
World
A village folded into a valley around nine warm springs, reached by one gate and one bridge: a hall where the work is filed and some of it redacted, a shelf of scarred training posts, and water hot enough to mend what the work breaks.
Pick a place to begin a new visit there.

Every arrival is written down. The two on watch look bored and miss nothing.

The village memory: everything filed, some of it blacked out by the same hand that filed it.

One of the nine, roofed and floored, where what the work breaks is put back together.

A terrace cut into the hillside, its posts scarred deeper on the left than the right.

The other way in, for people who would rather not be written down at the gate.
Empty, for now.
You pick up your last visit, or arrive at Gate House.