You wake with your lungs already burning.
The sun above you is a pale smear, too bright to look at but too distant to offer warmth.
Your arms are heavy. Your legs—gone beneath the surfaceThe sand has you. It isn't sand like you remember. It breathes. It flexes when you twitch.
It drinks your strength in sips so small you barely notice—until it's too late.
This is the Drownfield, where time is not counted in minutes, but in motion.
Every second you delay, you sink deeper. Every heartbeat you hesitate, you vanish further into the earth's maw. You don't remember how you got here. No one ever does. You only know what the whispers tell you:
You don't remember how you got here. No one ever does. You only know what the whispers tell you:
“Struggle, or be taken.”
So you move. A finger. A breath. A single word scratched into the silence. Each one a desperate claw toward the surface.
Each one a plea to the nameless desert that has already decided what you are worth.
You will not die screaming. You will not die resting. You will die only if you stop.
And if you don't?
You might just earn the right to see the sky again.
But first—
struggle
And struggle again.
And again.
Until your mind forgets why you started.
Until your body forgets what stillness feels like.
Until the sand, begrudgingly, lets you go.
Or buries you forever.
You'll type -struggle.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each time you do, you resist the pull of the Drownfield—the sentient quicksand that clings to your body, weighs on your breath, and whispers for you to stop. Every -struggle command is a motion. A gasp. A refusal to surrender.
You must reach 500.
There are no tricks. No shortcuts.
Only endurance.
You may rest. You may hesitate. You may leave and return.
But remember: the longer you wait, the stronger the sand grows.
And the more it wants you.
Only those who reach 500 will be freed. All others vanish beneath the surface.
Get out of the sand
Don't get out
4 echo's if 70% or more of the venue clears