No customers tonight, no clinking tankards or slurred songs. Only the flicker of braziers and oil burners cast dancing shadows across the cobblestones, their light mingling with the moon’s sickly glow. And there, lounging against barrels and crates, were the guards—surly figures with ruddy greatswords propped beside them, their blades more suited to felling trees than men. But these weren’t men, not anymore. Faolan’s gut tightened as he took them in. Their flesh was wrong—putrid, bloated, as if they’d been left to ripen in a bog. Eyes gleamed with molten rheum or stared blankly through cataracts. The stench of death clung to them, sharp and sour, and their movements were jerky, like puppets on fraying strings. Undead. Scarified Ritegeists, if he had to guess, their souls bound to rotting flesh by cruel rites. The scars on their arms and chests, jagged and rune-etched, pulsed faintly with necrotic light, tethering their spirits to bodies that should’ve been dust. Faolan had faced their kind before, but these were fresh, their combat instincts still sharp, their memories lingering like ghosts in their skulls. At the center of the group sat a man—Eoin Grimwylde, by the look of him. Faolan knew the name, a mercenary captain who’d run with Dun Shael’s roughest crews. Eoin was broad, his face a map of old scars, but now his skin sagged, and his eyes glowed with an unnatural sheen. He hunched over a tattered map, muttering to himself, scratching his head as if trying to claw out a thought. His mates, five in all, sprawled around him, tankards of foul grog in hand. They chuckled at some jest, but their laughter was hollow, their gazes distant. One of them, a lanky brute with a missing ear, nudged Eoin. “It’s a map to your mum’s house, ain’t it? That’s why you’re all dewy-eyed. Eoin loves his mum. A bit too much.” The others roared, but Eoin’s scowl deepened. “Piss off, Colm. It’s important, I tell ye. Just… can’t recall why.” His voice was a rasp, like gravel in a grave. He clutched the map tighter, its edges worn from years of secret glances. Faolan stepped into the firelight, Faust at his heel. The Barguest’s growl rumbled low, a sound that made the air quiver. The undead froze, their heads snapping toward him, hands twitching toward their swords. Eoin rose, map still clutched in one fist, his other hand resting on the hilt of a blade that looked heavy enough to cleave stone. “Who’s this, then?” Eoin’s voice was thick with suspicion, his molten eyes narrowing. “Distillery’s closed. Bugger off.” Faolan kept his hands loose, though his fingers itched for his swords. “Got business with Cumhact. Open the doors, and we’ll call it friendly.” Eoin barked a laugh, echoed by his mates. “Friendly, he says. Ye hear that, lads? This one’s got balls.” He stepped closer, his stench hitting Faolan like a fist. “Cumhact ain’t seein’ no one. Especially not some Headhunter with a mangy dog.” Faust’s growl deepened, hackles rising, but Faolan raised a hand to still him. “Barguest, not dog. And I ain’t asking. Open the doors, or I’ll open ‘em myself.” Colm, the lanky one, stood, hefting his greatsword with a grin that showed rotting teeth. “Oh, I like this one. Let’s carve him up, boys. Been a dull night.” The air snapped taut, and Faolan’s instincts screamed. He’d hoped to talk his way in, but these Ritegeists were spoiling for a fight, their undead flesh itching for violence. He glanced at the doors—iron-bound, warded, and thick enough to stop a battering ram. Faust could break them, but not with these bastards in the way. Fine. Blood it was. “Faust,” Faolan murmured. “Fetch.” The Barguest lunged, a blur of shadow and teeth, slamming into Colm with the force of a landslide. The undead warrior’s sword swung wild, missing as Faust’s jaws clamped onto his arm, tearing through putrid flesh. Colm howled, a sound more rage than pain, and the others charged. Faolan’s swords were out in a heartbeat, twin blades of blackened steel flashing in the firelight. He met Eoin’s greatsword with a parry, the impact jarring his arms, but he twisted aside, slicing a deep gash across Eoin’s chest. The wound oozed black ichor, but Eoin didn’t falter, his scarred flesh knitting faintly, the runes pulsing brighter. “Ye’ll need more than that, bastard!” Eoin roared, swinging again. Faolan ducked, feeling the blade’s wind graze his cloak, and drove his second sword into Eoin’s gut. The Ritegeist staggered but stayed upright, grinning like a madman. Faolan cursed under his breath. Scarified Ritegeists were tough—too tough. Their souls were bound tight, and dismemberment was the only way to free them. He glanced at Faust, who’d torn Colm’s arm clean off, only for the lanky bastard to swing his sword one-handed, laughing. The other four were circling, their blades gleaming with necrotic energy, their eyes burning with unholy zeal. Faolan had faced worse odds, but not by much. The fight became a whirlwind of steel and shadow. Faolan moved like a specter, his blades a blur, carving through rotting flesh. He severed a warrior’s leg, sending him crashing to the cobbles, but the bastard crawled forward, swinging. Faust was a maelstrom, his claws rending limbs, his jaws snapping bones, but the Ritegeists kept rising, their scars glowing, their bodies refusing to stay down. Eoin was the worst, his greatsword a relentless hammer, each swing forcing Faolan to dance back, parrying with both blades to keep his head attached. “Ye don’t quit, do ye?” Faolan spat, dodging another blow and slicing Eoin’s arm to the bone. The map slipped from Eoin’s grasp, fluttering to the ground, but he didn’t notice, too consumed by the fight. “Quitting’s for the living!” Eoin snarled, lunging. Faolan sidestepped, driving both swords into Eoin’s chest, twisting them until black ichor sprayed. Eoin staggered, but his runes flared, and he swung again, clipping Faolan’s shoulder. Pain lanced through him, hot and sharp, but he gritted his teeth, shoving Eoin back. Faolan’s mind raced. The Patron hadn’t mentioned undead guards, hadn’t mentioned this. He’d bet his blades they’d sent others before him—their “usual boys”—and none had come back. The Veiled Patron had known, and they’d kept it quiet. Bastard. He glanced at the doors again. Time was wasting, and the Red Mist was gathering, a faint crimson haze seeping from the Distillery’s chimneys. Whatever Cumhact was doing, it was close to being done. “Faust!” Faolan shouted, parrying Colm’s sword and kicking him into a brazier. The flames roared, licking at Colm’s flesh, but he didn’t scream, just laughed, his cataracts gleaming. “The doors! Now!” The Barguest disengaged, bounding toward the iron-bound entrance. Its claws raked the wards, sparks flying as the runes flickered, weakened by whatever dark power held sway here. Faolan fought to buy time, his blades a storm of steel. He hacked through another warrior’s neck, the head rolling, but the body kept swinging until he drove his sword through its spine, pinning it to a crate. Eoin charged again, map forgotten, his greatsword raised. Faolan dove, snatching the map mid-roll and tucking it into his belt. No time to look now, but it was Eoin’s, and anything Eoin valued was worth keeping. Faust’s roar shook the courtyard as the Barguest slammed into the doors. The iron groaned, wards cracking like glass, and the hinges buckled. One more hit would do it. Faolan fought on, his shoulder bleeding, his breath ragged. The Ritegeists were relentless, their broken bodies lurching forward, swords swinging. Colm, armless now, charged with a dagger in his teeth, and Faolan ended him with a blade through the skull, kicking the body into the flames. It burned, but still twitched, the runes glowing faintly. “How many times do I have to kill ye?” Faolan growled, parrying Eoin’s latest swing.“There’s no prizes for being stubborn, you know. You wind up just as dead.” He was tiring, and the Ritegeists weren’t. Dismemberment was the key, but there were too many, and Faust needed time. The Barguest hit the doors again and again, as Faolan almost paid the highest price over and over again, to buy Faust that time. Finally the doors gave way with a thunderous crash, iron splintering, wards shattering. Dust billowed, and Faolan saw his chance. “Faust! 'Atta boy! With me” He broke from the fight, sprinting for the breach, Faust growling warning at his pursuers before joining him in flight, right at his heels. Eoin’s roar followed, and the remaining Ritegeists gave chase, their swords dragging sparks across the cobbles. Faolan didn’t look back. The Distillery’s interior loomed, a cavern of flickering vats and bubbling pipes, the air thick with the stench of necrosis. The Red Mist hung heavy, swirling like blood in water, and somewhere deep below, a chant echoed—a rite nearing its climax. Faolan skidded to a halt across the threshold, Faust growling and panting at his side. The Ritegeists were still coming, their broken forms silhouetted in the doorway. He could keep fighting, keep breaking them, but they’d just rise again, slower each time but never stopping. The map in his belt felt like a lead weight, a clue to something Eoin had valued in life. Gold, maybe, stashed in some treasure cave. A man could only hope, right? He’d look later. For now, Cumhact was the target, and the chant below meant trouble deeper than undead guards. “Persistent, I’ll give ‘em that.” Faolan muttered, turning deeper into the Distillery. Faust’s eyes burned, sensing souls trapped in the mist, and Faolan’s blades gleamed with fresh ichor. The Veiled Patron had lied, and Cumhact wasn’t just a Chymist dodging dues. Something bigger was at play—something involving a Necrourgist, maybe, or a Bone Dancer of some sort, weaving rites in the Black Distillery, brewing up more trouble than that devil grog ever did. Faolan didn’t know the half of it, but he’d find out soon enough, and probably wish he hadn’t. Come what may, someone was going to bleed. Shadowblades was mighty opposed to the current situation. Bleeding was like drinking. It should never be done alone. The Distillery’s shadows swallowed him, and the Red Mist closed in, a crimson veil over a city on the edge of ruin.

