INKBORN

A COMIC THAT IS BEING ERASED You wake up inside a comic. Paper underfoot, ink lines, halftone dots in the sky. And the page is shrinking. An eraser chews inward from the edge, day after day, and whatever it reaches is simply gone. No weapon, no tools, no camp. You have a sketchbook. That is the whole plan. YOU DRAW WHAT YOU NEED There is no crafting menu. You open your sketchbook, and on the page are grey guide lines in the shape of an axe. You trace them by hand. And then you are holding an axe. Nothing snaps your line onto the guide. That part is you, and the page can tell how well you did. INK IS EVERYTHING One resource, and it is inside all of it. Every stroke drinks it. Every glyph. Every obelisk costs a lot. Enemies splash ink when you land a hit. At night it rains ink, which tops you up and chills you at the same time. PUSH THE ERASER BACK Nine obelisks stand on the page. Walk up, hold the key, pay the ink, and the eraser gives up thirty metres. That is the only language it understands. Let a day pass without re-inking one and it comes closer. SURVIVE THE NIGHTS Hunger, thirst and warmth drain the whole time. Your tools crack, then break. The Unfinished come out after dark, and nobody coloured them in. Build a shelter that holds, or draw yourself a bed and sleep through it.