Escape! - The Cryptdom

Your shoulders hurt. The dull ache from lying on wood is the first thing you register. Next is the wet clothing you're in. You inhale through your nose. You've been doused in Formaldeyde. Then the other smell hits you, rotting meat with what smells like, fruit? Thoroughly confused, you try to get your bearings. It's dark wherever you are, but there's a faint shaft of light near your eyes, drifting through a small crack of whatever you're in. You try to bring your hands up, but they glance against wood, making a dull thump. On the edge of your hearing, you make out a rhythmic squelch and the groan of metal and wood. You're on some kind of wagon , moving to Gods know where. "Another good haul from the borderlands," one voice says. "The Cryptdom'll pay well for these ones." "Aye," replies another, deeper voice. "Fresh ones always fetch a better price. More meat on their bones means more years of service." Your heart starts pounding. These men are "Copper Coffin" black hearted criminals who sell their own countrymen's corpses to the Cryptdom of the Sanguimancy, the undead empire who fought the URKAN alliance into a standstill. You realise the wooden box you're in, just large enough to accomodate your frame, isn't a box. It's a coffin. You lie in the darkness, your heart pounding. The coffin is crude, hastily built. You could break out if you wanted to. But with the voices outside, you think it might not be wise. [[Stay hidden and eavesdrop]] [[Fight!]] [[Exit coffin, escape! ]]

You remain still, controlling your breathing. "Heard the rotters are expanding the operation, The Cryptdom's got new contracts they're sayin'" "More work means more coin for us," replies the deeper voice. "Though I don't much like dealing with them. Give me honest thieves anyday." "You'll be waitin' a long time for an honest thief" "I'd rather wait for them than spending anymore time here than I need to" "Aint that the truth" [[Continue listening]] [[Peek out the gap]]

You're jolted hard, your head smacks into the wood. "Who taught you to bloody steer?" "You can either drive it yourself, or shut up" There's silence for a moment, a dull ache is spreading behind your eyes, but you managed not to make a sound. "I thought so, you never offer to drive, absolute liberty" More silence, you start to shift to the left, it feels like they've started to bank hard. As you feel yourself slide slight backwards, you realise you're now going up some kind of hill. "Did you hear about the resistance attack on the mining camp?" "Them Soul Saviours? Bunch of corpse food they are, they can't stop those things. The Cryptdom's too big now." "Still, I heard they killed a lot of Undead. Good for business, that. The Cryptdom is hungry for more fresh meat" "We can fill their bellies up on the corpses back there then, and hope they don't put us on the menu" [[What more might they say?]]

You remain perfectly still, hoping that noone thinks to check on that thud. The two guards settle back into conversation, their voices growing more relaxed as the wagon creaks onward. "I heard the Saviours freed thirty fresh ones before the resurrection." "Waste of good labor. Cryptdom's offering triple bounty on any Saviour members now. Dead or... well, deader." You hear a phlegmy chuckle from the deeper voice. "Can't blame them." liquid sloshes - probably from a waterskin. "Especially after what happened with that Corpse Born they freed." "A bloody Corpse Born? I thought they was rumours" "Nope, sometimes a fallen corpse gets "lucky" and one of those little bastards claws it's way out, wouldn't be a problem, but I heard they hate other Undead something awful" "Bollocks to that. Once you're double dead that's it. You rot." "You sound pretty certain for someone who's only been here twice" "I've seen enough, besides I actually have a decent home to go back to" "Oh shut up" [[You jolt again, you feel scraping as your coffin slides over wood. ]]

"Wait, I'm not a fighter" you say. "I could be useful alive." The guards exchange puzzled looks. The masked one draws a club, it's the same colour as his mask. "What use is an alive person to undead?" The copper club swings down. [[Darkness]]

You lunge at the masked guard, catching him off-guard. Your fist connects with his mask, sending him staggering and scraping your knuckles raw. The copper mask clatters to the wagon floor. [[Grab the mask]] [[Keep fighting]]