The Veiled Pact in Dun Shael The mist clung to Dun Shael like a shroud, its tendrils curling through the narrow, cobbled streets, where lamplight flickered weakly against the encroaching dark. The hill-city’s wards, etched deep into its granite walls, pulsed faintly with Sidhe runes, a fading bulwark against the undead that prowled beyond. Inside, the air was thick with suspicion, the citizens’ eyes darting like cornered beasts. The rise of the death-cults had turned neighbor against neighbor, and trust was a currency few could afford. Faolan Shadowblades moved through the shadowed alleys of the Low Quarter, his boots silent on the slick stones. His lean frame was cloaked in tattered black, the hilts of twin swords peeking from beneath his mantle. His face, scarred and weathered, bore the hard lines of a man who’d seen too much and regretted too little. At his side loped Faust, the Barguest, a hulking beast with eyes like smoldering coals. Its fur was a matted void, swallowing light, and its presence drew uneasy glances from the few souls brave or desperate enough to linger in the streets. Faust was no pet, no mere hound. A creature of the Otherworld, tasked with guiding lost souls to their rest, it had gone astray, tethered to Faolan by some unspoken pact. Where Faolan went, death followed, and Faust was never far behind, sniffing out the souls his blades set free. The Low Quarter was a festering wound in Dun Shael’s heart, its taverns and dens reeking of sour ale and despair. Faolan’s work as a Headhunter—mercenary, assassin, whatever paid—had dried up in the city’s paranoia. No one trusted a blade who wasn’t kin, and even kin were suspect these days. He’d been holed up in a crumbling tenement, sharpening his swords and his temper, when the message came: a scrap of parchment, slipped under his door, bearing a single line in elegant script: The Gilded Maw, midnight. Come alone. Bring the beast. The Gilded Maw was no ordinary tavern. Tucked in a forgotten corner of the Low Quarter, it was a place of whispered deals and forbidden rites, its entrance hidden beneath a butcher’s shop. The sign above the trapdoor was a grinning skull, its jaws painted gold, and the air below stank of blood and incense. Faolan descended the creaking stairs, Faust’s claws clicking behind him, and pushed through a beaded curtain into a chamber that felt more like a crypt than a tavern. The room was dimly lit by braziers, their flames casting writhing shadows on walls carved with spiraling Sidhe runes. Tables were scattered haphazardly, occupied by hooded figures nursing tankards of black grog, their faces obscured. A low chant hummed in the air, barely audible, like the drone of a distant hive. At the far end, a raised platform held a throne-like chair, its wood blackened and etched with bones. There sat the Veiled Patron, a figure cloaked in crimson, their face hidden behind a mask of polished obsidian, its surface reflecting the firelight in fractured glints. Faolan stopped a few paces from the platform, his hand resting lightly on a sword hilt. Faust growled low, a sound that vibrated in the bones, but Faolan silenced the beast with a glance. The Barguest settled onto its haunches, eyes fixed on the Patron, its tail twitching like a serpent. “You’re late,” the Patron said, their voice a silken rasp, neither male nor female, as if spoken through a veil of smoke. “I dislike waiting.” “Streets are thick with eyes tonight,” Faolan replied, his tone flat. “Didn’t fancy a tail. You the one with the job?” The Patron leaned forward, the obsidian mask tilting. “I am. You’re Faolan Shadowblades, Headhunter. They say you’re nastier than most. That you leave bodies where others leave promises.” “They say a lot of things. Most of it’s true.” Faolan’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “What’s the job?” The Patron’s gloved hand gestured to a table beside the throne, where a single goblet sat, filled with a viscous, dark liquid that seemed to writhe in the light. “Sit. Drink. Then we’ll talk.” Faolan didn’t move. “I don’t drink with strangers. Especially not ones hiding their face.” A soft chuckle escaped the mask. “Wise. But you’ll need your strength for what’s to come. The Black Distillery is no place for the faint-hearted.” Faolan’s eyes narrowed. The Black Distillery was a name whispered in dread, a fortified ruin on the city’s edge, where the Chymist, Cumhact na Nanam, conducted his unholy experiments. Rumors spoke of vats bubbling with necrotic ichor, of bodies that walked without souls. “Cumhact’s place. What’s he done to you?” “He owes dues,” the Patron said, their voice hardening. “And he thinks himself above paying. My usual… associates lack the stomach for what’s required. You, I’m told, do not.” Faolan glanced at Faust, whose eyes gleamed with a hunger that wasn’t mortal. “You want him dead?” “I want him persuaded,” the Patron corrected. “His rites disrupted, his warriors scattered. If blood must flow, so be it. But Cumhact lives. For now.” Faolan’s fingers tightened on his hilt. “Sounds like a lot of trouble for a debt. What’s the catch?” The Patron’s mask tilted again, as if studying him. “The catch, Shadowblades, is the Red Mist. It gathers around the Distillery, a sign his rituals near completion. If he succeeds, the consequences will be… unpleasant. For Dun Shael. For you. For your beast.” Faust growled again, hackles rising. Faolan felt a chill, not from the words but from the way the air seemed to thicken, as if the runes on the walls were listening. “And the pay?” A gloved hand reached beneath the crimson cloak, producing a small pouch that clinked softly. The Patron tossed it to the table, where it landed beside the goblet. “Gold enough to keep you in blades and grog for a year. And something more… intangible. A favor, owed by one who does not offer such lightly.” Faolan eyed the pouch but didn’t touch it. “Favors from your kind come with strings.” “Everything comes with strings,” the Patron said, rising from the throne. Their cloak shimmered, as if woven from liquid shadow. “The question is whether you’re man enough to cut them.” The room grew quieter, the chant fading, the hooded figures at the tables still as statues. Faolan felt the weight of their attention, a pressure that made his skin crawl. He’d faced death-cults, spirits, and worse, but something about the Gilded Maw—about the Patron—set his instincts screaming. Yet the gold was real, and work was scarce. And Faust, for all his otherworldly menace, needed souls to guide, or whatever had broken him would only worsen. “Tell me about the Distillery,” Faolan said at last, his voice low. “And Cumhact’s lads.” The Patron settled back into the throne, satisfied. “The Black Distillery is a fortress, its doors iron-bound and warded. Cumhact’s warriors are cultists, fanatics who drink his foul brews and wield blades blessed with necrotic fervor. They guard the gates, the vats, the Chymist himself. You’ll need to breach the doors—your Barguest can help with that—and carve your way through. Cumhact’s rites involve the Red Mist, a power that twists flesh and soul. Interrupt him before it’s complete.” Faolan’s mind raced. Cultists were trouble, but he’d faced their kind before. The Red Mist, though—that was new. And the Patron’s refusal to name their own stake in this reeked of secrets. “Why me?” he asked. “Plenty of blades in Dun Shael.” The Patron’s mask gleamed as they leaned forward. “Because you’re not just a blade, Faolan. You’re a storm. And storms don’t ask questions—they destroy. Besides…” Their voice dropped to a whisper. “Faust chose you. And I trust his judgment.” Faolan glanced at the Barguest, whose eyes burned brighter, as if the mention of his name had stirred something deep within. Faust didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The beast’s presence was a promise of violence, a reminder of the souls that piled up wherever Faolan went. Something had gone wrong with Faust, yes, but it wasn’t just the Barguest. Faolan’s own demons—guilt, rage, the ghosts of his past—kept them bound together, a pair of broken things cutting through a broken world. He stepped forward, ignoring the goblet but picking up the pouch. The gold inside was heavy, real. “I’ll do it,” he said. “But if this goes sour, I’m coming for you.” The Patron laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “I’d expect nothing less. Go, Shadowblades. The Black Distillery awaits. And the Red Mist does not linger for idle men.” Faolan turned, Faust rising to follow, his claws scraping the stone floor. The beaded curtain parted as he passed, the chant resuming behind him, louder now, a dirge that followed him up the stairs and into the night. The mist of Dun Shael swallowed him, but his mind was already on the Distillery, on Cumhact na Nanam, on the cultists and their unholy grog. His blades would sing soon enough, and Faust would feast on the souls they freed. As he vanished into the Low Quarter’s labyrinth, the Gilded Maw’s braziers dimmed, and the Veiled Patron’s mask gleamed one last time. The runes on the walls pulsed, and the air whispered with secrets too dark for even Faolan to fathom. The storm was coming, and Dun Shael would tremble in its wake.

