The Crawl

The Crawl


Some thirty years in the future, humanity struggles to find an answer to the epidemic of massive, mutated beasts that seek to hunt mankind to extinction. The earth is dying.

484 readers have visited The Crawl since MysterySnail created it.


"It's been a long time since there were still places to hide. It's been even longer since it was safe to be outside after dark."


The world is dying.

Trees are cracking apart from the heat. Wildfires sear the earth's flesh. Cities crumble and erupt in the unyielding sunlight. Green life has all but vanished, along with water. The ocean is boiling, ice nonexistent. The coastline is drastically different from any that would be found in a decades-old text. The empty fields of rural New York offer no protection from the sun's burning gaze, shimmering over crumbling asphalt roads. Dead mechanical wonders and technology crumble and erode in the heat. The city looms over the countryside like headstones over graves, with aptly fallen bodies littering homes and mass graves that line the interstate highways.

Survivors of the plague were subject to the Beasts - massive, gaunt, mutated creatures that only slightly resemble animal ancestors. No one has been sure of their beginning, but only that they have driven humanity to near-extinction. These Beasts boil in the sunlight, and destroy everything they come across in the night.

You are desperately alone in the wastelands, and your heart craves answers.

Decklan O'Connell
James Rowan Wakefield
Dawn Lowrey
Imogene Wilkerson

Toggle Rules

The rules are fairly simple, but I may modify them as needed in the future.

-This story takes place thirty years ahead of the present (2044). Please keep this in mind as you choose or make a character. This is a solid date that will not be changed.
-This story takes place on Earth in one central location - Rural New York. While your character may come from a different location, this is where the main beginning of the story will take place.
-Try to be as literate as possible. The only exception to this rule is in-character illiteracy or phoenetic accents.

-This is not a romance story. If you and another person feel the need to have a romance story on the side, please do it in private.
-All fighting with others (non-enviornment) must be done appropriately. No godmodding.
-Original Characters only.
-Death of characters must be discussed with me and the owner of the character.
-Trigger Warnings are required. This is a violence-heavy story. Please write 'TW' or 'Trigger Warning' at the beginning of your post if you feel it may be triggering, or if it contains content from the list below of triggers. This list is subject to change. If you need something added to this list, PM me.
+Extreme Violence
+Sexual violence
+Animal violence
-No sexual violence is permitted, with the exception of backstory-essential implied SV.
-Face Claims are not required, but are allowed.

-Please do all OOC in the chat.
-Keep your OOC clean.

Character Template:












The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 3 authors


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Decklan

0.00 INK

It's been so long since mother told me what the stars looked like. A shimmering blanket wrapped around our world, she said. At night, past the coin of the moon, you could just look up, and there they'd be, shining down and illuminating the earth's face. She told me about a band that wrapped around the sky, like a belt, but I don't remember the name. Now, you can't even go outside after the sun is gone. She said it was our fault, but I still don't know what she means.

The orange sun scalded the earth like a wave, sending shimmers across the broken, crumbling asphalt. The yellow lines down the middle of the road had worn away and brushed off over the years, and an old sedan sat, slanted, on the edge of the barrier, rusting. The tires had been stolen, the windows broken, and the interior gutted. A few birds fluttered about inside, enjoying the shade from the boiling eye in the sky. The heat was intense in the afternoon, and more so in the empty, overgrown fields. In the distance, the highway lead straight to the city, like a river running into nettles. The northbound highway was littered with wreckage - barricades, old signs, cars. It was nearly silent, save for the small mutterings of small animals and the wind in a few sparse trees. The grass was knee-high, overtaking houses and old cars and forcing itself through sidewalks and pavement alike. The wind carried over it like ripples on an ocean. The heat was blistering as the sun baked the earth, seeming to suck the moisture out of the air.

Decklan didn't take solace in the silence.