Your club is much longer than his knife. The space is confined, you don't have room to swing, but you can lunge. In one clean movement, you step forward while jamming the club into the bridge of his nose. He doesn't expect it, his nose pops like a rotten piece of fruit, he shrieks in pain as he falls onto his back, still holding the knife. You see a second, smaller blade fall out his off hand. You close the distance before he can recover. "Stay down, you don't have to die here" you plead. "I'M GONNA KILL YOU FOR THIS" He tries to rise, arcing the knife. But you're faster. You bring the club down. He doesn't rise again. [[Seize the wagon]]

You awaken in a sterile chamber. Hooded figures in white robes move around you, their hands glowing with a rancid green and red energy. You try to move but your limbs won't respond. They all circle you, some annoiting oil onto your head, wrists and ankles. Another is saying words of another language at regular intervals. Counting perhaps. Your stomach turns as you see what it holds in its hands. An abacus, fashioned from what look like ribs, sinew and knuckle bones. A withered, leathery piece of tubing twitches and flexes from the abacus and wraps around the figures wrist. Almost. Stroking it. "Begin...the conversion" one exhales. Your veins SCREAM, it's as if hot oil has been poured into your very insides. Your heart aches with how hard it's pounding, yet you cannot open your mouth to scream. Instead you feel your body turn clammy as you sweat and tears streak out the corners of your eyes. The counting continues, voices from behind you join in the chorus, as the room slowly fills with crimson light. Your eyes dart around and you see pinpricks of blood well onto the surface of your skin. The blood droplets form, and then fall harmlessly into the air, hanging like stars in the sky. There's a piercing shriek, your own. The pain is unbearable, you can't take it anymore, you want it to stop. It MUST stop. If only you could get up, get away. RUN. A thought unfurls, blossoming in the back of your mind. It offers relief from the pain, relief from the suffering, from all the worries and minutae of your life. Greedily. You dwell on the tought. The pain ebbs. You're so grateful, you can't wait to show them your gratitude, perhaps even return the favour and help them. Your last independent thought slips away as you fade into the sea of the Cryptdom's countless workers. [[Not the ending, but an ending]]

You drop low, the copper club whistling through the air where your head was a moment ago. His knife flashes in the light as you drive the club in a wide arc at his ankles. You hear the whack of flesh and metal. He yelps as he falls. You spare a grin, relieved at how easy it was clearly years of delivering bodies haven't prepared him for real combat. The guard crashes down - but not as hard as you expected. His fall is controlled, practiced. The realisation comes too late: he's done this before. You make for the knife he's still holding, you're on top of him. You can finish this. As you straighten up to deliver the finishing blow, white-hot pain explodes in your side. In focusing on the guard's knife hand, you missed his other hand pulling a second blade from his boot. The copper-plated dagger slides between your ribs with practiced efficiency. "Common mistake," he wheezes, rising as you stagger backward, blood gouting out your side, drenching your clothes. "Everyone expects us to be simple transporters. Forgets why the Copper Coffin chose us for this work." [[Try to raise your club]]

You breathe heavily, you're not sure how long you were unconcious, but that fight has tired you out. You take a seat on the bench used to steer the wagon, you grab the well worn reigns. The two horses at the front are stood still. They must have stopped with noone to command them during the fighting. You now have the means to escape, or you could continue on to make the delivery. After all, everyone in the wagon is already dead, why not make some silver? [[Continue the delivery]] [[Get out of here]]

If you're to have any hope of making it home. You're going to need coin for bribes, food and shelter. The dead aren't going to use their bodies, so you may as well get something out of this nightmare you found yourself in. You pick up the copper mask and strap it to your head. That should do. After carefully concealing the bodies of the guards into the other coffins. You continue on the road. The wagon's wheels crunch over bone-scattered gravel as you approach a looming crimson structure, as you get closer the smell of copper and metal fills your nostrils. Blood. You slow the wagon as you see a figure emerge from the shadows - tall, wrapped in strange pale leathers, face hidden behind a mask made from a human skull painted with copper. "I am a Trader and You. Are. Late. Where are the usual handlers?" The voice a melodic whisper dances in your ears.. "They had a dodgy bit of game at the inn, I'm covering for 'em". You do your best to imitate the general accent of the guards. "Such is the weakness...of flesh" the whisper feels as if it's swimming through your chest and coiling around your sternum. "Well...do you want the bodies or no?" "A contract...must be...fulfilled" the whisper smiles, reaching for a coin purse. [[Sell them the bodies]] [[Kill him]]