https://www.myminifactory.com/object/3d-print-the-3-worlds-bundle-485741

Hi Scott! Thank you for your support of Triskelion and this project, and for the question. We added a 3d printing section to the top tool bar on the site and from it you can access our MyMiniFactory store. If you look there around the end of the week, the 3 Worlds Pledge will be available for £80.00 and contains all the STLs from the campaign including the Stretch Goals. We already fulfilled the STL part of the pledges from the campaign, back in January. We are also no longer taking orders for the physical production as we are at capacity, but in time the collections will be available through our Only Games store also linked, and dispatched from their facility. If you have any other questions, fire away! Best, Wizzie

There is a forthcoming development to the site, as we'll be adding a section on Red Mist shortly. This is a 1 to 10 player narrative skirmish game set in Inis Fael. Link is here: https://gamefound.com/en/projects/triskelion-games/the-thinning-veil---red-mist I've finished the rulebook for the game, but have not started the campaign book yet, though many ideas for it are in note form. Playtesting has begun, all the card decks are written save for the full extent of Twilight cards and some tables. Sculpts for Red Mist are coming along well, I've been showing some painted examples as I work through some painting commission commitments I agreed to in order to secure some prototypes! Cormac is going well, and the printing for the Printed Pledges is in full swing. I will move on to the painted pledges as soon as I have honoured my commitment to the UK firm. I've almost finished the card decks for Denizens of Midnight, and am on the final drafts for Cormac scenarios. 'A Reiver's Tale' will form the lion's share of the work in terms of game development going forward. We'll have some news on that front soon. I hope you're all well, and looking forward to the project development as the world of the Thinning Veil begins to open up for you to explore! Red Mist will now launch with full production in China, including miniature content. We're going to go for it and see what happens!

