Hello War Gamers,

I'm trying to find ways to make it easier for new folks to jump right into the Brassbound universe. 

With that in mind, I have consolidated all the downloads into a single file. You now will have everything you need to play the game with one single download. 

For the latest updates, I recommend joining our Discord. This is a community-driven game, and members of our community can point to specific rules, models, or ideas that they came up with! That could be you. 

The folks on the discord have already seen it, but we now have a teaser trailer for the game: 

Check it out and let us know your feedback!

Lastly, the folks on the Discord have also seen this too, but here is a lore update for you to sneak more of the story:

[Scrawled on the back of an old ration slip, folded and tucked into a crack in the barracks wall, date unknown]

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe just to leave something behind. Maybe because my gut won’t settle, and my hands won’t stop shaking, though I swear it’s from the cold. 

They gave me a rifle today. Not the usual kind—this thing was big as hell, heavy as a sack of bricks. A tank killer by the look of it. I asked, half-joking, if they expected us to come across a bebok with this sort of firepower. The officer just looked at me. Didn’t say a damn word. That’s when I knew. 

Something’s wrong about this deployment. They don’t tell grunts like me much, but you hear things. You see things. A handful of specialists arrived last night—scientists, engineers, even some medic who doesn’t dress like any field doc I’ve ever seen. Not the usual types we bring to a fight. They talk in low voices, always looking over their shoulders. They don’t eat with us, don’t laugh, don’t complain. That alone puts me on edge. 

Then came the rest of the gear. 

At first, it seemed normal. Rations, a spare set of gloves. But then I noticed the other things. Heavy boots lined with thick wool, like the kind we’d use for winter operations. A gas mask, not the standard issue, but something new—tight-sealing, with filters thicker than I’ve ever seen. Extra thermal layers. A fur-lined parka that looks like it was made for a man marching into Siberia. And then the strangest of all—goggles with strangely tinted lenses. Not for sun, not for snow-glare. For something else The others noticed, too. No one says anything, but I see it in the way they fidget, the way they turn the gear over in their hands like it’ll whisper secrets if they hold it long enough. I watch as men check the straps on their gas masks over and over, like they expect to need them the moment we step outside.

No one knows who we’re fighting. Orders just call this "Operation Jotun.” Some say it’s Coalition kommandos, some say deserters turned raiders. But I heard a mechanic whisper something about them. Not soldiers. Not men. Something from the other side of the rift. I don’t believe in fairy tales, but I know when officers are scared. And they’re scared. 

And then there’s the rifle. They gave it to me in pieces—bolt separate, ammunition locked away until we march. They handed it out like it was nothing, but not a man here was allowed to load his own weapon before departure. Not until we’re in the field. They don’t say it, but we all know why... 

I told myself I wouldn’t think about it. Just follow orders, keep my head down, and get back home in one piece. But the air feels different. Like the calm before a storm. And now they’ve given me a gun meant to punch through steel, but only when they decide I can use it. They’ve dressed me for a place colder than Polska, sealed me up in layers like I’ll be breathing something worse than air. 

What the hell does that mean for what’s waiting out there?

Marek has been muttering under his breath since they handed out the gear, something about fairy rings and the old stories our grandmothers used to whisper by candlelight. He says men who step where they shouldn't, where the world isn't right, don't come back the same—if they come back at all. I told him to shut up, but the way the officers avoid our eyes makes me wonder if he's not so wrong after all. 

If someone finds this, tell my mother I was thinking of her. Tell my brothers to drink one for me. And if you hear my name, if you remember me at all—just know I went, because that’s what we do. 

—Staszek, 04:17 AM, before the march.

As usual, credit to R. Ellison for the lore. 

Happy War Gaming!

Bro Dad Brick Works