He was jogging - moving quickly was the best way to stay alive. A light satchel, roughed up and torn in places, bounced on his back as he made his way through the suburb. Old houses stared at him with dead, windowless eyes, and he could feel the gaze of hungry beasts hiding from the sun's sweltering burn. His own skin was deeply freckled and tanned from countless days. His hair was cropped, shaggy and greasy, plastered to his head. One half shaven, the other trailing in short, thick braids that bounced on his shoulder. His lips were cracked and dry, parched and dehydrated. His clothing was simple rags, baring skin to the unyeilding heat of the sun. The clatter of metal on asphalt behind him made him pick up his pace - it was likely a bird taking off, or a car finally rusting to pieces, but he didn't stop to look back. His boots ground into the crumbling road, the treads wearing out over the last few months of moving constantly. Cities were dangerous, and he knew better, but he had no choice.

Buildings always held beasts, hiding from the sun's grimace in the dark. Cities held people - looters, rapers, theives, bandits, or cannibals. But he was so desperate, so low on supplies. So thirsty.

Another rustle from the brush, only a moment after the clatter. The brunette produced from his sagging leather belt a long icepick and a slightly rusted, hardly sharp machete. He rounded to the noise, only to come face-to-face with a coyote.

Over the decades, large animals had become so rare, in some places, they were fables. The coyote was slender, and so skinny that its ribs stuck out like spines from it's chest. Fur was falling out in patches, and it's eyes were milky and rolling. Mouth open, frothing slightly, and nose dryer than the pavement. It was snarling and rolling back and forth, rabid and starved. The omega stumbled out of the brush, before sprinting at Decklan. The man leapt aside, nearly losing his footing. A bite from the animal could end his life in a few short hours. He swung outward with the machete, landing a long, deep gash down the animal's thigh. It didn't even respond, only turned, limping, to lunge at him with both forepaws out. His feet failed him, and he fell under the beast's lashing head. Filthy claws ripped open the right side of his face, and he let out a yelping cry. The flesh ripped aside as the grimy claws made their way off of his face, and the coyote reached down to snap at his throat. Despite the blood pooling in his fading vision, Decklan drove the icepick through the beast's eye, killing it. The furry mass twitched and seized as he shoved the coyote off of him and staggered to his feet, one hand cupping the right side of his face, now mutilated.

He was groaning, dropping his bag to the ground and blindly fishing through it for precious cloth strips to keep his face together until he would stop for the night. Around and around his head. He had no water to rinse the wound with. Decklan padded scraps of fabric onto the eye socket, in between layers of bandaging, and only stopped when the moist warmth stopped seeping through. He sobbed dryly, shallow breaths escaping his cracking lips. A migraine was splitting his head. He sat back on his heels, holding the bag between his knees, wiping blood from his left eye. his vision was dark, and the sun was setting fast.

It was about half an hour before he could force himself to stand, and pull the icepick from the beast's head. He had to find shelter, or face death with the setting sun.


It was late afternoon by the time Decklan was immersed in the cement jungle of the city. He knew how to take cover for the night, and was looking for shelter. He had sped up his jogging until he was glistening with sweat, sore, and aching all over from tremors.

The traveler finally felt his knees tremble from exhaustion, and his head spun. He tore the plywood off the nearest entryway and pushed the door open with his shoulder, out of breath. A boarded-up building with red spray painting usually was empty. He closed the busted door behind himself, shaking the torch from his belt to produce light. The corner store was empty - if it hadn't eben, something likely would have charged to meet him. With the remains of trembling strength he shoved the heavy metal shelving units in front of the door, effectively barricading himself in. The windows had been boarded up years before. Although the wood had rotten away in some spots, some previous tenant had covered the holes with black plastic. He slumped down behind the counter, next to a rusted cash register. He slid his backpack onto his lap, and passed out from the dehydration.

The setting changes from The Wilds to Inner-City New York

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dawn Lowrey

0.00 INK

#, as written by krashby
Dawn's bag was called Frankenstein; her mother had named it so. Such a strange name, Dawn always thought, and a funny one too. She had no idea what such a name meant or where it had come from. When asked, Mother seemed not to know where the name came from either but said that it had something to do with being made from many different and mismatching parts. That certainly fit. Dawn's mother had owned the bag as a girl long before she was ever a mother, and at that time it had been a nice backpack, clean and neat and a solid deep purple, with pockets of various size and sturdy straps which supported much weight with little strain on the back. But the decades had worn it down just the same as the earth had been worn down. Countless tears had ripped through the fabric, and Mother had had no choice but to cover the holes with patches of any cloth available. Here a red patch, there a green, this one cut from floral curtains, that one ripped from Mother's own shirt. Anything to keep together the bag which held every possession they owned. Little of the original fabric remained visible, and what could be seen was no longer purple but an ugly, murky grey. Dirt and dust became permanently embedded in the strands. One strap had been completely detached, and what was left of the remaining hung on feebly by poorly made stitches.

