THE HIGH TABLE

THE WHISPERING FOREST – THE HOLLOW TRAIL

The hunters awaken in a forest. Bones lie half buried in the mud, and torn weapons hang from the roots. Suddenly, a voice breaks the silence. A pale wizard emerges from the fog. “You didn’t arrive here by chance. Beyond this cursed land lies a treasure hidden from the living. But to reach it, you will have to survive the paths of the dead.” As he speaks, the forest opens up before me.

Two narrow paths appear. One winds towards the pale light of an old camp — we can see still silhouettes around a fire that no longer burns. The other descends into a chasm where the air itself seems to breathe, heavy with murmurs. The wizard smiles, his eyes veiling with a livid glow. «Choose well. One leads to the living... the other to those who envy them.»

!flip Flip the coin.... Left!

I commit to the Left Path—The Hollow Trail. The ground sags under my steps, spongy, saturated with water and ash. Each tree seems hollow, emptied of its sap, their trunks serve as a shell for something that no longer has a name or breath. Between the roots, glass lanterns slowly descend from the fog, lighting up with a flame without heat. It seems like they are watching me.

Further on, a broken stele bears an inscription engraved in haste: “This trail leads to the memory of hunters. Enter poor in spirit, leave empty-hearted.” A figure trembles near the stele—a man dressed in the emblem of the first Order stares at you, his eyes transparent as crystals. "You should have chosen the other route," he murmurs. "Here, the echo of the living ends before dawn."

It’s not a man. When the glow of the lanterns flickers, the silhouette stretches, its skin rips like a tight coat. Under the gray flesh, the muscles palpitate with an ancient hunger. Rotting Wolf — “10 Bullets.” His slightly opened mouth leaves a cold breath, saturated with the smell of iron and earth.

Ten circular impacts mark its side, ancient scars or cursed seals — difficult to say. Yet through every wound, a faint light pulsates, as if trapped souls still breathed in it. He moves forward, slowly, his legs dragging in the mud. His eyes shine with a yellow glow, half-animal, half-human. « The trail feeds me, » he growls in a doubled voice. « And you, traveler... do you still have something to lose? »

The dark breath of the Rotting Wolf swells, heavy as a storm ready to burst. My fingers tighten on the guard of my sword. The metal, cold against my palm, seems to awaken you completely. With a sharp motion, I unsheathe — the blade tears through the fog, capturing the faint light of the lanterns. The monster soars. His broken body writhes with inhuman speed.

dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚄ 5 = 9

I twist my body and drive forward, cutting through the mist like a gust born of vengeance. My sword arcs downward, a streak of silver fire. The impact splits the air — steel meets rotting flesh in a crack of fury. The Rotting Wolf reels back, its scream echoing like stone breaking under lightning.

Wolf receives 4 damages, Wolf HP 6

The howl of the Rotting Wolf clears the mist. His flesh opens at your touch, but instead of weakening, he becomes intoxicated with his own pain. His eyes, two embers drowned in soot, inflamed with animal rage. With a twisted leap, he throws himself at you; his claws hit your side before you can even catch your breath.

The shock cuts you off from the world: air escapes from your lungs, your sword misses slipping from your fingers. A taste of iron invades your mouth while the beast, breathless, moves away dragging a circle of blood around you.

Etienne Moreau receives 5 damages, Etienne Moreau HP 20

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚁ 2 = 6

With a shortness of breath, I straightened my chest despite the burn that devoured my side. The taste of blood sharpened my anger. With a slipping step, I anchor my feet in the soggy earth; my hands, tensed on the hilt, draw the energy of the shock. In a brutal burst, I raise my blade diagonally, dragging it in a cry of steel towards the monster’s gaping throat. The impact is furious: the flesh tears, a dark jet splashes the mist. I turn on myself, pushing the shot to the end of the movement—every fiber stretched to break, every breath charged with power.

