While in the crumbled temple at Big Rock...
Dirt scanned the half-collapsed chamber, lit dimly by the pale green light that filtered in through cracks in the stone ceiling. Dust floated like lazy ghosts in the still air. Broken columns, half-covered frescoes, and piles of rubble told the story of a place once sacred and long forgotten. He grunted, brushing cobwebs off his shoulder and muttering, “I know these door kickers didn’t look hard enough.”
He dropped to his knees, fingers combing through the dirt, prying up cracked tiles, tapping hollow stones, sniffing around like an old bloodhound chasing secrets. The other party members had given this room all of five minutes before deciding it was empty. But Dirt wasn’t like them. He knew something was here.
Fifteen minutes later, sweat streaking the grime on his forehead, his confidence had started to wobble. Maybe I was wrong... He sighed, standing and brushing dust off his knees.
That’s when he heard it.
A scream, shrill, panicked, and all too familiar, cut through the silence like a bone saw through tendon.
“Yipee,” he muttered, frozen for only a moment before instinct took over. Without a second thought, Dirt bolted down the cracked hallway, boots thudding against ancient stone. Dust rose behind him as he charged, rounding a corner just in time to see a blur of brown fur and blood-streaked cheeks racing toward him.
Yipee’s eyes were wide with raw terror, and her cheek had been slashed open, still bleeding fresh. She didn’t even see him as she barreled past.
And then it came.
The thing that followed her was straight out of a madman's nightmare, cattle-sized, carapaced, glistening black with a sheen like oil in torchlight. It had eight thick tentacles waving and twitching around its bulk like blind snakes tasting the air. Its eyes were small but many, clustered in a twisted circle on its head, all locked onto Yipee.
Dirt stopped cold. Every drop of courage he'd mustered dissolved.
“Nope!” he gasped, and turned tail.
The echo of his boots mixed with the wet slap of tentacles behind him. He caught up with Yipee in seconds, short legs could only do so much, and as he passed her, he glanced down.
Memories hit him like arrows.
The time she dragged his near-dead body from a collapsed mine shaft.
The night she shared her only ration with him, even when her stomach growled louder than his. The time she took a cursed dart meant for him without hesitation.
She’d never once run from him.
Dirt cursed under his breath. “Damn it, you little demon,” he muttered. He skidded to a stop, turned back, scooped Yipee into his arms mid-run, and heaved her through the nearest half-open stone door. She tumbled in with a squeal and a yelp, out of danger for now.
He turned.
The beast was almost on him.
He drew his short sword with a metallic shing! and let out a yell that was part war cry, part terrified whimper. With one last breath, he swung at the creature.
But he was too slow.
The tentacles struck first. One lashed across his chest with a crack like breaking ice, sending waves of numbing cold into his limbs. Another wrapped around his ankle, another his arm. His muscles seized as the cold took hold, his joints locking.
He collapsed mid-swing, sword clattering to the floor.
Flat on his back, Dirt’s eyes stared upward. He could still see the creature looming over him, shadows flickering in his wide, unblinking gaze. He could hear Yipee screaming from behind the door, her muffled voice echoing off the stone.
The fight raged on, Yipee having scrambled out again, dagger in hand, shrieking like a cornered badger. She leapt onto the creature's back, stabbing wildly.
But Dirt couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
He was a prisoner in his own body, frozen, helpless, and wide awake in the cold, cursed temple hallway, with only the sound of battle and the beating of his heart to keep him company.
- Synica Melton
- Art by Runehammer