Been a busy few weeks since the close of the campaign. As we are readying for the opening of the late pledges on Tuesday, I find myself in the midst of the mist. It is red and there is an air of menace. I suspect violence could break out tonight at any moment. Which means I am working with InDesign again... Venerable Knight has set up the 75 mm Collectible range on Only Games division of My Mini Factory for print on demand collectible miniatures in grand scales! This includes a display piece of the Murder Crow from the original Kickstarter. Hopefully we'll get back to that game with a chance of funding it one day, but that day doesn't seem any closer from this vantage point (in the mists). I've completed the final draft of 'Raised by Wolves', 'The King in the Crypt' and 'Reaper's Hollow' since end of the campaign, and am half way through 'The Shadow Within' which concludes the Young Cormac adventures for the Cormac game. Given we want to have a prototype of Red Mist we can show off at Tabletop Scotland, I've been working on that too, and have written the bulk of the rulebook, or at least 50% of it. Paul and I have worked hard on the art for the game, to include a battle arena or two based on Henning's tiles, and utilising the Crypt. We've designed icons for the Warbands and I've created card backs for all the decks for the game. As far as the Warbands are concerned, the game contains Headhunters and Berserkers - two very aggressive warbands, guaranteeing optimum carnage. The bands each contain 1 Chief, 1 Spiritual Advisor, and 3 Warriors. Additionally the game will include six Crypt Ghouls (as seen in Reiver during our Cormac campaign). We hope to unlock some additional miniature content to surprise you with enemies interrupting even the best laid of plans. I've written the rules and attributes for the Warbands and each character, and written the warband skill decks, the traits and talents decks and am now working on Items and Spells. Paul's created a few spells for the deck too! Our problem is that in a world where there are many skirmish games, Red Mist has a lot of competition and people will inevitably ask ' what makes this one different?' or 'why do I need this, what makes it special?' to which there is no actual good answer. The truth doesn't sell. Red Mist is a skirmish game and you absolutely don't need it. If you consider the basic needs for survival, board games are not among them. If I had to answer and I inevitably will have to answer this question or one like it. I'd say Red Mist is unique as it is the only skirmish game set in Inis Fael, and it has a narrative which evolves as the game does, around what you are doing. You might even find in the end, that your goal in the final round is quite a departure from when you set out. What you end up wanting to do may be poles apart from what you thought you were about when the battle began. I don't know another skirmish game that does that. Maybe there is one. There are so many and I've only played about 20 of them over my lifetime. Red Mist introduces enemies into the fray which can really mess you up and we're working on an A.I app you can use instead of rolling dice and drawing cards. Some of them are malicious entities, unseen beings, others are demons manifest. Now this latter happens only if we get unlocks. Also Red Mist can be played solo. Your warband gains skills, traits, talents, items and spells. You increase your level as you gain souls and renown, becoming more and more feared. A Known Man. Even Crysanthe of the Ways can be a Known Man. There can be power in her name, much as there can that of MacAoghan Flesheater. In the world of the Red Mist it's deeds set you apart and put weight to your name, not what's between your legs. As always, I hope we can bring you more warbands for Red Mist in time, to include the Harbingers, an all female warrior caste of the War Goddess. There is a Harbinger Hero type in Crypt of the Charnel Court. That's another game we've completed development on, with only a few scenarios to write. But we want that game to include miniatures and we don't attract the support needed to fund a game that will be as expensive as Court or Veil yet... So back to Red Mist and miniatures. We're thinking about exploring UK production, to print on demand, adding our own 3d printed miniatures if we can get good packaging from our manufacturers. Then we'll order in dice from China, print up the minis, travel to the factory and add the dice and minis to each game individually. If we hit a decent level of funding we will switch to China and PVC production with ABS parts using steel moulds. Do you think people will be cool with that if we state this upfront? Because I don't think we'll fund if we need to cover $20,000+ of mould costs before we get out of the gate on production of units. Or we will, but all the money will go on steel moulds and we'll make no profit at all. We are looking at maybe getting 75 backers at this point, based on Cormac conversion rates, where we went in with 2,570 followers and got 292 backers. Obviously we'll hope to improve that picture before launch. But you have to be realistic about these things. However much it hurts. The above model would mean we could do as we have done, but with no printed pledges, the printing would be included until we hit that stretch goal which would open up Chinese production on miniatures. Stretch Goals will be additional warband skills and combats cards, additional trap cards, shrine powers, and talents, items and so on. What does Camelyn say to this?