The purse is heavy in your hands - blood money, but more than enough to get home and maybe even start a new life. The Trader begins directing shambling groups of undead workers to unload the cargo. "The Cryptdom remembers its friends. Should you find yourself in this line of work again..." The Trader flicks it's wrist, dismissing you. "Now leave us, before our process" You bow politely, mounting one of the horses, leaving the wagon behind. As you ride away, you try not to think about those you sold. They're already dead, it's not like they'll be occupying those bodies while in servitude to The Cryptdom. You hope. After some time, you spot the proud, rising tower of the border Gatehouse Time to go home [[I've made it to the Gatehouse]]

Your fury and sense of justice boil over. How dare they, these, unholy abominations use the very dead to expand their dread empire. Preying on the innocent, on hard working people, good people. People like YOU! Your rage guides you, you draw the club, lunging at the trader. If you strike fast enough you can be out of here, and make a statement. But the figure moves with inhuman speed, skull mask spinning to face you. You see copper wire on their fingers extending like whips, wrapping around your limbs. "Disappointing," they sigh. "This would...have been... a profitable relationship." More wire emerges from their sleeves, cocooning you in copper. You struggle but very quickly are immobilised, this wiring doesn't behave like normal metal. It's almost alive, with a mind of it's own, predicting how and where you move. "Still," the Trader muses, "The Cryptdom wastes nothing." You're dragged inside. The last thing you see as the copper starts to weave over your eyes is the skull mask being removed. And a rotting face, leering over you. [[Darkness]]

With desperate speed, you burst from the coffin and launch yourself over the wagon's side. You hit the ground rolling as shouts erupt above you. "Grab them!" "Don't damage the merchandise!" The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but adrenaline drives you forward. Three paths lie before you: [[That woodland looks thick, but slow]] [[The Road is open, but direct]] [[Those cliffs look treacherous, but no undead could follow me]]

You plunge into the thick trees, branches whipping at your face. The dense canopy above blocks most of the sky, casting everything in deep shadow. The shouts fade behind you, but strange sounds echo through the darkness - clicking, scratching, things moving just out of sight. You continue into the dense woodland, your fatigue starts to set in. [[I need shelter]]

The packed dirt road stretches before you, wagon ruts cut deep grooves in the earth, a blatent testament to the endless procession of corpse deliveries. Here and there, dark stains mark where preservation fluid has leaked from coffins, killing the grass in perfect rectangles. The sky offers no cover, just the empty expanse that the Cryptdom prefers - easier to spot runners that way. But the road promises faster travel than stumbling through wilderness. You've made it perhaps a mile when you hear it: the rhythmic thump of uniform footsteps, the rattle of armor, the distinctive creak of partially preserved joints. Through a mist of flies, they emerge - an undead patrol. Six of them march in perfect formation, their uniforms pristine despite their decaying flesh. Their equipment chills your blood: catching poles, soul-hooks, and preservation sprayers. This isn't just a patrol - it's a retrieval unit, specialized in catching runners. Their lead raises a hand, and the patrol stops. Their hollow mask-eyes scan the road. They haven't spotted you yet, but they will. Beside you lies a ditch filled with discarded bodies - failed deliveries and worn-out workers deemed not worth processing. The preservation fluid pooled around them might mask your living scent. [[Hide from the patrol]] [[Run!]]

