The Lord of Carrion, devourer of mankind, met his end screaming.
Its throat tore open beneath my blade, spewing its foul blood across my once-pristine face.
The sound it made was nothing like the roar of the prideful beast it had once boasted to be.
I find it amusing, hilarious, even. Witnessing this sight, my eye feels a strange bliss.
Its cries satisfying, bringing euphoria to my ears.
Sounded with decay and ruin, just like the kingdom he ruled over. It was the sound of a thousand flies buzzing in a final chorus, as if mocking a man's cry, and for that, he paid dearly. Believe the words of this humble man.
The noise rolled through the chamber, rattling against the stone walls, and for a heartbeat I thought the ceiling itself might give way and bury me beneath its weight.
For when it fell, its body convulsed once and then lay still. The whole air seems to hang itself in that moment, thick with warm blood and the stench like of rotting corpse.
The smell made my stomach turn. For it was horrible, a smell I can't describe to you. But for the sake of awareness, insight I tell you.
It was the stink of meat left under the sun for too long, a stench that burrowed under the skin of the dead one.
I wanted to look away, but my eyes remained fixed on it. I wanted to gag, but my body had nothing left to offer.
For I have suffered a hunger mankind couldn't endure.
But it wasn't all bad, not bad at all, because this hell came with its rewards. Oh, the rewards, my mouth waters just thinking about them.
The reward arrived, as it always does.
At first it was nothing more than a slow warmth. Then it spread, like molten iron flowing under my skin, burning along my bones and into my blood. I ground my teeth against the pain. The dungeon does not give without taking first. It always takes. It takes in agony and in bone and in breath. When it was done, something had settled inside me, coiling there like a living thing. It felt wrong. And yet it made me stronger. My fingers tightened around the hilt of my sword without thought. I hated it for what it was, and yet I could not deny the truth of it.
And then I heard it again.
"Choose your reward."
The options it offered:
Call someone from outside for help.
Or
The Power of the Fallen.
The voice had no shape, no breath, no sound of lips moving. It was there in the air itself. It was the dungeon speaking, or something deeper, older. I have stopped trying to guess what it is.
But sometimes I call it a friend.
Of course, he doesn't know it, but if he could read minds, he might.
I sank to the cold stone, letting my back rest against the wall. My breath came in ragged rasping sighs. Sleep would be a mercy, but I know the dungeon never allows rest. Its silence is not silence at all. The air breathes here.
Even now I hear it, the slow drip of water somewhere deep in the dark, the faint skitter of something too small for eyes to see.
But worse than the noise is the choice that waits for me.
"The Call."
I named it, for it a fate that wants to bind with me. A destiny I am forced to fulfil against my will.
I feel despair when I hear it, for it calls me even when it knows, I am not a hero.
For I am worse.
Please someone stop it, it makes me mad, drive me insane.
It hangs there before me, like a thread I could grasp, a single line out into the world above.
I do not know if it truly reaches anyone, or if the dungeon toys with me. I do not know if answering it will bring salvation or draw me deeper into this place.
Still, I know I must take it. If I do not, then I have spilled my blood in vain.
For that it's the only way I knew.
It is strange to say, but the fighting is the easy part. I have been killing since I was sixteen, steel in hand, orders in my ears, coin in my pocket. I was a mercenary then, nothing more, nothing less. Some called me renowned. I never liked that word. Renown never fed a mouth. It never turned a blade aside. And yet it followed me. It clung to me, wherever I went, drawing the gazes of others towards me.
I came here for coin and glory. A noble's promise. Bring proof of the dungeon's heart and name your price. I took the contract without thought. Fool that I was. I brought thirty others with me. Men and women with families, with hope in their hearts. Hope is a dangerous thing. They are gone now. Every one of them is gone.
I still see their faces when my eyes close. Their faces in the dark. Their screams that never stop.
Sometimes I wonder if I survived because I was stronger, or if the dungeon spared me because it had a use for me. Perhaps I am its chosen rat. Perhaps it feeds on me, as it feeds on all who come here.
Now I look at the shimmer ahead. The faint, strange light that means my chance is waiting. My fingers twitch toward it though I try to hold them steady. I could call anyone. A king, a beggar, a stranger, even myself long gone. I could warn them that this place is alive and hungry, or I could call someone I have not heard from in years, if only to prove I am still here.
My throat is dry, but I speak anyway.
"First call." The words scrape out of me like screeching carts with jammed wheels, My voice is rough, ragged cutting my own throat, it stings.
"Let's see if anyone answers."
And with that, I reach toward it.