A Thorn in the Heartwood. Moonbeams filtered into the chamber, and motes of some strange confetti, as though the Midnight were in celebration of some union unknown to the beholder. Yet the feeling, the vibration, which permeated in abundance, was of inchoate sullen repose. As though dark secrets drifted here, and yet remained stilled by time, hanging rather more like musical notes killed at the moment of birth, almost outlined. Nothing but gaps between the spaces which no hope could fill, and no embrace could warm. She shivered. To touch such should revile, not excite, but there was ever a thrill in the illicit and a passion which ignited for her: it was not a choice. Her breath caught, she was ensnared, by the visuals lying before her as she walked the dark stone corridors of Redemption's Demise, an ancient thought-hold of the Barren. A place where even dreams would not dare die. Why would a dream die in a place where rebirth was unimaginable? Impossible! A choking grasp around the throat of inevitability. Folly! A dream knows better than to die in such place. But it was not this stark and chilling dankness nor the motes of sadness suspended in moonbeams which caught her gaze and held her rapt. It was the Gate. No sigils nor wards, and stonework simple but solid beneath a mantle unadorned with the splendour of fine craft. It was an unimpressive door. So why did it hold her so enthralled, so bound in the grasp of its mundane and moribund dereliction? It could collapse, this arched portal, this aged nameless wood, forbidding ingress or egress beneath. What then could truth tell of the Other Side? It was not door. The door was a construct. It was the mechanism. The centre. It cannot hold. But this centred mechanism had so far held. The key was in her possession and she had long sought this door. When an eye opens it cannot ever be closed. Not truly. It can be blinded, it can grow stale with the cataracts of the malign or disuse, and it can be sewn closed by shadow-stitch. Naevera would keep her eye open, and she would see within and without and return ere the iris expunged. She frowned. Something was off. The chamber was only seemingly fifty yards wide, the vaulted roof was a shadowed night-scape, appearing so much like diamond studded skies, it was hard to discern. Something was in here with her. She could hear it breathing. An echo. Perhaps something of the Primordial. She could pay it no mind, must not be daunted by parlous journey. Her passion was not brief, her heart was hale. But her mind!! Her mind insisted. Hungered. Her soul ached. Ached for this. What lies in the distant blind spot. Grope for it, seize it, throttle it, know it, have it. Own it. Become it. Let it become you! Her eyes went dark with lust and she moved like quicksilver, darkness to darkness, alabaster and ebony, a Shadow Dancer. She was at the door with the key in hand when the moonbeam cried out in dismay and was shattered, it was ear piercing. A hand gripped hers, and she snapped her head around to her right. ' You are sure this is what you want?' He had come to say. Those were his words. His bald head was patterned, carven with strange sigils which seemed almost to move, or pulse and glow and shift with their own baleful version of life. The opaque disc of eclipse painted his face, but his skin was pallid, almost corpse-grey. His breeches were simple, his boots of leather. His scabbard worn slung across his back at the waist. His hands were strong, large, his grip firm as the foundations of Elsewhere and that gave her pause. She pulled back her hand and he relinquished his hold, his pale eldritch eyes a blue glow beneath a brow of warning. Furrowed. 'Scharad.' She spat with disdain, the Veil Warden was a man of secrets and hidden knowledge, and she trusted him not. ' What are you doing here?' ' You know it is rude to answer a question with a question, yes?' He admonished emotionlessly. ' Get fucked.' She glowered. ' I have sought this bloody gate for an age it seems, and you will not stop me passing through.' ' You are so confident that what you hold there is the key, and that I am here to stop you exploring beyond would it were?' He smiled. She hated him. She hated that smile. Secrets and smiles. Bastard. ' This is the fucking key, and I don't care why you are here! I must know what lies beyond. Be gone, Veil Warden, ward your veil.' She could feel the seething within her, and the source around here was vast. So much shadow. So many pools of black. The midnight was ready and there for her. But Scharad was not unmanned. And Scharad was perhaps a man with his own measures and means. ' Your tongue is crass, and not to my liking Naevere, but I am here to give warning, not to hinder you, and I am here out of love, not forbiddance. I am here not as a Veil Warden.' He went tight-lipped. Then why in blazes was he here? Liar, her mind screamed. They felt like a hot barb pricking into her clutching palm. ' Warn me? Like I am some novice Dancer with no knowledge, some doe eyed girl without power? I need no warning...' She caught his gaze and felt horror. The wellspring in his eyes was sorrow! Pain. She was killing him inside or something was. She quite enjoyed it. Veil Wardens. She despised this man. Know it alls. ' Not to warn you then. To ask the question. Life consists of the burning up of questions, does it not? Do you know what you are getting into? Are you sure that key will take where you really want to go, and what do you expect to find?' She turned the wicked and spiked key of bone and sinew and thorned vine. It was macabre, but it was right and she knew it. ' It was in the well, beneath the seals.' She confessed. 'It is the key.' She smiled with defiant relish. ' And yes, Scharad, I know what lies on the other side. This is a Charnel gate and this is the Door of Night.' He caught his breath and held it, and exhaled slowly. Taking her in and he seemed deeply troubled. 'What?' She demanded. ' Out with it, or leave! I have been patient long enough and there is little of patience left in me.' ' Clearly.' He muttered. ' What is on the other side, then pray tell?' ' Whatever the key decides.' He said, and there it was. She had not expected it. ' What? What do you mean? The key decides? It is not of sentience!' She scoffed. ' I did not say it was.' He smiled again. Sly bastard. He could shove that smile where the sun doesn't shine. ' Where it leads is different for us all.' ' How the fuck would you know that?' She raged, snapping suddenly, seizing the key and preparing to slide it into the mechanism. Thrice-fold seals would soon come undone. For her. ' Because it was I who placed it in the well.' He said with pleading terror behind his azure gaze. So intense. It would break her heart, but it was almost fun to watch him suffer. It was a little late in the day for him to care now. She stopped as though thunderstruck her mind making up the distance across the constellations between them. He'd been through the door... A Veil Warden. Through the door. No.... ' Yes, Naevera, I have seen the Void beyond.' He sounded so sad. So burdened. ' Why are you warning me, Scharad, why do you care, what is in this for you? Let me be!' She cried in despair, fists balled up, feeling shadow come to her. ' Nothing.' He said after interminable silence that hung suspended like the weight of a century f judgement. ' Nothing. I simply suppose I rather like you. Am fond. Forget it, childe. You see and do not see, and now must see for yourself and I can see that!' He laughed and it was cosmic music from another age. Another time. Innocence forgotten. ' Don't play with me, Veil Warden, you bore me. Your order has a thousand riddles to exhange for one grain of wisdom and a nugget of truth. No one is making that deal. Speak plain.' ' Whatever you see, you can't unsee it. You will come back changed. If you come back at all. It would...' His voice caught. She scowled. Pathetic! Some stupid attempt to stop her with allusions of some danger unknown. She was made for the unknown! ' It would what? Forget it, Scharad, I am undeterred. I walk through the Door of Night and you cannot stop me!' And with that the Shadow Dancer slid home the key, and turned the lock, amidst an exhalation of mechanics. Metal on metal, transmutations abound, wood became rippling, shimmering darkness, and she was gone without a single glance behind. Scharad had an outstretched hand in her wake, too slow by far. He stared into the abyss. Horror on his face. A single tear rolled down his cold, painted cheek. ' It would kill you, Naevera.' He whispered. ' And I ... I don't want you to die.' The door reformed. Scharad was left suspended in a moonbeam, with a thousandfold thoughts and midnight in his mind.

