A text-based realm
Now we scavenge kingdoms from ash.
Chronicle — day 1
The sun went out in the eleventh year. Nothing has left since.
In the eleventh year the light failed. Carts still come into Grimhollow. Names still go into Maren’s books. Beasts still hunt the roads, and a hide you dig is only yours until someone else searches well enough to find it.
This is a shared world on the Earth clock. Energy returns five points every ten minutes. HP does the same every fifteen, unless you are sick — then nothing returns until you act. What you take from a seam, someone else cannot. Buildings finish while you sleep. Corpses rot.
Dead Kingdoms · the Reach still has a name, even if the sun does notDeep as ruin. Simple as text.
One world. Resource seams deplete for everybody and grow back over real hours. Prices move. NPCs keep schedules, get sick, and die. Their seats can be taken.
Steel is a season of work. Search the ground, harvest nodes, hunt, craft. You dig your own hides. Strong beasts usually pass a weak newcomer; sometimes they do not.
If you fall, you choose how you come back — Gravesworn, Ashpact, or Hollow. There is no bloodline save. Your pack, your graves, and your name stay in the dirt.
Bind your name
No download. A login and a word. Origin is chosen when you arrive, and it stays.
You were put on a corpse-cart with the dead and you were not dead enough.
You were property until the property burned, and the debt survived the fire.
You were taught the end of the world as a liturgy. It is a set of instructions.
Something in your blood answers to something in the sky. Neither of you asked.
You dug the Reach’s dead for eleven years. Then you found the tally with your name in the ninth row.
You were not born here. You arrived mid-sentence, in a wood that had already decided to keep you.