Wolf receives 4 damages, Wolf HP 2

The Rotting Wolf wobbles in shock, its legs sink into the mud, but it refuses to bend. A hoarse rattle escapes from his mouth, between pain and challenge. Then, with a burst of pure instinct, he throws himself forward—no longer like a hunter, but like a cornered beast ready to lose everything.

His body twists, his gaping flank drips black blood, and in a desperate gesture he shoots his claw across your chest. The shot no longer has the precision of a stalk: it is a raw outburst, driven by the fear of dying. The air whistles, the impact almost knocks you down, and the burning bite reminds you that the beast, even dying, remains a god in its fury.

Etienne Moreau receives 2 damages, Etienne Moreau HP 18

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚄ 5 = 8

The Rotting Wolf collapses into a rattle that seems to tear at night itself. Under the trembling glow of the lanterns, I plant my blade one last time in his belly, feeling the metal plunge into silence. The beast shivers, then freezes, its eyes turn gray, emptied of all rage. Around us, the mist stops turning; the wind is silent, as if the forest was holding its breath. I pull the weapon out of his flesh with effort. My arm trembles, the blood beats in my temples.

I stay there, leaning over the monster’s body, trying to find an ordinary breath. Every inspiration lacerates me, but little by little, the pain becomes just a proof that I am still alive. I crouch, fingers in the damp earth, and let the cold soothe me, while the silence of the world slowly reappears around me.

Rotten Wolf receives 3 damages , Wolf HP -1

Etienne Moreau did fall an enemy, Etienne Moreau HP 21

The earth begins to vibrate under my steps, a dull pulsation, almost organic. Then the ground cracks, exuding a smell of ash and dried flesh. From this nameless grave emerged a lean figure, sheathed in blackened leather, his weapons clattering like teeth in the cold. The Grave Stalker—13 Bullets straightens his broken back; a smile sliced to the eyeballs. His voice is not spoken, but blown, like a wind from another world: “Thirteen times I killed the revenants of your kind. Thirteen times, their souls begged before they died out. Yours will be the fourteenth—and I will not let a single beat of your heart come down to earth.”

He rolls in his palm thirteen tarnished balls, each engraved with a name that time has almost erased. Then, slowly, he slips them into the cylinder, raising his weapon whose butt still breathes death.

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚅ 6 + ⚄ 5 = 11

I feel as soon as the blade would be useless — his body does not breathe; it has nothing alive to cut. Then I let go of the sword, the tip hits the ground in a muffled noise. My fists close, heavier than iron, and I charge. The Grave Stalker sketches a smile without lips, his chest bows like a shadow ready to embrace me. I knock. My hand passes through his cold flesh like a dense smoke, but it encounters something deeper — a mute resistance, the dead essence that keeps him standing.

Every blow I strike is not against a body, but against a curse. The air is charged with electricity, the wind howls in circles. My anger rises from my womb, raw, animal. The Stalker stumbles under the impact of a final fist in the center of his chest; his laughter is stifled by a gurgle of broken bone fragments. Yet his eyes still shine, gleaming with a promise: that of getting up again.

Grave Stalker receives 6 damages, Grave Stalker HP 7

The Grave Stalker wavers, then straightens up in a too fluid gesture, too silent to belong to a still human being. A crunch rises in his throat, half-laugh, half-moan. Without warning, he rotates his arm, the handgun already raised. Thirteen bullets in the cylinder, only one is enough. The shot leaves a black flash in the mist. The bullet pierces my shoulder; the pain explodes, dry and burning, sending me back against a rock. Before I can even get back on foot, he moves forward, sliding down the ground like a living shadow.

His icy hand grabs my neck, sticking its fingers into my skin like hooks. A second ball hits my side; I feel my forces leaving me, each breath becoming a fight. His dead breath approaches my ear: "You are still breathing. Perfect. Those who suffer the most nourish the earth better." Then he throws me back to the ground, letting me suffocate in my own red heat.