I just want to thank you all here, it has been a long journey to this stage, and we have a business model which is sustainable and a solid foundation. The game is now 1 or 2 player as you are aware. The page is coming along. Paul and I have been working around the clock to make improvements and keep up, while only really those of you here are aware of the difficulties we have faced to realise the Thinning Veil., leading to this project and concept. We have now opened up four stretch goals and are on track for the fifth, everything eventual. With your help, as I have always maintained, we can move mountains. They would not call it the Hero's Journey if it were easy. Answers sought, not given, questions burned, doorways opened. We take our first steps into the Beyond. Can't tell you how glad I am not to be alone. Been there, done that, and the world in your hand isn't worth the horror in your heart. Love this feast of friends, and thank you all from the deepest wells of transcendence. Together we can slay demons...

My pleasure! You've actually got a little more information now than anyone else, I imagine!

I'll look into that. I can tell you that since the Owls flew we made an update on Gamefound revealing the Midnight boxed set price and STLs. But the Owl contained a little extra information and teased the box for Reiver. The information you're missing is that Reiver is a solo adventure, set on the Other Side of Midnight, where you play as Kalsien, an Aos Si Forsaken. Specifically one of the 'Bereft'. In the game you are trying to regain your honour, which is achieved by selecting and serving a Patron. Should you please your Patron well enough, you may be chosen to go through the ritual to have your 'Gift' restored. This means you'll be immortal again, and forgiven for the past crimes of your ancestors. In this case, Kalsien's father was a kin-slayer. The game features a loot system, and a Patron system in addition to the scenarios, which have an emphasis on exploration and relic hunting. Ah, but who is Kalsien? Kalsien is a villain from the main game, and events of Reiver are set in the years of Cormac's youth. Cormac does not feature in the narrative of Reiver.

Absolutely, I wonder why you didn't get one. Obviously check your spam etc, but you ought to have received an owl. If you didn't, perhaps it was captured by a Deatheater, and cooked alive in withering fires, before being served up with a side of crispy letter before the Darklord. R.I.P Beaky McOwlface. She served us well.

I realise I've not been speaking much this last 6 months, I've not had much to say, and my head has been in business, but we're rewarding subscribers for their patience with a sneak peek at the crowdfunding contents for the game play, beyond what is demonstrated on the video playthrough, shown on the project pre-launch or mentioned anywhere across social media. But what have I been up to, I hear almost no one ask? Well, imaginary inquirer, I've been working to improve the project to satisfy the requests, suggestions and outright demands of the good, good people! I've been schmoozing with industry insiders, and gleaning what afflicts them. I've been nose to the grindstone on a top secret project. I've been improving the business and working on prototypes. I've been arranging for us to be exhibitors at the UK Games Expo and Tabletop Scotland. I've been illustrating, working with wonderful artists and our lead sculptor, extensively. Oh, and I've also been writing. A lot. I've also been designing an entirely new game or two, over the same duration. I'll soon be able to reveal more about this, but for now I must focus on Cormac Mac Airt on the Other Side of Midnight... We launch on the 14th of May and now it is upon us it feels exciting. Though I am tempering my excitement, of course, experience has taught me at least that much. I hope we do well, obviously, but it is more important to continue to learn and to develop, as a company and as an individual. That said, there are limits even to my patience. Third time is the charm, they say... If any of you will be at UKGE this year, we're in Hall 2 Booth 1003 and will be demonstrating Cormac Mac Airt, for sure, but perhaps also a little known project we call 'The Thinning Veil'. We're not selling anything, though we'll be live on Gamefound during the event. In fact our campaign will run until June 11th. The focus will be on gaming with gamers and establishing a presence on the scene. I'm able to deal much better with my social anxiety from a few years back, and I'm genuinely looking forward to the events we have in the diary. Not that I keep a diary. It is more a sort of book of grudges I stole from a dastardly rogue and I also have a grimoire, for note taking. It's like an armoire but there are less arms in it and more 'grim', really. You'll be receiving a newsletter via owl shortly. The owls are in flight this night. Hooting away across the world under the glimmer light. Maybe they'll leave something for you. Something nice, not a bloody owl pellet... Until next time Heroes, Blessed Be

Absolutely! That would be wonderful! We have a proofreader for the German, and the translator is actually German (you might expect this, I don't know?) but the thing about proof-reading is that different sets of eyes always seem to find something, even the smallest something, and this usually leads to improvement. Take the scenario book, for example... ... Well actually don't! It is not finished yet but the first draft is unusually ridden with mistakes. I've chastised myself, and am cracking on! We have a lot of potential developments forming so it is time well taken and well used, to get these things right. If we do it now, or after funding, it still has to be done!

Estimado Juan (¿es correcto?) - Lamento la respuesta tardía. Mis disculpas adicionales por cualquier error en mi español, estoy usando una herramienta de traducción como siempre. Sólo quiero que sepas que valoramos profundamente tu apoyo. Créanme, aunque lo acepté, me sorprendió que no financiáramos. Muchos dicen que no lo vio suficiente gente y que no hicimos suficiente publicidad. Es una melodía dulce, pero los pocos miles de personas que la vieron fueron suficientes para financiarla. No logramos convencer. Asumo la responsabilidad. Me he fijado el objetivo de hacerlo mejor y nunca me rendiré. Todas mis horas disponibles están destinadas a mejorar este juego y los proyectos. Siento una profunda simpatía por su posición. También tengo una clara empatía. Tengo varillas en el tobillo derecho por una triple fractura. No es tan malo como lo que estás pasando tú, pero me deja poco que imaginar. Puedo sentirte. Ojalá pudiera hacer más que ofrecer escapismo únicamente. ¡Por ahora, estoy decidido a lograr al menos eso! Mucho amor Ser.