The bag was called Frankenstein, and it was dirty and torn and broken just like Dawn. It was her most precious thing.

She had the strap hanging by her neck to keep both arms free as she stretched for the next ledge. The scalding brick of the building burned her hands with each moment that passed. With every hand hold she could feel the bursting of old blisters and the formation of new, and her muscles ached in protest both from the heat and from the strain of pulling herself up yet another foot. But she could not stop or rest, not even for a moment. The sun was setting, and it was a 10 story drop to the broken asphalt below.

She grabbed a hold of the next ledge and felt the brick crumble into dust beneath her hand. Suddenly she was slipping, the air rushing up beneath her and the ground rapidly approaching. A screech like that of a small animal escaped from her throat. She reached out blindly, grasping for a hold of something, anything. A heart-stopping despair ran through her being. She never let herself fall. Before now, anyway.

Halfway down to what was sure to be her final moment, Dawn's hand finally impacted with a broken window still, a sharp shard of glass cutting into her palm. Fighting against instinct she tightened her grip around the impalement. The fall was broken, causing the entirety of her body weight to hank down sharply on a single arm. It was only from her cry of pain that she was unable to hear the pop as the bone dislocated from her shoulder joint. Her Frankenstein bag pulled down on her throat, choking her, stealing away her breath if only for a moment. She gasped. She gasped for air and for relief that she still had air to gasp for. Adrenaline fed into her veins and allowed the pain to fade, but she knew the effect was temporary. Slowly, surely, she began to lightly swing from side to side. Each swing to the right she reached her uninjured arm up, grasping for the window sill. More glass scattered the sill and cut into flesh when she finally made contact. She could feel the warm blood spreading between the fingers of both hands, making her grasp slippery, and with the slightest movement the cuts in her palms grew deeper. The dislocated shoulder made her left arm useless, forcing her to rely on just one to pull her up and over the window sill, finally rolling limply into the room inside.

It was a suffocating kind of darkness in this room. The last hints of day's light refracted through shards of glass and spilled out on the floor beside her, highlighting a circle of deep brown blood crusted into the carpet. Dawn could see no more. Her breath become caught in her throat as she fumbled in the Frankenstein bag for her flashlight, a temperamental nearly dead thing which gave light only at its convenience and a dim narrow ray at that. Batteries were so hard to come by. Fortunately it saw fit to work at this moment, and Dawn cascaded the weak light across the room she now found herself in.

It appeared to be some kind of one room apartment. Chairs and a table lay broken on their sides, one chair completely shattered as though having been thrown against the wall. Clothing cluttered the floor as well as papers which crinkled and fluttered with every breeze through the window. The thrown open drawers of both a dresser and desk suggested that the place had been hastily fled, or perhaps raided by bandits, or both. The curtain waving peacefully beside Dawn from the window railing was ripped from top to bottom in three long, claw-like tears. Everything was filled with silence. The door to the outside hallway was closed shut, but the closet door across from her sat ajar. Dawn's flashlight was unable to penetrate the darkness within. She held her breath, waiting to hear the familiar deep growl, or to see a pair of bright eyes flash open. But after several moments of nothing happening she accepted that she was alone.

Dawn evaluated her situation. She had cried out not once, but two times in her fall. Bandits, thieves, cannibals... Beasts... anyone or anything nearby would know where she is. But as dangerous as it was to stay in this place, it was more dangerous to leave. Night was here, and everyone knew it was suicide to wander in the city at night. And with her shoulder... Dawn bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut as pain washed from her shoulder and through her arm and body. The cuts on her hands she could handle, but a dislocated shoulder made her useless for climbing, and climbing was the best way she knew to survive. Even if she survived the night, what was she to do when the morning came? How was she to search for supplies, so scarce and running lower with each passing day? Hopelessness sunk like a pit in her stomach.

