AGE OF RACCOONS
Shipwrecked. Outnumbered by trees. Building anyway.
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Three raccoons wash up on a blocky island with a hammer, a saw and a pile of whatever floated ashore. You don't steer them. You mark: a tree, a rock, a patch of ground to level, and the colony gets to work.
The Colony
Point. They build.
Mark trees to fell, rocks to break, ground to dig or level. The nearest free raccoon takes the job and hauls it home, one log at a time.
Light the hearth.
The campfire founds the colony. Then a storehouse, a sawmill, a workshop, beds: every building raised swing by swing.
Days end. Raccoons tire.
Hunger, thirst and fatigue run the clock. Push them too far and they collapse, and the colony buries its own.