In the latter regard, I wholly agree. I could talk about the A.I thing for as long as you've got, but we are both very busy on a project! I was always fascinated by works like those of Clarke, Philip K Dick and Asimov where what it means to be human and what is truly sentience are philosophically explored. I think my eagerness to learn, to evolve myself, and recognition of this need to achieve more with my limited means and intelligence, have been a driving force for me. I still dislike use of my mobile phone, which I have owned for 2 years and made less than 2 phone calls with. As I have said, I am exploring and learning but there is only so much time. So in regards to the sumptuous art and gifted work of those possessed of talents regarding comic books, I very recently approached an artist I know. He made some comics for a game. He seemed to have stopped posting art for a long time. I came up with an idea for a comic, a medium I've not worked in as a writer, to see if it inspired him (as a means to galvanise him and a means for him to earn) and if he wanted to go in 50/50 with me. He informed me he had all but stopped, and had lost the muse. Wasn't really interested resultantly. I felt that was sad, not for me, and an idea I only had to serve a certain purpose which was not to line my own pockets, as I thought it would get him out there again and earn him some money, while I got to tell a story (and pave the way for a future game), but sad because a talent was left unused. His talent is a gift. When we have one we should share it. I am pleased to say he seems to be producing some art and drawing again. My mind did not even consider using A.I to make the comic book, though not because I'm disgusted by it. If somone wanted to do it, so long as they say it, I have no issue. I am not sure why that is, that it didn't cross my mind to entertain it, as it could be done. You'd need a lot of patience and skill with the A.I (you really would or it would be very poor). I know the amount of work it would be to embark on that using A.I. There really is a skill set to it and one I certainly wouldn't want to employ in that fashion, myself. My above 'argument' was simply to create a framework to express my stance on A.I usage. The inspiration and nucleus of the idea was to get my old friend in some work where he could make some money. Yes, I could benefit, telling my story, creating a comic - very appealing to me - and in laying groundwork for an IP. But he'd have been getting 50% of all profits from comics all the way. Now he has explained that his experience has taught him he is better making art casually, and I respect and understand that. Further pursuit of the comic idea was then abandoned. The purpose of it was in part successful anyway. My friend is drawing again.

We should have an improved English language rulebook for you tonight. I am not sure about the comics you mentioned, is there some theft argument involved? All publications but one seem to be from 2014 or earlier? In any event commercial gain from using licenced images you lack the licence for is illegal still. Rules are rules. Regarding ChatGPT, my experience (of practical use) is a singular evening, but I would love to spend another with the Texan chap in particular to explore it further. I can say without doubt that those in Hollywood have been using it since its inception and they are not alone. About 25% ( I am told the real figure is higher and it of course varies by platform and channel) of comments sections are written by bots, entire articles are A.I written and have been for some time. It is not a question of being right or wrong in regards John Howe or myslf dabbling with A.I and having our thoughts about it. That is a moral or ethical debate and in both instances that makes it personal conduct. Some want to turn it into a legal issue or intellectual copyright issue, but if there are artists who can prove theft, let them do so and for the courts to decide. That's why copyright laws exist and what the courts are there to do in these disputes. The moment Adobe created Firefly and added enhanced A.I elements to programs was the clearest signal A.I is here to stay. They are incredible, useful and even educational tools. I think people who are creative with them will find excellent ways to open doors for themselves otherwise only open to wealthier people or those precious few who master all artforms, styles and graphic design tools. If you personally use a tool to get paid to do a job you are not stealing from those not using the tool. It is like saying you are stealing from a caveman who is writing on a wall in pigment and squiggles because you are drawing with crayons or using an alphabet and language. If your client is happy with your output, you still used the tool and checked the result, and that seems to me to be fine.

Yes I mean I have never hidden our use of A.I art as I said, it was in fact a feature of the first campaign when Midjourney and other A.I art programs were in their infancy. I witnessed the joy it brought Paul to be creative with images in a way he has not been able to be for many years. I got drawn in and began to learn how to use it myself. By the time I knew what I was doing our first campaign was over. It became clear to me that if we were to continue as a company and to succeed, I needed to harness every tool to bring about my vision. Photoshop, Illustrator, InDesign, Paint, Lightroom, Midjourney and more. Everything. I was too ignorant in technology and too old skool and my thought processes were also ill suited. I was surprised by algorithms and practices at Kickstarter which should not have surprised me. I'm smarter than that. Yet also, as it turns out, alarmingly naive, as Jes told me. Now I am a novice in these programs and their mastery. I know only what I have needed to learn to get on to the next stage of whatever I have been trying to achieve. Paul has helped me immensely to understand and been very given and patient. The day I taught him a few things on the programs though I think was an eye opener to him. I might find tech frustrating and turn the air blue on occasion, but I keep on chipping away. It is my nature. I think in regards to comics I'd not agree with you and here is my immediate thought regarding it. If a comic states upfront that it is using A.I art then the comic must be the vision of a writer who cannot pay an artist, but has an idea and a vision. Presumably, if that writer were me, that person is then using A.I sources and graphic design software for many, many hours to create the art. That art cannot be random it has to match the story. Getting an A.I to repeat a character, even if a character is good enough and doesn't have saveloy fingers or mutant eyes, is a real feat. To do enough to create your panels consistently would be a real challenge and from my experience with midjourney, you'd save time hiring an artist! That said, if you could do it and your photoshop talent was good and your InDesign skill also, you could do something. You'd be compromising sometimes I imagine, but you'd be behind the prompts and you'd be the one going through endless generations trying to get what you need. What you see as being the end goal. Lets say it is a picture of a Chinese girl in a pink dress holding blue flowers, in a cyberpunk city. And she has to appear doing many things in the story. Loses the flowers. Totes an umbrella mono-filament whip weapon. Good luck... Now we go back to the writer. The writer sees the story as a comic. Loves comics else why would that be the preferred form? Write a novel otherwise. Hasn't got the start up to pay artists. But what happens when that writer has got the funds to open the doors to pay artists? Thanks to an A.I project funding you now have a comic book writer with a comic book company looking to hire artists to continue their projects. The writer is no longer needing to rely on hours and hours of toil over image after image freeing him to work on his writing, and develop his visions with his artists. Now if you then consider the common belief that all A.I is still scraping (which is actually false) you might object over stolen art. But if A.I learns as much about imagery from movie stills, real world photographs and so on, then it is doing exactly what a human artist does. Every artist I have worked with asks for examples of concepts 'like' what I am wanting. If A.I is directly stealing art it would have been through the courts and artists who have been stolen from would be due compensation from the generating software companies. Since Adobe itself is supprting A.I with generative fills in Photoshop, its own stock images and their Firefly A.I program, they must be pretty confident no actual theft is happening. I really think people should see the benefits and stop the witch hunt and that artists can relax. Actors have more issues and writers also. This is why we have had the strikes over likeness use and voice rights. One of my favourite artists, John Howe, has been using Midjourney himself, to explore it and the capabilties as a medium and because he is clearly curious. That's the open mindedness and exploration of potential I admire. I for one would always prefer to work with an artist where able, but I do enjoy the control Midjourney gives me to create art for my games or for box art as with the TTV box art cover, where Maxim Kostin made the changes I requested to it, and added a character I wanted in it. Aside from the character I now have the skill to do everything Maxim did to the image. I have no intention to stop using Midjourney. In fact I want to evolve with it, add to my skillset and become a technomancer. At the moment I am postively too Druidic. I've had quite wonderful talks at opposite ends of this discussion with Henning, whom I love and will always seek to employ for tile art. I know much about his process and I could, in time, learn his skill set. But I have one life, and only so much time, and I know when I am in the presence of a master! I might get to half his level in a year or so, but he'll always be the magician. To my mind, these are the choices and decision we make as adults, and I am solidly behind and support all these artists, programs, and still very much see the future as human / A.I hybrid art. The future is now, after all, as the billboard stated in Fargo. As an artist myself, of miniatures, precoloured STLs and so on are only going to improve also. I don't think Angel Giraldez will be having sleepless nights over it. As a writer, I was introduced to ChatGPT by a Texan dungeon crawl fan and fellow admirer of sword and sorcery during our second run. He asked my permission to give me a tour of it and use my writing as a prompt. I happily consented and we proceeded over a wonderful evening to generate scenario ideas based on that prompt through the software. It was amazing to me that of the 10 scenarios outlined, 7 to an extent matched scenarios I'd written, except mine had twists and turns which I think outdid the A.I. In some instances by a considerable margin. However within even that short experience I realised a few things and my research picked up pace. I was a like a dog with a bone. I needed to know. I coud see that the bare bones of one of my ideas was actually common to the movie Aliens. Now the synopsis of that movie would be known to the A.I, the program is aware of the synopsis of almost every movie and book to be written. Much as I am aware of all those I have seen and read and my imagination is influenced in accordance. It was fascinating. But if you want to know why Disney TV shows contain little consistency, logic or sense, and have no theme and narrative focus with precious little understanding of symbolism and character development, you have your answer. And if you are a writer who writes for Disney and find that offensive, prove me wrong and do better, your television shows suck.