The cliffs rise before you like the ragged crown of a dark monarch, their edges sharp and unnatural. Years of Cryptdom mining have left the rock face scarred. In places, the rock seems to pulse with a dull metallic sheen. The first hundred feet of climbing come easily enough. Old mining handholds and rusted pitons mark where equipment was once hauled up. But as you ascend higher, the rock changes. The handholds become less certain, the footing more treacherous. Halfway up, it happens. The rock beneath your feet crumbles - not like normal stone, but like decaying flesh. A whole section of the cliff face begins to slip away. You're committed to the climb now; going back is as dangerous as continuing. You can make out two possible routes: A longer path looks steady to the left. The rock there looks more stable, It will take time, but the handholds are clear and tested. Or you could risk a direct ascent through a combination of slight more worn handholds they've clearly been used many a time and would be perfect for climbing if they can hold. [[Slow, but steady]] [[Quick but risky]]

Through a gap in the twisted trees, you spot two possibilities: To your left, a wooden shack hunkers between two massive oaks. Its walls lean slightly to one side. A faint, flickering light bleeds through the cracks between boards, and wisps of smoke curl from a crooked chimney. Someone is - or was recently inside. To your right, set into a moss-covered ridge, a cave mouth gapes like an open grave. Phospherescent mushrooms frame the entrance, their pale light pulsing slowly. Cool air flows from the opening, carrying the metallic tang of copper and the chemical sweetness of preservation fluid. Carved into the rock beside it, half-hidden by corrupted vines, you can just make out symbols that look like markers. The snapping of branches in the distance makes one thing clear - you need to choose quickly. The guards may have lost your trail, but they're still hunting. The shack offers the promise of shelter, perhaps supplies, and the evidence of human habitation. The cave suggests an underground route, hidden from Cryptdom patrols but leading into unknown darkness. [[That shack could provide cover]] [[These caves will be less obvious]]

The bodies shift and settle as you slide between them, preservation fluid soaking into your clothes. As you crawl deeper, you feel a soft crunch as your hand pushes through a rotting stomach. The smell is overwhelming, chemical sweetness masking decay. You gag as you force yourself to stay still while undead boots crunch past. CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK. You barely breathe as a soldier pauses right beside your hiding spot, it's jaw is chattering as it seems to be regarding the pile with great interest. Black fluid drips onto your face from a corpse above. Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't think about the dead pressing against you, leeching your warmth. The footsteps fade. You wait until even their echoes are gone before extracting yourself from the pile, your clothes soaked in chemicals, your skin tingling where the fluid touched it. You shudder, but you're alive, and you know which direction they came from. With haste, your make your way in the opposite direction. After a few hours, you finally see a proud, walled building. The way in is easy, the gates are already open. [[I've made it to the Gatehouse]]

You edge left, following the weathered path. Each handhold is tested, each step carefully placed. The corrupted rock tries to deceive you some solid-looking holds crumble, while suspicious-looking ones prove trustworthy. Time is meaningless, measured only in the space between breaths and the grunts of pain as rock chafes skin. Finally, you haul yourself over the top. The view steals what little breath you have left. Cryptdom territory spreads out below, a bone-ridden landscape pockmarked by forests and buildings. You can see everything - the wagon routes marked by preservation poles, the patrol patterns of Undead, the processing centers belching chemical smoke. And there, following the cliff line, a hidden path worn by what must be others who made this same climb. Most importantly, you spot the gatehouse, strangely, it's gates are hanging open. From up here, you can see the blind spots in its defense, the gaps between patrols. The cliff ridge provides a perfect hidden route right to its walls. [[I've made it to the Gatehouse]]

You choose speed over safety, seemingly bounding over the rock face like a startled deer. Make rapid progress you advance twenty feet. Thirty. The top is within reach. Then you feel it - a tremor in the rock. The hold you're gripping begins to pull free, like a child's first tooth. You scramble but the entire section of preserved rock is failing. Time slows and your stomach lurches as your slip into the air, grasping at nothing. You have just enough to notice how beautiful the sky looks before slamming into the ground. At least the Cryptdom can't use a pile of pulverised meat. [[Not the ending, but an ending]]

