Franz and Henryk stepped from the shadows into the amber glow of the firelight, their footsteps landing softly upon the cold stone and masked by the crackle of the flame. Franz removed his gaze from the dormant bodies surrounding the campfire and turned his head back towards the chamber’s entrance; even in the stygian darkness he recognized the lithe and fidgety form of Uriah beside the hulking figure of Boris, who stood a foot above most men and at twice their bulk. His eyes returned to the fools ahead, a xanthous grin forming across his face as they drew closer. Franz counted three sleeping bodies alongside an unfurled bedroll and a coffer from which the soft glisten of poorly concealed treasure winked at him. Though his gaze remained firmly on their loot, he could not help but question the state of their quarry and what this strange party sought in these aged and dusty ruins.

The rag-and-chain dress of one of the men, as well as the coin and jewels in their possession told Franz that much like himself and his companions, these fellows sought the riches of the ancient dead. But he recognized the beaked mask of a physician and the robes of a foreign mystic, which could have meant a less avaricious pursuit was at hand. And for what reason had they brought a spare bedroll? Or was it meant for another who had been felled by the things that lurked in the shadows? Perhaps—

Suddenly, his thoughts were shaken by the draconic roars of a discharged pistol and blunderbuss that echoed from the chamber’s entrance. As Franz turned to face the commotion, a thunderous blast of noise and radiance filled the air and revealed the scene in the hall. The light had been fleeting, though he was certain of what he had seen. Boris held one hand above his eyes, the other raised in a defiant but futile effort of self defense. His opponent was no walking corpse nor flesh-warped cultist; it was certainly a man and yet he could not discern any humanity beneath its steel gaze and dark attire. They were visible for but a moment, yet Boris’ screams—cut short and culminating in a wet thump—had been enough to illustrate a grisly scene in Franz’ head.

“Plan’s gone amuck boss, what now?” asked Henryk, daggers drawn and raised in a tense grip.

The rest of this dastardly crew had arisen from their slumber. His widened eyes met the foreigner’s iron gaze; it was a blank slate with neither fear of death nor hatred for his assailants writ upon it, instead bearing the cold stare that made Franz feel as if he’d peered into the abyss itself. His mind steeped in dread, he failed to sidestep the chirurgeon’s glass which shattered upon impact with his arm. Though the shards could not pierce his sleeves, the acid hissed as it tore through the cloth and ate away at his flesh. Franz allowed himself only the comfort of an anguished grunt through his gritted yellow teeth.

He could hear the foreigner begin to drone in a strange language that was alien but not in the way the robed man himself was; the harsh syllables were strung together in a tongue that was harsh to the ears and almost certainly not of man. As he continued his vile chanting, the campfire dimmed and the ground beneath Henryk parted like a torn fabric and revealed not dirt but a strange carmine void as if reality itself had been torn asunder to reveal the unearthly substratum beneath. In one fell motion, he raised his skull-lantern and as he did tentacles rose from the tear and wrapped themselves tightly around poor Henryk. The bandit struggled and thrashed against their eldritch grip, but naught was achieved save for the squandering of his vigor; bondaged and exhausted, he could do little more than scream as an unsightly scene began to play out in front of them both.

An anguished howl erupted from the chain-wrapped madman, his hands clutching his head as if it were soon to burst. His veins took on a sickly yellow hue as his skin turned a hellish red. Horns began to sprout, tearing through his scalp in a bloody ebullition of skin and hair. What was but a mere moment ago a wretched and craven looking man was now some misshapen devil, fangs dripping with a strange ichor as it set its bestial gaze upon Franz. His wits had fled him, and his legs failed to take after them as the monstrous thing threw itself toward him and sent him flying out of the chamber and into the darkness of the hallway, crashing first into the stone wall before falling limp upon wet flesh.

Franz hadn’t opened his eyes, and yet from the size of it he already knew whose corpse he had landed on. His entire body was enveloped in a throbbing ache while a sharper pain stabbed through his chest and elbow that only worsened as he scrambled to lift himself up from Boris’ corpse. The ring of steel upon steel echoed in his ears as he witnessed the silhouettes of Uriah and the helmed man clashed, the gunman catching each of his assailant’s blows with the barrel of his blunderbuss.

Boris was dead with Henryk soon to follow, and Franz was far too wounded to help Uriah fend off the three others who would soon emerge from the chamber to help their companion. Treasure and riches be damned, if he stayed now it would only afford him passage into hell. Mustering the remnants of his vitality, the wounded brigand broke into a mad dash, knocking into a body he hoped wasn’t Uriah’s. He stumbled as he ran, but never lost speed as he sprinted headlong into the darkness, hands outstretched so that he may feel the walls and corners before crashing into them. It wasn’t until he noticed the stars above him that he began to slow down, the adrenaline wearing off and giving way to a burning sensation in his legs. He groped around aimlessly, finding neither wall nor column in his surroundings and finally Franz allowed himself the luxury of collapse upon the cold hard ground beneath him.

As he stared into the void, he wondered to himself if it was a seasonal phenomena that gave the night’s sky its purple hue. The answer revealed itself in a distant wailing, inhuman and most certainly not even of this world. With neither the strength nor will to rise and fight, or even lift his head and face his doom, Franz reached for the dagger in his belt and pressed the cold metal against his throat. He was certain that for his sins he was to spend a thousand lifetimes burning in the Light’s flame, but even an eternity of fire seemed more merciful than even another second of this abyss.

“Light take me, please” he whispered, closing his eyes as he sealed his fate in one swift and final motion.