A community-hosted, turn-based dungeon crawl. Gather a party at the Tavern, walk the corridors first-person, and fight every battle on a hex grid where position, reach and timing decide who walks back up. Forty floors down, something is waiting.
No rotations, no cooldown spam. Combat is turn-based on a hex field: initiative, facing, reach, guard stances, hazard ground, and monsters that fight as a doctrine rather than a crowd. A bow cannot be drawn on someone at your elbow. Positioning is the game.
The mountain answers a party of four with more bodies and stronger heads, and holds back its best loot from anyone who goes down undermanned. Parties form at the Tavern, trade on the Exchange, and share the leaderboard.
You do not pick a class from a menu. You enter unproven, learn the mountain with a dagger and a bow, and at level five you face the Awakening alone. Survive it and you choose your class — or let the gods decide.
Character creation asks one question: who are you? Race and face, nothing more. Every adventurer begins Classless — five levels of solo delving with whatever the mountain drops. At level five, the mountain has taught you all it will teach an unproven hand. What comes next is earned.
Choose a race. Take the dagger, the bow and a draught. Learn the first floors alone.
Level 5. A solo expedition through the Proving. Return with a name, or return and try again.
Twelve to choose from at the ceremony — or surrender the choice and let fate hand you something rarer.
Party up. Forty floors, six regions, a boss guarding each descent. Techniques, oaths and gear tiers shape your build.
Level 40. A second trial: specialize, or refuse it and deepen the path you already walk. In the forge.
You go in alone. No party, no invites, no one to carry you. The Proving is a real expedition on a real floor, and it ends when you reach the shrine or when you fall.
Fall, and you may try again — unless the host has turned trial permadeath on, in which case the mountain keeps what the trial takes, and the whole server hears about it.
Deep in the road, the second trial offers a fork: take it and specialize into a subclass, or refuse it and stay pure, unlocking rule-breaking depth in the class you already know.
The level cap is 50. The Reckoning is where the last ten levels stop being about numbers.
At the Awakening ceremony, instead of choosing your class, you may declare:
Fate may hand you one of the twelve — or, one day, something the menu does not offer. When it happens, everyone online is told.
You may entrust your fate once per account, per server. This is not a reroll. It is a covenant.
An encounter lifts the party onto a hex arena cut from the room you were standing in — its walls, its furniture, its dead ends. Turns run on initiative. Each unit moves, acts, and can hold a guard stance that punishes whoever closes.
Encounters are compositions that grow with your party: solo meets the duelist, four meets the warden, the rooter, the howler and the brute. Monsters hurl you across the arena, drag you into reach, root you where you stand, choke the ground and bellow you into attacking the wrong target.
Unproven and unbound. Learn the mountain, sample every weapon, and earn your name at the Awakening. A dagger, a bow, a draught, and Grit.
Someone has to be where the hurt lands, and decide it lands on them. The Warrior is not the biggest blade in the party — the Warrior is the reason everyone else still has one.
Everyone else fights the battle in front of them. The Rogue fights the one three seconds from now — the opened vein, the missed step, the moment the answer stops mattering.
Death keeps a ledger and the Cleric keeps crossing out names. Not gently — faith here is a stubbornness, a refusal spoken loud enough that the light shows up to enforce it.
The Wizard did the reading. Every fireball is a bibliography; every frozen enemy is a footnote. Magic is not a gift here — it is a discipline, and the dungeon is about to be graded.
The grave sent the Death Knight back with winter in the wound and an appetite the living do not have. Every blow taken is a meal; every blow given, a memory of how the cold felt the first time.
The Demon Hunter stole fire from the thing that burned their life down, and pays the interest daily. Every glaive-stroke is repayment; every scar is the receipt. The debt ends when the demon does.
The Druid knows the forest's oldest secret: everything grows back — the tree, the wound, the debt. Feed the ground and it feeds you. Cut the party down and watch it bloom out of spite.
The Engineer read the dungeon's rules and brought counterexamples. Every gadget is an argument that preparation beats destiny — and the satchel has at least two more arguments left.
The Necromancer runs death like an office: souls filed, bones reassigned, decay itemized. It is not cruelty — it is thrift. The living waste so much, and the Necromancer wastes nothing at all.
Somewhere behind the Paladin is a promise made out loud — to a god, to a grave, to a village that burned. The armor is just the promise's outer layer. It has not been broken. It will not start today.
The Shaman never fights alone — the storm owes a favor, the river keeps accounts, the ancestors lean in when called by name. Every chant is a debt collected on behalf of the living.
The Warlock read the contract, signed in blood, and — this is the important part — understood it. Power is a loan; health is currency; the dark charges interest. So does the Warlock.
You walk it in first person, corridor by corridor, and your character keeps their own cartography — explored cells and hand-placed markers that survive between expeditions. Floors remember which fixed encounters you have cleared. Return to the Tavern and the run ends; the map you drew does not.
The Flooded Works, the Bonepile Chapel, the Pale Court, the Roots of the World. Where the unproven learn, and where the Proving waits at floor five.
Cinder galleries, slagfields and the bellows deep, ending at the Furnace Court. The ground glows between the stones.
Black causeways over standing water, a drowned parish, the tidevaults, and the Brine Cathedral at the bottom.
The gnawed maze, the broodhalls and the bonegardens. Something rules here from the Tyrant's Nest.
Shardwalks and prism galleries where the fields sing. The Refracted Throne does not care for visitors.
The processional, the Hall of Crowns, the regalia vaults. Whoever sits the Hollow Throne has been dead a long time.
The hammerdeep and the star forges down to the last seam, and the Anvilborn's Crucible at forty.
Coiled around the way down: the Delvewarden, a dragon the size of the room. Fewer than four is a fool's errand. It has been tuned to make that clear.
The roster shows who is in and what they do — tank, damage, heal, support. Invite, accept, descend. Defeat drags the whole party back here, mended and poorer.
An auction house with a ten percent cut and proceeds that find you even offline. Re-cast an item's affixes for gold. Or hand the gambler your coin and see what the mountain owed him.
The board cycles what the mountain has been saying. The leaderboard scores every character on the server — depth, level, deeds — and the server publishes it, with the world's diary, to the Ledger every few minutes.
Realm Foundry is built to be community-hosted. A realm is a single dedicated server process and a single database file beside it. No container stack, no external database, no accounts to babysit. The flagship server we run is architecturally just another host — nothing about it is special-cased, so what works for us works for you.
Forty-two authored floors, seven bosses, twelve classes and the Classless start, six races, fifty-seven encounters, two hundred items, two hundred and seventy techniques, the Tavern economy and the Awakening. Launch and play.
A plain text file next to the database holds the host's rules: whether the Awakening is permadeath, how hard its enemies hit, which store the world uses. Edit, restart, done.
Every content type — classes, abilities, items, monsters, encounters, floors, techniques, trials — has a registry, a browser, an inspector and a validator. The map editor paints floors, doors, traps, fixed encounters and random zones.
The server keeps a diary: sessions, fights and deaths by floor, how many fights each level took, what dropped, who passed the trial. One page tells a host where the curve is wrong before the players do.
Right now there is one realm: the flagship, run by us, while the game proves it is fun. When it has, hosting opens — the same binary, the same tools, your rules.
Most modern MMOs have optimized away wonder. Realm Foundry brings it back the way the old ones did: a mountain, a party, a map you drew yourself.
You are not the hero of a scripted campaign.
You are a name in a ledger the mountain keeps.
And if you are bold enough… the mountain will remember you.
The flagship realm is live and taking testers. Windows only for now.