Dawn wrapped her hands the best she could and fashioned a lousy makeshift sling from a ripped pillowcase on the bed for her shoulder. It was not enough. She had no idea how to do about putting the shoulder back in place, and there was nothing to do for the pain. She allowed herself a small sip of water from the bottle of water she was preserving; she had found it just today, nearly empty, beneath a pile of gravel, the plastic of the bottle melted and deformed from the heat and leeking chemicals into the water , and the water so hot it burned her tongue. But her thirst was so dire she would drink anything.

With nothing left to do, she held the Frankenstein bag to her chest and waited, waiting for something and nothing to happen. Tears formed in her eyes.

"Mom," she whispered into the dark. "Mommy, I need you... I'm scared. Please, I need you. I don't want to die..."

But she was, of course, completely and utterly alone.

The setting changes from Inner-City New York to Post-Apocalyptic Earth

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Decklan O'Connell

0.00 INK

The wandered's eyes flickered open as a few small rays of light filtered across the room. He groaned with a raspy release of air. He felts as though his mouth was coated with dust, his head splitting and eyes dry and puffy. He touched the side of his face gingerly - infection had likely set in, and it was hot to the touch. He couldn't afford water to rinse the wound clean, but it crossed his mind as he pulled a waterskin from his backpack and sipped, denying his voracious thirst. His lips were broken and cracking, bleeding at the corners. Decklan forced himself to stand on wavering, shaking legs, briefly enjoying the cool inside of the building. As he approached the windows, he could feel the heat seeping through.

The filthy traveler shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog inside of it, and cleared the shelving from the door. The metal entryway was already warm to the touch from the sun. He pressed his body to the rusting door and forced his way out into the blistering warmth of the sun. In the daylight, the city was hardly threatening. Small birds filled the windows of the adjacent buildings, a rabbit leapt through the overgrown road. If he had been in better shape, it might have been dinner.

Decklan kept moving through the city, if slowly. It was too dangerous to skim buildings alone, in his condition, and he settled for rummaging through the underbrush - small bushes, trees, and tall grass. A broken bottle here, a brick there. It may have been useless, but he had to stay occupied and keep his mind off the pain.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dawn Lowrey

0.00 INK

#, as written by krashby
Dawn couldn't remember falling asleep. She had barracked the door best she could, pushing a chair under the handle (at first she had attempted to use the desk, but her small and injured frame proved too weak to move anything of any significant weight). Her attempts to rest were all but futile; great as her exhaustion was, the pain from her shoulder and the fear of being found by someone or something out there kept her conscious until the early hours of the morning. But at some point she must have dozed off for here she was, laying on the floor with her head nuzzled into the Frankenstein bag, eyes fluttering open and squinting back shut as the first rays of day's light came filtering into the room.

Dawn had been born with the sun; that was how she had gotten her name. Her mother, Lily Lowrey, used to tell the story often. Lily had gone into labor a month before she was meant to, just as night fell over the wasted earth. With little time to prepare she had locked herself in the nearest shelter she could find, a wooden tool shed which had been looted and abandoned and was missing several planks in its walls, leaving Lilly exposed should anything happen to look within. She had gagged herself with her own shirt so that she could not scream and draw attention when the contractions hit. The growl of Beasts could be heard all through the night; in the occasional moment Lily was even able to glimpse a clawed paw or a mat of fur or a pair of glowing eyes through the slits. But even if she was not attacked and killed before the night was through, what was to become of her baby? How was a child to survive in a world like this? Lily had nearly lost all hope.

But then the morning came. Sunlight spilled out onto the laboring woman's withering body in much the same way that it spilled over her daughter on this day ten years later. The creatures of the night disappeared from it's burning grasp. The light and the warmth it provided fueled in Lily the strength to make her final push.

