deathmark

when you die, your things don't scatter and burn and blink out on a five-minute clock. a blast-proof grave stands where you fell, holding everything you carried, and it opens for you alone — it hands its contents over on a click and never so much as creaks its lid for anyone else.

with it, a compass that points the way back. no coordinates screamed into chat, no corpse run against a timer. the walk back is still the walk back; it's just no longer a gamble.