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GRAVEYARD
THE LAND OF THE DEAD
THE SUBURBS AND BEYOND
THE SUBURBS AND BEYOND
Arrival in the Land of the Dead is sluggish, as if there's a pressure in the air that you have to push through. It's strange, because all of the people—yes, there's hundreds of thousands of people around you, filtering in to the same location as you—seem to move with more ease. Fearful, fretting, confused, angry, peaceful. All manner of people from all manner of places have joined you in the march to your final resting place. It's... a little more anticlimactic than you were probably expecting, no matter your beliefs about the afterlife. Sorry about that.
Touching anyone around you will give the uncomfortable, chilled sensation that can be associated with ghosts. Most people, you'll just pass right through air. There are some that are a little more solid seeming, like you, but to them? You're the cold one, even if there's physical contact there. That's probably just as worrisome as the fact that color and vibrancy seems to bleed out of the world around you, as you follow a steady slop downwards to what looks like... a rubbish dump? It's more clear than your surroundings, at least, which have turned dull and formless—edges have lost their definition, and anything red is now a dim blood grey, a blue sky is almost steel, yellows have turned to muted sand.
Plumes of dirty smoke rise into an equally dim sky, lending more to the dreary atmosphere. The air is thick with it, and the acrid smell of chemicals, the rot of spoilt food and sewage, and the further in the more awful the smells and sights both are. Not a path of green grass or clean soil can be found as you explore the place you've come to rest. Just ratty weeds and yellowed, dead grass. Somewhere, somehow, there's some kind of electricity, considering the dingy lightbulbs that flicker occasionally, bare and casting everything in a sickly pallor.
The ghosts pass through the town, with a single-minded focus, while the more physical seeming remain in the holding area according to a bland attendant's instruction. You can fuss, you can throw a tantrum, you can try to fight them—but nothing changes, and they've seen this before. Might as well check things out.
Any injuries you're expecting from your death are gone, with no signs of what killed you visible. Count your blessings in this shithole. Because you're effectively on your own. There are no daemons in the Land of the Dead.
You are here, your home away from home. Aren't you so lucky? The town lay in shambles, with no city square, no streets, no real open space except for where one of the buildings has collapsed. Some businesses or establishments attempt to stand against time and decay, such as churches and other public buildings, but the roofs are full of holes and the walls are a breeze away from falling. Amidst the weathered, stone buildings are improvised shacks made out of repurposed garbage—old timber, hammered out tin cans, plastic sheets, whatever they can get their hands on. It's more and more apparent that the people here live in squalor, with these shanties and shacks and patched up shotgun houses, if they're lucky, and it's obvious that people are literally on top of each other. A single-room shack can house an entire family and then some.
The "and then some" comes in the form of people-shaped... things, purportedly men, quiet, with shadowed faces and shabby clothes. There's no real way to make out defining features, except for their ages at times. Some are unbelievably old, wrinkled, and weathered. They seem to be close to the more long-term residents of the suburbs, but are actively fearful of you, typically wary and shrinking away from any attempts to interact with them.
Get cozy somehow. Rooming is a free for all, and you'll be lucky to find a place you can all squeeze into.
Beyond the shanty town, there's a body of water encased in mist. The mist melds with the dreary sky, almost, so it's hard to see what lies beyond—but you can certainly hear the mournful, angry cries of some kind of birds from within. Let the mods know if you go exploring.
Touching anyone around you will give the uncomfortable, chilled sensation that can be associated with ghosts. Most people, you'll just pass right through air. There are some that are a little more solid seeming, like you, but to them? You're the cold one, even if there's physical contact there. That's probably just as worrisome as the fact that color and vibrancy seems to bleed out of the world around you, as you follow a steady slop downwards to what looks like... a rubbish dump? It's more clear than your surroundings, at least, which have turned dull and formless—edges have lost their definition, and anything red is now a dim blood grey, a blue sky is almost steel, yellows have turned to muted sand.
Plumes of dirty smoke rise into an equally dim sky, lending more to the dreary atmosphere. The air is thick with it, and the acrid smell of chemicals, the rot of spoilt food and sewage, and the further in the more awful the smells and sights both are. Not a path of green grass or clean soil can be found as you explore the place you've come to rest. Just ratty weeds and yellowed, dead grass. Somewhere, somehow, there's some kind of electricity, considering the dingy lightbulbs that flicker occasionally, bare and casting everything in a sickly pallor.
The ghosts pass through the town, with a single-minded focus, while the more physical seeming remain in the holding area according to a bland attendant's instruction. You can fuss, you can throw a tantrum, you can try to fight them—but nothing changes, and they've seen this before. Might as well check things out.
Any injuries you're expecting from your death are gone, with no signs of what killed you visible. Count your blessings in this shithole. Because you're effectively on your own. There are no daemons in the Land of the Dead.
welcome to the suburbs
You are here, your home away from home. Aren't you so lucky? The town lay in shambles, with no city square, no streets, no real open space except for where one of the buildings has collapsed. Some businesses or establishments attempt to stand against time and decay, such as churches and other public buildings, but the roofs are full of holes and the walls are a breeze away from falling. Amidst the weathered, stone buildings are improvised shacks made out of repurposed garbage—old timber, hammered out tin cans, plastic sheets, whatever they can get their hands on. It's more and more apparent that the people here live in squalor, with these shanties and shacks and patched up shotgun houses, if they're lucky, and it's obvious that people are literally on top of each other. A single-room shack can house an entire family and then some.
The "and then some" comes in the form of people-shaped... things, purportedly men, quiet, with shadowed faces and shabby clothes. There's no real way to make out defining features, except for their ages at times. Some are unbelievably old, wrinkled, and weathered. They seem to be close to the more long-term residents of the suburbs, but are actively fearful of you, typically wary and shrinking away from any attempts to interact with them.
Get cozy somehow. Rooming is a free for all, and you'll be lucky to find a place you can all squeeze into.
Beyond the shanty town, there's a body of water encased in mist. The mist melds with the dreary sky, almost, so it's hard to see what lies beyond—but you can certainly hear the mournful, angry cries of some kind of birds from within. Let the mods know if you go exploring.
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