Lily's baby was premature and scrawny, born into a dirty tool shed with no prenatal care and no medical attention. And yet she was born, not just alive, but healthy. She was a miracle in a world where miracles no longer existed. Lily held her tiny body to her chest and named her Dawn, for the first lights of day which had greeted her into the world. Lily was fueled in that moment with sudden and irrational hope for their future together.

But Lily was dead now. Dawn rose from her place on the floor and looked through the window, alone as she watched the sun rise.

Pain shot through Dawn's shoulder with every movement she made. It had only gotten worse in the night. She could only stand to lift her arm a few inches from her side before the pain grew unbearable. Her mouth was dry, lips cracked and broken, her head spinning and dizzy every time she tried to move.

Oh, but she couldn't stay still. She munched on half a granola bar from her backpack and drained what little remained in her water bottle. Neither did much help. She needed more. She needed food and water and medicine for her pain, and she needed to find a way to fix her shoulder so she could climb again. If not, she was good as dead.

Pulling Frankenstein's remaining strap up around her good shoulder, Dawn pushed aside her poor excuse of a barricade and cautiously entered the hallway. The small girl's face scrunched up as a foul scent hit her. Across from her lay a decaying pile of flesh, barely distinguishable as human. If not the sight of it, the smell was enough to make one sick. Or at least it used to be. Dawn was raised in a world of death and gore and decay, and she barely gave a second glace as she passed the body.

The apartment complex's hallway was ill-lit. Light bulbs hung from the ceiling at regular intervals but were utterly useless. The only light came from the rooms whose doors sat ajar, shinning in from the windows. In some spots there was naught but darkness. She lept from puddle to puddle of light, only able to hope that it was enough to keep the Beasts away. The safest bet would have been to climb down to the ground, but her injury made that impossible.

A sign showed her way to the stairwell, which as luck would have it was located on the outside of the main building. A window was built in every story and provided enough light for Dawn to feel safe. She climbed down the five flights and pushed open a heavy door to the outside world.

Where to search? What in this city had not already been raided or destroyed? But Dawn knew the secrets hidden in the walls of each building. She knew how to search where others would not think, how to find things long lost and missed by bandits. It was the only way she could survive. She set off down the broken street, set in mind to search the first likely building her eyes met. Even this early in the day heat began to burn into her skin. Through the soles of her shoes she could feel the burning asphalt on her feet.

Suddenly, she paused. She could see a person, a man, searching the underbrush some distance from her. Instantly she ducked behind the cover of the nearest building, sliding her head out just a peek to watch him. A bandit? Or on second thought, perhaps not. He appeared to be alone... and injured. Dawn crossed behind the building and up the street on the other side, gaining cover from a closer point to examine the stranger more closely. If only she could watch from above, it would be safer and quicker to escape should she be seen. But in her desperation she chanced herself even closer, hiding under the cover of a shrub. Before long she was trailing him, slipping into the next hiding place when he was looking away and over time closing the distance between them, though she dared not get too close.

The man looked worse for wear; angry red wounds, no more than a day old, shinned bright on his face and could be made out clearly even from this distance. He wore a satchel, and this Dawn's eyes clung to greedily. If she were to move fast enough... oh, but did she dare? In normal circumstances she never would, tending to avoid other people in the rare instances she came across. But now... now she was possibly desperate enough to try.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Imogene Wilkerson

0.00 INK

Imogene’s life had been reduced to little pleasures like playing with pill bugs. She let the little things roll around on the palm of her dirt-caked palm and admired their innumerable little legs. She envied the way they could curl into themselves and hide.

Her existence was a cruel one: scavenging in the wastes all day, barricading herself in the suburbs at night. For all its cruelty, though, Imogene fought hard against boredom. She treasured finding a book over finding a can of beans, just because the book would nourish her for longer. In fact, Imogene had nearly become accustomed to the gnawing hunger in her gut. She could almost ignore it. Almost.

For as long as she could remember, that gnawing hunger had accompanied her. Finding wild berries and cooking up the occasional lanky rabbit was like throwing a bucket of water on a raging wildfire. She became an expert at averting her mind, finding little projects to keep her from the hunger pains. On that particular day, Imogene spotted something that promised to entertain her for months.

