Thwaite

A first-person folk horror game set on a working smallholding in the Pennine foothills. The land is old, the ground is hard, and the labour is relentless: livestock, walls, boundaries, fire, weather, and a calendar that doesn't care how tired you are.

The land also comes with rules. They aren't issued to you in a list at the front door. They're written into the almanac, buried in the herd book, cut into the beams of the house, and you find them in whatever order the work happens to take you. Every rule you keep costs you labour you can't spare. Every rule you break hands you back an hour. That is the temptation the whole game is built on, and it's exhaustion that drives it rather than curiosity.

You are not alone on the land, and whatever shares it with you keeps to its own terms. It has no interest in a fair fight. It has an interest in whether the fire was kept in, the gate was shut, and the boundary was walked when it should have been. There is more than one way a year here can end, and none of them are decided in the final hour.