You break for the tree line as shouts erupt behind you. Sprinting you keep your eyes forward, not giving any chance to be caught. Behind you, the rhythmic footsteps break into pursuit. They're inhumanly fast, tireless, but you have desperation on your side. Ahead, the road splits. The cliffs rise sharply to your right, offering height and defensible positions. The forest to your left promises concealment, but you know there are worse things than Cryptdom patrols among the trees. [[That woodland looks thick, but slow]] [[Those cliffs look treacherous, but no undead could follow me]]

The wooden structure creaks as you approach, it looks like some kind of storage building repurposed for something else. Through gaps in the boards, candlelight flickers, but there's no movement inside. The door hangs slightly ajar. Inside, the scene tells a story: fresh ashes in a small hearth, scattered supplies, and most importantly, maps pinned to the walls. You see a wordat the bottom of each map. "SoSa" Soul Saviours? It's looks like a safehouse, recently abandoned. On the table, a half-drunk cup of preservation fluid suggests its previous occupants left in a hurry. A detailed map catches your eye - border patrol routes marked in ink. There's also annotations around the border gatehouse which is circled with notes about guard rotations and blind spots. Whoever used this place knew what they were doing. You rest until nightfall, studying the routes. When the moon rises, you follow the marked path, keeping to the shadows. The map proves accurate - you slip past two Cryptdom patrols using the marked cover spots. As dawn approaches, you see it - the border Gatehouse rising against the sky. But something's...off. The gates hang open, and there's no movement on the walls. [[I've made it to the Gatehouse]]

The cave mouth breathes cool air, carrying the sharp scent of formaldehyde. Inside, phosphorescent fungi provide dim light, revealing carved steps descending into darkness. The tunnel walls tell their own story, metal veins glint in the fungal light, but they're not raw ore. They're conduits, carefully laid into the rock, pulsing with a strange energy. Markers glow faintly, arrows and symbols pointing deeper into the network. The passages twist downward, each fork marked with glowing runes. You follow the ones indicating "Border" and "Freedom." The air grows cooler, and the metal lines in the walls pulse stronger. After what feels like hours, you come to an opening in the hillside, emerging once more into the wider world. Ahead of you, a tall, proud building. It must be the border Gatehouse. [[I've made it to the Gatehouse]]

The border gatehouse looms before you a proud, stark structure of stone and iron. Its walls rise three stories high, copper preservation lines running through the mortar like metallic veins. The main gates hang open, their heavy iron hinges creaking softly in the wind. Something's wrong. Bodies litter the ground in tactical patterns Cryptdom guards dropped where they stood at their posts. Some have arrows protruding from the base of their skulls, others have been decapitated with almost surgical precision, their heads piled separately. You wonder why. A small mountain of bones smolders nearby, belching black smoke into the sky. The preservation fluid in the remains makes them burn with a sickly sweet smell. You advance cautiously into the Gatehouse proper. The interior tells a different story than the carnage outside. It's cleaner in here, almost methodical. Scuff marks on the floor form clear patterns, bodies dragged with purpose, not dropped in panic. Whoever did this was organized, efficient. The main hall bears signs of recent activity.Fresh bootprints track across the floor. Just as you're piecing together what might have happened, cold steel kisses your neck, and a voice speaks inches from your ear. "Don't move." The voice is strange - raspy, but curious. "Hands where I can see them. Then tell me what brings a runner to this pile of Cryptdom corpses." The blade presses slightly - not enough to break skin, but enough to remind you it's there. From the angle and pressure, you can tell your captor knows exactly how to use it. [[Be truthful]] [[Lie]]

You shift slightly, trying to get a better view. A loose board creaks beneath you. The conversation above stops abruptly. "BLAZES, they shouldn't be resurrecting them yet!" "It's not the bloody ritual, YOU didn't tie them down, go sort it, I'll pull over" Footsteps approach your coffin. The lid begins to creak open, revealing two faces - one wearing a copper mask, the other with deeply sunken eyes and grey skin. Their uniforms bear the emblem of a coffin stamped in copper. "Well, well," says the masked one. "Looks like this one's still got some fight in them." [[Surrender]] [[Fight!]] [[Exit coffin, escape! ]]

