This piece is based on the events of the last Dystopia Rising game I went to. Dystopia Rising is a Post Apocalyptic Zombie game put out by the amazing people at Eschaton Media. This story is about my original character, Rahab.


She sat in the grass staring at the town around her. Everyone was bustling and busy preparing for their trip to Devil’s Den. Even the scarf quartermaster had asked her to join. Offered to baptize her into the faith.

She looked through the threads of the mask over her eyes and down at her green skinned hands. Purple colored veins snaking up her arms. She was so confused. The things she had learned while in this necropolis were nothing like the teachings of that one who led the caravan. She could still hear that one preaching to her.

As an abomination, you can never be baptized. You will always be damned. The most you can hope for is that you don’t drag anyone down with you.

Weren’t all the Fallow Hope like that?

I don’t think you’re damned, Rahab. If you ever want to be baptized, find someone who can write a letter to me and I will find you a priest.

It’s not my place to decide if you’re damned.

Except the Fallow Hope that were up and visiting the Grove. They had both welcomed the possibility of Rahab’s entry into the faith. It almost felt strange. Just as strange as the town’s acceptance of the tribal traditions she had held on to. The one who led the caravan could not get her to stop addressing her history as the ancestors. This town needed a moment to understand what she was referring to when she discussed the ancestors, but they did not get angry with her for addressing “the gravemind” in this manner. Whether or not someone felt it was a good thing or a bad thing did not matter. Everyone who passed on joined it. Her family was from it. The one who had driven the caravan was angered by the term, but here, once they understood, they did not question.

The one who led the caravan made it very clear that she was an abomination. The ancestors’ gifts of the mind were a sin. Her very existence was a sin. But the only one in this town who even came close to agreeing with that was the town Graverobber.

You’re not supposed to exist. You’re an abomination.

Was he a Fallow Hope like the caravan? Was he a Fallow Hope like the quartermaster and the Colonial? Was he something else?

She had come to this necropolis to try and understand her place and maybe find the caravan who had been taking care of her. The caravan was not here. And the people here seemed to be okay with the things her tribe had once spoken on.

Should she try to remember the things she had been taught as a child? Was that a sin? Was she damned or not?

Her visit had only brought more questions. She would have to ask them when everyone returned from their trip to theĀ  Devil’s Den.