Misbegotten world

Chapter 15: The hunters journal

The girl stood there, her wide eyes searching his face, as if trying to understand why this armored stranger seemed so terrified. Her innocence was out of place in these cursed halls, and Vartos felt an overwhelming sense of unease, even as his fear ebbed. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a low rasp.

"Are you... the missing girl?" he asked, his grip tightening on the sword, unsure of what to expect. His instincts, honed through years of battle and hunting, warned him that things weren't as they seemed.

The girl tilted her head, her expression blank. She didn't answer.

Vartos knelt slowly, lowering his sword but keeping the torch between them, casting an orange glow that flickered against the damp stone walls. "It's not safe here," he whispered, extending a hand toward her. "We need to leave."

Still silent, the girl took a step closer, her small, bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. She reached out her own hand, her fingers pale and trembling as they moved toward his. But just as their hands were about to meet, Vartos felt a sudden, sharp chill shoot up his spine. His blood froze as the whispers returned, louder now, more menacing.

The girl's eyes darkened, her innocent face twisting into something sinister. Vartos recoiled, stumbling back as the air around them grew thick with a suffocating darkness. The girl let out a low, hollow laugh, a sound that echoed off the walls like the wail of the dead.

"You shouldn't have come here," she said, her voice no longer that of a child, but something ancient, something full of malice.

Vartos' heart pounded as the catacomb began to shake, dust and stones falling from the ceiling. He stood, sword raised, as the girl's form began to shift and warp, her once-human features stretching into something grotesque. Her body elongated, skin paling to a deathly gray, her eyes glowing like embers in the dim light of the torch.

Suddenly, shadows erupted from the walls, the whispers now deafening, filling Vartos' head with nightmarish voices. The girl—no, the creature—let out a screech, her mouth stretching impossibly wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

Vartos stepped back, gripping his sword as the darkness around him seemed to pulse and come alive. Whatever this creature was, it wasn't human, and it had been waiting for him. The lost girl was no more than bait.

"Leave!" the creature hissed, its voice crawling inside his mind. "You have no place here, blood hunter."

Vartos' heart raced, but he steadied his breathing, tightening his grip on the sword. He had fought many things in his life—demons, wyverns, monsters born of dark magic—but this was different. This place was alive with malevolence, and it wanted him gone, or worse, dead.

"You took her form," Vartos said, his voice low but defiant. "But I'll cut through whatever you are."

The creature lunged at him, its long, twisted fingers reaching out like claws. Vartos swung his sword in a wide arc, its blade glinting in the torchlight. The steel sliced through the air, meeting the creature's flesh with a sickening squelch. It screeched, recoiling as black ichor dripped from the wound.

Vartos didn't wait. He pushed forward, his sword flashing again as he slashed at the creature, driving it back toward the shadows from which it had come. But the whispers grew louder, more frantic, as if the catacomb itself was fighting against him.

The walls seemed to close in, and from the corners of his vision, Vartos saw more shadowy figures creeping toward him, their eyes glowing like the girl's. He was surrounded.

Gritting his teeth, he backed toward the entrance, his mind racing. He had to escape, had to find a way out before the catacombs claimed him. But the creatures were closing in, and the exit seemed impossibly far away.

Then, he remembered the medallion.

Without hesitation, Vartos reached for the dwarven medallion hanging around his neck. Clutching it tightly in his hand, he whispered a prayer to whatever god might be listening and thrust the medallion forward, hoping that the dwarves' magic could save him.

A sudden burst of light erupted from the medallion, blinding the creatures and sending them reeling back, screeching in pain. The shadows retreated, and the whispers died down, leaving only the sound of Vartos' ragged breathing.

The way was clear—for now.

Without looking back, Vartos bolted toward the entrance of the catacomb, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't stop until he was out in the open air again, the cold mountain wind biting at his face. The snowstorm had cleared, and the dawn light was beginning to break over the peaks.

Vartos fell to his knees, exhausted, the medallion still clutched in his trembling hand. He had survived. But whatever that creature had been, it wasn't over. Something far worse lurked within those catacombs, and he knew he would have to return.

But not yet. Not today.

For now, he would rest. But the whispers... they would follow him. They always did.