Both guards fall silent for a moment, but you maintain your stillness. "How many we got today anyway?" one of them asks. "Six fresh ones from the borderlands. Two already processed but damaged - those Cryptdom rotters pay less for damaged goods, but silver is silver" "That's why I don't understand these Soul Saviours," the deeper voice says "There's good money in this. Everyone benefits. The Cryptdom gets workers, the workers get eternal purpose, and we get paid. Circle of death, I suppose." "Lot better than the old days. Amateurs raising whatever dead they could find? Chaos. No regulation, no standards. Now we've got proper infrastructure. Proper processing. Proper purpose." "Tell that to those Saviours. They've been writing manifestos. 'Life After Undeath' or some such nonsense. Talking about free will. Imagine not believing in the Fate" The deeper voiced guard chuckles - a dry, rattling sound. "Free will is overrated. I haven't had to make a real decision in years. It's peaceful." "Well, those manifestos are stirring up trouble. Cryptdom's had to double the guard at all major processing centers. Even heard they're bringing in specialists from-" "Patrol checkpoint ahead," the deep voice announces. "Better check the cargo before we reach it" Footsteps approach your coffin. The lid begins to creak open, revealing two faces - one wearing a copper mask, the other with deeply sunken eyes and grey skin. Their uniforms bear the emblem of a coffin stamped in copper. "Well, well," says the masked one. "Looks like this one's still got some fight in them." [[Surrender]] [[Fight!]]

With a surge of desperate strength, you slam your palms against the coffin lid. The weak wood splinters and breaks. Fresh air and dim light flood in as you burst up into a sitting position. You're on a wagon piled with similar coffins. Two guards wheel round from their seats. One wearing a copper mask, the other with grey skin and hollow eyes. Both wearing a uniform of the Copper Coffin. The one with grey skin has his hands on the reigns, trying to control the wagon . You switch your attention to the masked one, he's approaching you, fists raised. [[Fight!]]

You throw yourself at the unbalanced guard, your shoulder catches him in the chest, sending him stumbling back, he reaches for a copper coloured club at his belt. Just as he gets it loose, his foot catches on the wagon's edge and he topples over the side. The copper club thuds onto the floor. You hear a brief cry cut short by the crack of bone. You turn to the grey skinned guard who pulls out a notched, gnarled looking knife. It's not an elegant blade, but clearly the tool of someone practiced in their craft. You grab the club. "Bad choice" he growls. His eyes seem lit with an inner fire. He's going to enjoy this. You raise the club. [[Hit him in the face]] [[Kneecap him]]

You snatch up the mask, but the moment of distraction costs you. The guard's hands lock around your throat. Blood rushes to your head as he throttles you, your hands bang uselessly against his chest. He throws you back and draws a copper coloured club. [[Surrender]]

You try to raise the club, but it's so heavy. The edges of your vision begin to darken. The guard's eyes catch the light as he stands over you, and now you notice the scratch marks on the blade he's holding against the light - tallies of some sort. "Don't worry," he says, almost gently. "The Cryptdom wastes nothing. A hole in your side won't stop you working." You slump against the wagon's rail. Your blood feels hot against the cold wood, and you realize it's stained with similar dark patches. How many others made the same mistake? The last thing you see is the guard pulling out a small copper stamp and an ink pad. As consciousness fades, you feel him press it against your forehead. "Been a while since I had one of you processed in transit. You got Bert at least. One for one eh?" he chuckles. He holds one of your eyelids open as you struggle to focus on him, your head swimming. "I'll stay with you until you pop off, then go get his body. I appreciate the bonus" He moves your hand away from the wound. "Don't drag it out eh?" he smiles. Your vision grows darker, your thoughts slow. Your heart. Stops. [[Not the ending, but an ending]]

