A magical farming game
Something is growing out there. It won't wait for you.
Out in the field
Wheat is done in half a minute. Corn likes to be waited on. Carrots are, as ever, carrots. None of them care whether you're watching — they ripen while you're asleep, at work, or losing an argument somewhere on the internet.
Come back and the ripe plots are practically waving at you, each one wearing a little tally of what it owes. Plant crops beside their own kind and they do better; plant a mana berry in the middle of it all and the whole patch starts humming.

Down at the ranch
Your animals get hungry on their own schedule, grow up whether you attend the milestone or not, and quietly fill with milk, eggs or wool until somebody comes to collect.
Feed them well and they work faster. Forget them and they will let you know — first with a polite little fork icon, then with something considerably less polite.



Bloodlines
Introduce two animals and their gifts go into a hat. Most of what comes out you could have predicted, which is comforting, and some of it you could not, which is the entire point.
Every so often a calf turns up carrying something neither parent had. You will then spend a perfectly good evening building an entire herd around it. We've all done it.
The village eats what you grow. Crops, nothing else.
On the order board
The Village Council eats what you grow and nothing else. The Merchants Guild will take anything, so long as there's a lot of it. The Aristocrats Hall wouldn't dream of touching anything raw.
And the Alchemists Lodge asks for animals — specific ones, with specific gifts — and pays in a currency you can't get anywhere else. Keep any of them happy long enough and they start doing you favours.
The well underneath everything
Every seed, every meal, every hopeful introduction draws from the same well. It refills on its own, steadily, all day, entirely without your supervision — so the reward for going outside is coming back to a full pool and spending the lot in one glorious ten-minute rampage.
Past the barn
You came for the turnips. Nobody is obliged to stop there.
Some gifts only work out loud. Stand an animal in the grove and its gift covers the whole farm — and if its neighbour shares that gift, both ring louder. Seating arrangements have never mattered more.
Buy an anchor, hold a gift still, and press it into an animal that was never born with it. Expensive. Occasionally reckless. Absolutely worth it.
Nothing on this farm is truly wasted. An animal given up at the altar leaves behind souls, and souls have a way of turning up in the next generation's bloodline.
Bring nothing. There's a field waiting, and it's already getting ideas.