A skateboard. The wood was cracked, but it looked ridable. The decrepit wheels needed tightening, and finding a screwdriver was highly improbable. Instead, she jammed a butter knife into the slot to tighten the screws. Working with the skateboard, she sat on the porch of a house she frequented - the house with an attic. The attic door was perfectly camouflaged. She felt safe there. At least, somewhat safe. With her project completed - it seemed sturdy enough to ride now - she watched the sun move across the sky.

You’ve wasted the day, Imogene, griped Rhett.

“Oh please, Rhett. I found water.”

Water, but no food. You didn’t put forth effort today. You’re getting lazy.

“Oh, shut up,” she retorted, dropping the skateboard to the sidewalk. She stepped on the board tentatively, rolling forward only to be stopped by the weeds breaking through the concrete. “This will help me get around quicker. Save some energy.”

You’ll break your neck.

“Every day is a risk. I could be gutted by bandits or mauled by Beasts in the next breath. And you’re complaining about the dangers of a skateboard?”

Imogene laughed as she fell, scraping the palms of her hands. She experimented with the skateboard until the sun was low in the sky, painting the cloudless expanse in hues of tangerine and magenta. Curfew. The Beasts would emerge soon. One whiff of her and she was done for. Once they spotted a human, they didn’t forget. They didn’t give up.

The locks of the home had been destroyed by the pillagers. It was nearly impossible to find a door that locked properly. Imogene had to find other ways to keep the Beasts out. She piled rotting, dusted furniture in front of the door, and then she retreated to the attic. She felt warmth toward the space, and she hoped she could stay this time. All of her other homes didn't last long. Whether by Beast or stranger, her sense of security was always ruined before she could get comfortable.

But she was comfortable in her attic, despite the heat; it became trapped in the attic and threatened to cook her alive. She opened the small window, letting in a warm breeze that did little help. Her pallet was sequestered in the corner. The ratty blankets provided padding against the wooden floor. She eased her tense body down, feeling the familiar ache in her shoulders and back. As the moon found its mount in the star-infested sky, Imogene’s eyes slid closed.

Hours passed, but when her eyes snapped open, it felt like she had just closed them. She waited. The Beasts outside woke her often, but she knew better than to assume nothing was amiss. There was a thud below her. Something was inside. But how?
You forgot to barricade the back door, you imbecile! Rhett's voice was a loud bellow in her head. Her heart lurched, her gut tightened, and a cold sweat sprouted on her forehead. Fight for flight response urged her to make a choice, to do something, but Rhett convinced her to wait.

Terror squeezing the heart in her chest, she waited. The Beasts were hardly intelligent enough to find the attic, much less find their way inside. And yet…

The attic door whined as it was yanked down. It was a person. Questions bombarded her mind. He must’ve been hiding out in the house, waiting for nightfall, she thought.

MOVE! Rhett shouted, snapping her out of it.

She grabbed the skateboard and her well-worn satchel and squirmed out the attic window just as the intruder clambered into the attic, lunging for her. She heard his roar of frustration at watching her tumble onto the roof. Imogene attempted to stand, lost her footing, and fell through the muggy night air. Her back hit the sun-crisped grass, forcing the air from her lungs and a grunt from her throat.

The panic seeped into her slowly. She was paralyzed by fear, lying in the grass, listening to the sounds of the savage world populated with Beasts salivating, waiting to devour her.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Decklan O'Connell

0.00 INK

The day while sliding right out of his fingers, it seemed. Decklan scratched at his face absently before shoving a dumpster away from the walls of a building, into an alleyway. Nothing. He sighed audibly, rubbing his sunburned neck. It had been weeks since he was last in a city, but this one seemed to be devoid of all useful things. Even a rope could be useful. He could feel the wear of wandering and the bite of loneliness as he kept walking down the sidewalk, kicking the occasional pile of refuse out of the way.

Decklan tightened the straps of his bag across his chest, bending down to sift through a few wooden boxes. Nothing. He stood up on creaking knees and let his shoulders sag. Though his vision was impaired, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his good eye. He didn't alter his behavior, and kept walking down the street slowly, scanning the ground for anything interesting. However, he now listened very closely - catching a step here, a scuff there, and he was certain after a few minutes that he was being followed. Decklan kept his head down, pulling the machete from his hips slowly, as if he needed it to hack brambles out of his way. He wasn't well-armed, but he was strong, even dehydrated and tired.