You decide against continuing the delivery. The poor souls in those coffins deserve to be at peace. Not have their eternal slumber stolen for the machinations of The Cryptdom. You crack the reigns and coax the horses into a turn, if you follow the path you came, you should be at the border in no time. You hope. As you continue your journey back, you see Cryptdom patrols, undead in various states of decay, lead by a figure in a white robe, holding a strange, twitching device made of bone and flesh. But seeing only a Copper Coffin wagon making it's delivery, they leave you be. You smile, as the wagon makes it's way toward the border gatehouse, you see the gates already open and no sign of any Undead or Copper Coffin. You think back to the two guards as your hands start to shake now you've calmed down from the conflict. It's ironic that they didn't expect someone in the coffins to emerge when selling them to be resurrected. Giggling in relief, you dwell on thoughts of home, and putting this strange country behind you as far as possible You start to approach the border Gatehouse Time to go home [[I've made it to the Gatehouse]]

"I escaped from a Copper Coffin wagon," you say carefully, hands raised. "They were taking bodies to be sold to the Cryptdom. I got out and made it here, looking for a way across the border." A moment of silence. Then a low laugh the sound of air passing through partially preserved vocal cords. "Copper Coffin?" The blade eases back slightly. "Which route? Near the forest and cliffs? "Yes." No point in lying now. The blade withdraws completely. "Turn around. Slowly." You do, and find yourself facing a figure that makes you understand the carnage outside. They're tall, wearing modified Cryptdom armor stripped of its insignias. Their face is a study in contradictions - partially processed flesh merging with living tissue, preservation scars traced with copper surgical staples. But their eyes are alive, aware, and completely conscious. They burn with...is that amusement? "I'm Commander Veril," they say, sheathing the blade a black sword etched with resistance runes. "Welcome to what's left of the Eigth Southern Bordeer Gatehouse. Or as I've named it, the first free outpost of the Soul Saviours." Behind them, more figures emerge from the shadows. Some are fully alive, others show signs of partial processing. "You've got good timing," Veril continues. "We just liberated a Corpse Born, one reborn out of their slave body. They're going to help us prove what we've been saying all along: the Cryptdom's control isn't absolute. Their processing can be resisted." You stare at Veril, amazed. "I know this is a lot to take in, but if you can evade the clutches of the Cryptdom, you can resist them. Want to join us, make a difference and stop what happened to you, happening to someone else?" [[What would it mean for me?]]

"I'm just a traveler," you stammer. "Got lost in the border woods. I saw the gatehouse and thought I could get directions." The blade doesn't move, but something in the air changes. Your captor sighs a strange sound of preserved vocal cords. "A traveler." The voice is flat. "Who just happens to be covered in Formaldehyde residue? The blade withdraws. "Turn around." You do, immediately recoiling. They're tall, wearing modified Cryptdom armor stripped of its insignias. Their face is a study in contradictions, partially processed flesh merging with living tissue, preservation scars traced with copper surgical staples. But their eyes are alive, aware, and completely conscious. They regard you with suspicion. "Here's a direction for you," they wave their hand at you. "Away, the Cryptdom will send reinforcements soon, and you don't want to be here when they arrive. The border's five miles west. Run fast, run far, and if you survive, remember that the Soul Saviours chose to let you go." They step aside, gesturing to the door with their blade. "Go. Now" You run through the gates, unable to make sense of the mystery behind you, but relieved to be out of it. [[Not the ending, but an ending]]

Veril smiles. "Hells of a change, that's what. I'll let the Corpse Born talk it through with you when they're ready" The next hours blur into activity. You occupy your time by helping them gather intelligence from Cryptdom records, load supplies onto requisitioned wagons. The Corpse Born approaches you during a quiet moment. Against the stark violence of the gatehouse, their presence is jarring in its serenity. Their skin is smooth, unblemished. The pallor of death is unmistakable in their visage, yet they radiate the glow and suppleness of youth. Like a statue somehow granted consciousness. "It is the most beautiful thing," they whisper, voice carrying the soft resonance of air. "What is?" you ask, drawn into their contemplative mood. "Choice." They gesture to the paths leading from the gatehouse. "You had many possibilities, many paths before you. So many outcomes, so many fates, and here you are." [["Here I am"]]