The question of whether we delay or not is probably moot now, as we were late getting some files in and so the prototypes lacked a few vital components. Our immense gratitude to the printers concerned as they pulled some hours for us during the Christmas period and we'll have the missing bits probably tomorrow or day after. Everything we have recieved is so good it is literally production quality in my view. So with that being the case, we may be on track for end of Jan / Middle of Feb. It's all good, it doesn't matter really. We simply want the prototypes we have which are being sent out to reach the content creators concerned and for them to cover the game. That's what matters. We are using the time to develop the idea of standees whether they be cardboard or acrylic. I actually prefer the round tokens to either, as I like the top down view it creates. Given the choice, as you all know, I'd rather do a miniatures game - but we are a first time creator and must establish ourselves, both with trade partners for retail and otherwise, to prove we can deliver on a product to backers. When we can assure numbers to justify paying the cost of steel moulds, then happy days. Until then, my objective, and ours as a company, is to get this game out. We have invested a great deal into the game, and we know it will only improve over time. Did anyone here play D&D in 1978 or earlier? It got better. Then it got worse again (4th). Then it got better again (5th). But the point is anything like this benefits with playtests, feedback and development. Going through this process is excellent as you learn so much. I am learning all the time and loving that. So all this means I still need to write 2 scenarios to complete the game. I have them structured, and it should be a lot of fun putting them together and then finishing the Scenario Book. In the meantime I hope to be collaborating with and assisting where necessary those who feature the game on their respective YouTube channels. The difference this makes for us is going to be huge, obviously, and more influential for the project than any amount of conventions we might visit. That said, we are going to be at some of those in 2024. Mostly Paul and I, though we'll have a few more with us (we are thinking Paul, Paul, Demon, Trine and myself) for UKGE. We are very unlikely to have anything to sell of any sort for that, so it will be demo games of Cormac only, but we are looking forward to it. It would be better if we were able to show off something more, but there is only so much time between now and then. I have a plan, but even an optimist would wonder if it can be implemented. I'll for sure try. We are working with Ser Gregoire on translations. He and his wife have been astonishing and we will find a means to reward that. He has even been schooling me on my English at times, and bless his patience for that much, it is definitely improving the product. I know 100% full well how much the rulebook alone has improved and is about to continue to, resultant of his work and feedback. Not to say our playtesters and proofreaders have not likewise given us valuable feedback. Wow, this is getting rather long again. We are preparing a few extra bits on the site: one is a section dedicated to the Cormac series and one is a section on A.I art, hybrid art, and the future as we see it. As I stated in the early days of the Thinning Veil, our artbook was not just to be an artbook. It was to be what I considered a portfolio, of design and the journey to realising a board game. Challenges, pitfalls, things to be prepare for, things that may seem obvious to some but were not to me, and so on. I think, given what I know it was to contain, that it would have been quite prophetic, though at the time I had no idea quite how quickly it would transpire to be so! I'm well aware it is a divisive topic, and our focus was on the game itself during the second campaign as we pushed to get the project realised. Some people, I think on BGG, wondered if we did not mention the A.I art we used during that run because of a perceived negative backlash from anti - A.I art people. It is actually down to the fact that by then it was not a new subject and we were posting every day about the new unlocks. It didn't even occur to us to drive that conversation forward and talk about the art specifically. We are, in house, all aligned in our thoughts regarding it, and that's by the by. We have artists we have employed who have strong feelings about A.I and would rather it never be used, and we have artists who are excited about it, and those who are indifferent. Whatever the perspective of each individual, we think it best to include on our site our journey and experience with it, and how we see it developing. The Thinning Veil, at this time, is really three games with a shared setting and unique tales. TTV, Crypt of the Charnel Court, and Cormac. Each of them has some A.I use and each of them has also artists used. So if a person absolutely will not purchase or support a product with A.I art, then we feel it important to let people know. Like a warning label 'may contain nuts' is important to those who have a nut allergy. The reality is that A.I has been used for many years in the production of media and you'd be hard pressed to find something that categorically uses none. There are A.I tools used in graphic design software, for example, and I would imagine every graphic designer uses them. Ultimately how we define art and artists is very subjective also, and not a field I want to get involved in debating or arguing. That said I'm happy to discuss my journey with it and ours, and then if people choose not to support us, that is of course, their absolute right.

I am confident we'll do alright, and fund, whenever we launch. Early Feb gives us that bit longer to get everything sorted.