The wanderer was momentarily distracted from the pursue, by a painted sign on the canopy above a doorway across the street. He looked over the exterior of the building - it was large, and very tall, but the windows on the bottom floor were boarded up sufficiently, and large red x's patterned the wood. He pounded a fist on the board, letting the thumping sound through the entire floor.


After a few moments without a vicious response, Decklan shoved the dull blade of the machete into the jam of the door, ripping off chunks of board and splinters of wood. He landed a solid push from his heel right above the doorjam and the entryway gave with a groan, and slid open. He couldn't read the painted sign above the door, and even if he could, he wouldn't know what the words meant.

The lower floor was mostly empty, and dark without the light from the windows. Decklan let his eyes adjust to the darkness, but stayed within the ray of light shed by the doorway. Stools and chairs littered the floor, and a long counter expanded the back of the room. Behind it, he felt a quiver in his stomach - bottles. Hundreds of bottles. Briefly he thought of drinking himself to death, before pulling the torch from his belt and shaking it quickly to get a better look.

The bar counter was filthy, and so were the bottles, but there they were, unbroken. Cleaner alcohol was useful medically, and it would be a godsend to purge the infection likely growing on his face. To his left, a lower-set area with broken tables, a few splintered chairs, and old plastic electronics. Things were broken from rot, not from intrusion, it appeared. It was rare to find an undisturbed location, even more so in a city. To his right were double doors. The right wing of the room would wait - Decklan skirted the counter and slipped a few small bottles of clear alcohol into his bag, along with what he could salvage behind the counter - cutlery mostly. He resurfaced from the counter and gently, hesitantly pushed his way into the right wing of the floor.

Having never seen a restaurant or kitchen in his life, he was puzzled momentarily by the grimy metal appliances. He didn't let the deduction of his whereabouts linger long, and Decklan was immediately rummaging through drawers and cabinets. In all, he found a large steak knife, a whetting rod, and a can opener. Canned food was almost useless now, and so he left the canopener behind. The knife and whetting rod were as good to find as the alcohol.

It wasn't until Decklan was approaching the doorway that he recalled the tail he'd gained while scavenging, and he hesitated to return outside.

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Post-Apocalyptic Earth

Post-Apocalyptic Earth by MysterySnail

You cannot tell exactly where you are.

The Wilds

The Wilds by MysterySnail

You have left the city.

Inner-City New York

Inner-City New York by MysterySnail

The city towers over you like headstones of a cemetery. The shadows from the buildings engulf the little light that penetrates the spaces between towers.

The Warehouse

The Warehouse by MysterySnail

it is cooler inside the shade of the warehouse. There are a few piles of refuse, but it isn't that bad.

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You can schedule events for your players to create notifications and schedule times for everyone to plan around.

The Forge

Use your INK to craft new artifacts in The Crawl. Once created, Items cannot be changed, but they can be bought and sold in the marketplace.

Notable Items

No items have been created yet!

The Market

Buy, sell, and even craft your own items in this universe.

Market Data

Market conditions are unknown. Use caution when trading.

Quick Buy (Items Most Recently Listed for Sale)

Open Stores

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Post-Apocalyptic Earth

Post-Apocalyptic Earth by MysterySnail

You cannot tell exactly where you are.

The Wilds

The Wilds by MysterySnail

You have left the city.

Inner-City New York

Inner-City New York by MysterySnail

The city towers over you like headstones of a cemetery. The shadows from the buildings engulf the little light that penetrates the spaces between towers.

The Warehouse

The Warehouse by MysterySnail

it is cooler inside the shade of the warehouse. There are a few piles of refuse, but it isn't that bad.

Inner-City New York

The city towers over you like headstones of a cemetery. The shadows from the buildings engulf the little light that penetrates the spaces between towers.

The Warehouse

it is cooler inside the shade of the warehouse. There are a few piles of refuse, but it isn't that bad.

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