Stories from the Underworld

The vaulted chamber materialised dimly out of the inky blackness, the flickering torchlight barely caressing those dark walls, as though hesitant. As well it should have been.

"Flee!" the oppressive silence in the chamber seemed to whisper, like an itch. "Flee while you can!"

"Hail, friend!" he called out to the figure shambling out of the gloom. She made an unnatural, gutteral whickering noise and sped up, her right leg protruding at an unnatural angle, sharp talons dripping with menace.

He squinted, shrugged, spat, and drew his sword.

The blackness of the catacombs enveloped them, their only guide the sporadic dripping of water ahead.

An ancient set of stone stairs coalesced out of the murk, rising to a dimly lit stone chamber, all clad in a thick carpet of moss.

A body lay, casually draped upon the stairs.

An old, solitary stone arch stood silently in the field, drenched in the warm sunlight and birdsong of that lazy autumn afternoon.

"How odd", she murmured. Instead of the field beyond, the arch revealed a shimmering mirror image of itself and her; a liminal space between worlds.

They spilled, gibbering, through the breach in the mine wall, flailing & clawing madly at each other, their skin & clothes grubby with dirt. Some still held pickaxes and shovels, yet they were men no more.

“Fire!” came the cry from the inferno cannons; a command and description.

They knew it was over when the shrieking stopped; the silence interspersed only by the dull roar of the flames, and the angry, sizzling hiss of cooking flesh.

The stone wall of the mint fell in upon itself, a growing liquid pool of silver reflecting both fire, and moonlight.

The inferno fuse emitted a deep, bone-shivering thrumming, then spat a long cascade of fiery sparks, trailing wisps of acrid smoke.

"We discovered it in the first incursion", said the acolyte gruffly. "The sparks draw out the Dark Tar, like puss from a wound. Nobody knows why."

She cursed, pulling her boot free from another puddle of that strange, clinging tar. It released its hold reluctantly.

There was something sick with the light here. The usually comforting amber hue of her lantern weakened, flicking erratically through a range of strange colours.

Buttsx69 falters under the rain of blows. He lashes out wildly at the brutish orc with his sword, but is easily swatted away. With a meaty shicking sound & unceremonious grunt, the orc sheathes his ragged blade deep into Buttsx69’s chest.

Buttsx69 has been kicked from the chat

Jordan squinted against the blinding dust. The shadow mage danced madly, her cloak whirling & snapping like midnight smoke, chanting strange words in a long forgotten language. He raised his axe, sighting for a throw, then exploded into black dust.

Jordan has left the chat.

He fumbled with the flint in the dark, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The torch flared, and he raised it high.

The shadows shrunk back as though stung, coalescing. Mute witnesses watched intently from the walls, as the shadow descended upon him with a piercing shriek.

Grotesque sculptures of creatures contorted in agony lined the vaulted walls here, their cries of despair frozen in cool stone. They wept, as an oppressive stillness fell like a shroud.

A nightmare visage figure strode silently forward, clad in tattered black and gleaming brass.