(inside of “The Wolf Among Us” universe)

(The premise of Lilah Sturges’ comics: characters from Grimm’s stories live in the slums of New York, trying to survive the harsh realities of the boardwalk. The Big Bad Wolf is the self-distructing, anger-issued sheriff trying to keep together a community of struggling princesses, addicted princes and troubled
charmed creatures trying to fit in the human world.)

Someone is selling tainted pixie dust on the streets of Fabletown. The chemical signature takes Bigby to Prince Charming’s speakeasy. The prince is selling “The Homelands Experience” – a substance that weaponizes nostalgia, making fables desperate to feel like they used to in the Homelands.
When Bigby tries to arrest him, the words don’t come out right.

Charming can cast charms on almost everyone, because he owns spots in their stories. Every addicted fable has sold a small background role, a supporting character, or even a whole plot point to him. Now, he has infiltrated every narrative. He is systematically deleting real memories and replacing himself as the hero of everyone’s childhood. Now, Bigby is fighting someone who owns the copyright to every story in The Homelands.

Bigby finds the only untouched story, an old, single-character folk tale called The Tinderbox. It’s a dark cautionary, a “nobody is coming to save you” forgotten tale, pre-Andersen and Grimm, and contains the only character able to defeat Prince Charming. He realizes he’s in a race to find Tinderbox in the undergrounds of New York.

Clockwork
Decades ago, ruthless industrialists were obsessed with automating nature – brass silkworms that could weave metal, clockwork bees that pollinated on schedule, butterflies engineered to delight guests at garden parties.
These corporate products often escaped into the wild, and instead of dying out, they are thriving. Today, they are no longer luxury items. They are a public nuisance, scuttling beneath cobblestone and nesting under mossy rocks.
The abandoned factories in our former colonies are particularly famous. The old production lines have turned from landfills to a living ecosystem, a dense, hazardous jungle populated by territorial mechanical fauna, thriving on industrial pollution.
Three heroes are boarding a decrepit wooden vessel to Manila – reluctant partners hoping to catch the Brass Dragonfly, each for conflicting reasons.
Seven doesn’t care about the bug; she cares about what the bugs ate. The rare predatory Brass Dragonfly harvests rare gold filaments and platinum wiring from high-end corporate vaults. She tracks down the deadliest, most aggressive mechanical nests just to rip the precious metals out of their digestive gears with a pair of pliers and sell them to pawn shops.
Fletcher is a formerly rich heir who inherited the debt of a dead clockwork company, which legally gives him ownership rights to their rogue, escaped patents. If he can capture a living, mutating specimen of a Brass Dragonfly, he legally owns the rights to its new, evolved self-winding mechanism and might possibly reclaim his spot back into high society.
Prudence worked in a lodestone processing plant, until an industrial accident left her skin permanently magnetized. She can’t live in the city – she accidentally wipes the memory of public clocks and pulls needles towards her face. In the jungle, she is a living trap. Over 6 years of solitude, she collected every mechanical insect, except for the rare Brass Dragonfly.

This 3d platformer gives you the chance to take more or less the same route, three times, from each character’s point of view. Each comes with different stories and encounters. You explore the same environment with Seven, Fletcher, and Prudence, using different traversal mechanics. You’re not only supposed to puzzle your way out of progressively worse situations, but also ensure you are leaving an even worse situation behind for the next character to play.

They were simply trying to solve a legal puzzle: How do we kill somebody without breaking the law?
The High Patriarchs of Wallachia thought they had outsmarted God with a loophole. When the Abbess at The Silent Sisters of Fagar fell pregnant, they didn’t spill her saintly blood. They mercifully handed her a candle, a slice of bread, a glass of milk, and then bricked up her doors and windows, sealing her inside. The law was satisfied. Their deed was righteous. If she died inside the walls, it must have been God’s will.
They only realized their mistake when the stones of the abbey began to weep milk and blood.
The unborn spawn was forced to survive by feeding on its mother’s heart, thrived on her blood, and came into the world starved. Their loophole hadn’t killed a sinner; it had incubated a new breed of god: the first vampire. Now, he is pulling down the walls from the inside.

Spawn is a dark fantasy narrative built on the rich, underexploited mythology, history, and superstitions of Romania — a culture uniquely shaped by Latin, Slavic, and Balkan influences.
Moving beyond westernized gothic vampires, I built the narrative around local superstitions, religious anxieties, and the collision of cultural influences.

In the beginning, the Gods built humans the way you build a blender: for convenience. Immortal, obedient, conveniently unbreakable.
Charon is one of the immortals in that first batch of humans that the Gods whipped up. Unpredictably curious, the human tests the rules of the world. He walks up to the edge of the map and jumps off, only to…find out there’s a loophole to immortality. Charon becomes the first human to ever die.
The Gods show up later. They don’t know what Charon is now. They hadn’t built an exit for him. Now, they have to invent death. It’s messy, it’s half-assed. And because the universe is built on irony, they promote him to “ferryman of the dead.”
Charon. The first man to die, the last man to stop working.

Corporate America figures out a way to colonize alien planets. Immediately, every space tycoon and bureaucrat who owns a planet starts handing out one-way tickets to the colonies: “Move fast! Die somewhere else!” Earth as we know it is left behind.
Now, it’s just us freaks roaming the planet: the flinchy ones, the loners, the chronically undecided. We wander the world in bathrobes, we live off expired cereals and stale energy drinks, and we’re being cared for by AGI roombas. Earth is One. Giant. Depressing. Nursing home. Every need of humanity is accounted for, except for a sense of purpose.
Then, one day, the robot caregivers stop showing up.