Seasons of the Green Realm

The launch festival. The Hunt is the heartbeat — every minute an arrow flies and the winning ring splits 90% of the pot. Around it, the fair: 1v1 Duels with hidden picks, the Popinjay's progressive pot, and the Wand's streak rides on the Hunt's own arrows.

Four games, one registry, day one — and only the Hunt will ever mint the coin. The mint keys froze at deploy; everything else is built on top, never printed. Every wager writes the Chronicle: 10% of all emissions, harvested each season by the people who play.

The tournament of legend: weekly brackets, entry fees part-burned, and the Golden Arrow itself — held by one archer at a time, streaming renown.

And the Feast: burn coin to throw one, earn Renown — a soulbound score that multiplies your streams for a season, then fades. Status through sacrifice.

Moving great wealth stops being a silent transaction. Large exits travel the deed map as a carriage — villagers may stake an ambush, the owner may hire guards, and one roll of the beacon decides the road.

Every route pays tolls to the land it crosses. The rich buy safety or gamble; the smallfolk hunt; the lords collect either way.

A castle worth holding: the Keep pays its holder a levy on every fee in the Realm — while everyone else feeds the siege pool growing against them.

And the Sheriff of Nottingham becomes a player-held office: buy the seat, collect the fines, wear the target. The villain, as a job.