Journey to the Darkest Dungeon

Entering the Ruins

Into the tune's weird melody seeped a quiet wailing. First, it seemed to come from the box, but as it grew louder, it began to form words. "Stop that.. music!", the lamenting cries grew louder and echoed all around the room, before turning from a moaning into a wild shouting. "STOP THAT MUSIC!!" Dismas had long taken the finger of the crank, his eyes dashing all across the room looking for the source of the screaming, but was unable to make out the thing sitting atop one of the bookshelves. At least not before it lept from its perch and swept Dismas off his feet, knocking him to the ground violently. His head struck against the pavestones and before the thought of self-defense could even arise in his mind, the highwayman found himself numbed and incapacitated. Dazed, he looked up at his attacker - the thing perched atop him pinned him to the stony floor with insurmountable force. Through his hazy vision he quickly recognized the shape of a man. Donning a ragged white shirt and with eyes deep and black and crazy. A bald head, a sunken face, a leathery pale skin stretching over his bones. In panic, he shoved against the assailant, then reached for his knife, but the man  simply knocked it from his hand. That abyss in his widened, gaping eyes. Dismas could not look away. Transfixed and pinned, he saw the man open his mouth for another cacophonous scream. Then, with the shrill reverberations piercing his eardrums, he watched in horror as a mass of black clouds blew forth from the mans throat, joining his horrid scream.

Immediately, the wall of sickening smoke crashed against Dismas' horrified expression, he felt the whirling clouds rush and push against his skin and finally begin to seep through it. The feeling of powerlessness was unspeakable, not possible to put into words. The final layer of protection from the outer affects, the thing separating that which is you from that which is not, broken. Rendered ineffective against the wails of this horrendous half-human creature. In an utter gut-stirring panic Dismas violently struggled against the madman's grip, but was powerless against the demonic strength in his bones. As he was once again ruthlessly pushed against the stone floor, he felt the mans unspoken wails flush through his head. The particles of his delirium flooded into his skull into his mind and for a brief moment, Dismas could understand him. Suddenly, he could understand the rapturous, voiceless language the man was speaking, the seemingly random wails and shouts and outbursts of rage. He saw what he was seeing. The words and images of horror, loss and wordless cruelty. Stories of worlds annihilated in the blink of an eye, lives extinguished - washed away by a tide of unstoppable, supreme and inconceivable motion. Listless motion, untouched by and ignorant of the primal fear and destruction they wreak upon those in their wake. Washing away those before and those within with no effort or intent. As the images became more and more manifest, each muscle in his body contorted into a state of unsustainable tension. Is that what the man in the white shirt was feeling at every moment? Eyes widened in shock, this swirl of blackness felt like an eternity. As if the torrenting forces he now found himself within had taken him in and would never let him go.

With an ugly, shattering crack, the monstrous charade ended. Struck by a heavy gauntlet, the maniac was flung off of his victims body, landing on the floor next to him. Blood came spurting and pouring from the laceration at the side of his head. A boot kick kept him down and evoked from the man a squeal quite pitiful. Before he could stabilize himself once more, a bullet pierced clean through his forehead. With an ear-piercing crackle, bits and pieces of the man's head splattered on the wall behind him and his body fell to the floor lifelessly. Dismas, still shaking, holstered his gun with jittery, unsteady fingers. "Foul beast", the crusader screamed. The vestal rushed to his side. With a look of quiet worry she beheld the highwayman. "Are you alright?". Dismas gave no response. Still facing his attackers corpse, his gaze wandered into an endless distance.

"What in the lights name was that?" Reynauld murmured through clenched teeth. The vestal could hear the hatred dripping from his words. He stood over the mans corpse, prodding it with his sword, "what manner of satanic corruption does this to a man?". For a moment too long the crusaders eyes locked with the lifeless black gaze on the mans face and a shuddering sensation hushed through his body. Quickly, he turned away. Dismas arose from the floor and leaned up against the table. Reynauld looked at the rogue and even through the tiny slits within the crusaders helmet, Dismas could sense a brooding fear. "What was that smoke?" he finally asked. Dismas did not know how to respond. "I don't know" he returned, his voice flat and devoid of affect. "Do you need medical attention?" the vestal kindly repeated her earlier query. She was met with an expression of confusion. Offense almost. "I am quite alright."