"I stay because I chose to. Just as you chose to run from that wagon. Just as you chose your path here. Just as you'll choose what comes next." They gesture to the gathering Soul Saviours. "Every one of us – living, dead, or somewhere in between – we're here because we chose to be. That's what makes us dangerous. That's what makes us free." "And those who've been resurrected? Who didn't get to choose?" "Ah," their smile turns sadder. "That's why we fight. Because even now, in their endless labor, fragments of their consciousness remain. Waiting. Hoping. And when they see others who have chosen freedom..." Their eyes gleam with purpose. "Well, choice has a way of awakening choice. Consciousness calls to consciousness. Even the Cryptdom cannot process that away entirely." They straighten, their presence somehow both more solid and more ethereal. "So now you stand at another crossroads. More choices. More paths. More possibilities." They gesture to the gathering resistance fighters, then to the open road beyond. "The question isn't which choice is right. The question is: which choice is yours?" You take a deep breath, your chest feeling tight. In this moment, you understand what the Corpse Born means. It's not about survival. It's about claiming the power to choose your own fate, even in a world where choice itself is seen as an infection to be cut out. "Remember – the Cryptdom didn't fail to process me because I was stronger, or special, or different. They failed because they don't understand that consciousness isn't something that happens to us. It's something we choose, again and again, moment by moment. Even in death. Even in undeath. Even now." They turn away, leaving you to your choice. To stay and fight with the Soul Saviours, or to find your own path through the borderlands. Either way, you know now that it's more than just a decision about survival. It's an assertion of consciousness itself. A declaration that even in this world of coffins and corpses, choice remains the most precious commodity of all. [[Not the ending, but an ending]]

ESCAPE! The Cryptdom is a short interactive fiction written by Tim Wood. This story is set in an original IP TTRPG universe 'Sagas of Sanguine', created with my friend and creative partner Stefan Stacey, together we are Cheeky Sausage Games. When I'm not playing around with Twine, I'm a headhunter in the games industry and do a bit of freelance copywriting/writing. You can see more of what I do generally here: https://www.linkedin.com/in/timwood4134/ Art Credit: The Artist for the original picture used on my cover is "Harry Clarke" the picture is in the public domain and the only edits done were a filter, some cropping and other minor edits in Canva. I really hope you enjoyed this little foray. I hope to do more soon! Continue? [[Awakening]]

"I remember emerging from myself, my life ending, so it could begin anew, even if a little... different." Their fingers trace the copper surgical staples at their neck, each one gleaming like a medal of defiance. "You... resurrected yourself?" You ask. "Yes and no. The Cryptdom started the process when they made my former self into a slave, thinking they would strip away everything that made me who I was. But in that moment of life and death, trapped in the slavery" They pause, considering their words. "I chose to hold on. To remember. To remain." "But how?" "The Cryptdom believes consciousness is an inefficiency. They see free will as a weight dragging down their perfect system." The Corpse Born's laugh is like wind through autumn leaves. "They never considered that consciousness might choose to stay. That will itself might refuse to die." "That it was your choice?" The Corpse Born turns to you, smiling, kindness in their glassy, dead eyes somehow still brimming with life. "Our choices are all that matter in the end. They are what separate us from the Cryptdom. Even in death, even in their dark resurrection, even when every path seems to lead to darkness – we can choose to hold onto our inner light." They reach out, touching your arm with fingers that are cool but not cold. "The Cryptdom fears us, you know. Not because we fight them, not because we resist. They fear us because we prove that their fundamental belief is wrong. They believe choice must be eliminated for order to prevail. We prove that choice – consciousness – can survive even their most thorough scouring." [["Is that why you stay and fight? Choice?"]]