Etienne Moreau receives 5 damages, Etienne Moreau HP 18

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚁ 2 = 5

I clench my teeth, the taste of blood filling my mouth. His grip constricts my throat, icy like the iron from a grave. But under the pain, something rumbles—the raw instinct, the one who refuses the end. My knee rises violently, hitting its torso. The impact resonates with a hollow noise, as if I were hitting an empty envelope. It’s staggering, just enough for me to tear myself away from its grip.

I roll on my side, flay myself against the stone, then I half straighten up, panting. The Stalker is already moving forward, silent, inexorable. With a desperate setback, I throw my fist into his jaw—or what’s left of it. My fist crosses the flesh, tears off a mask of ashes and dust. Then I hit again and again, each blow punctuated by a guttural scream, until I felt my knuckles tear. The air is filled with dark sparks, fragments of its corrupted essence.

The Grave Stalker finally steps back, cracked, his laughter turned into a shadow gurgle. I fall to my knees, exhausted, my breath stuttering, but alive — for now.

Grave Stalker receives 3 damages, Grave Stalker HP 4

The Grave Stalker suddenly lowers, and the silence breaks like a rope. In a second, it melts upon me—a flash of shadow, a cry of scrap and cold air. His claws spring out, long and black, crossing the mist in a snake’s whistle. I try to block, too late: his arm hits my defense, lacerating my forearm before moving up towards my torso.

The shock throws me back, my breath crashes against my bruised ribs. He doesn’t stop: he moves forward, each step fast and smooth, his fingers brushing against the ground as if sliding over his own shadows. With a movement of the hand, he releases one of the thirteen bullets that he keeps in reserve; it does not leave his weapon, it bursts out of the air itself, burning, whistling around my head before exploding against a stone. In the flickering light of the impact, I see him spring straight up on me, his eyes sunk into my face, shining with a glint of corrupted eternity.

He tries to impalment me with his claws, to chain me to the ground like an offering. The roar he utters is nothing like a living scream—it’s a prayer made from ashes.

Etienne Moreau receives 2 damages, Etienne Moreau HP 16

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚅ 6 + ⚄ 5 = 11

His attack strikes me like a storm claw, but in the whirlwind one thing crosses my mind—the memory of an ancient ritual, a whisper heard long ago: the heart of Stalkers does not beat in their chest, but under their throat, hidden behind the knot of their breath. I let the pain guide me. His arm lacerates my flank, but I move forward in the wound, slipping under his attack. My left-hand wraps around his throat, feeling the cold pulsation of this cursed heart, tiny, but vibrant with black energy. So, I strike.

Not with the blade—with my fingers, like a priest breaking an unholy relic. The contact releases a bright light, not white, but purple, dense and trembling. The Grave Stalker utters a rattle—not a scream, a breath of dust. His body freezes. In a single movement, the glow rises to his eyes, then goes out. All the force that animated him dissolves, his armor disintegrates, and he falls into dry pieces, like ashes that one would have carved. I stay there, panting, my hand still burning with the energy it just touched.

The ground gradually closes in on the body of the Stalker, engulfing him as if he had never existed. The mist begins to flow again, silent, and I finally feel the cold of the world returning around me.

Grave Stalker receives 6 damages, Grave Stalker HP -2

Etienne Moreau did fall an enemy, Etienne Moreau HP 21

The night has subsided. The wind is no longer howling; it slips around me like a benevolent mist. My steps are heavy, irregular, each movement makes my wounds pulsate - but this pain no longer weighs me as before. It became a trace, a memory engraved in the flesh, proof that I went through what few would have dared to face. My shoulder is still bleeding, my breath is short, yet I walk straight, my mind clearer than ever. Where fear paralyzed me, it now only reminds me that I am alive. The monsters encountered, the endured darkness, have carved my certainties like stone under the chisel: I am not invincible, but I am real—and that’s enough. The lanterns in the distance tremble, the ground opens onto a new path. The shadows of the trees bend over as if to greet me. I tighten my grip on the guard of my sword, the stained but faithful blade, and continue my way. Wounded, less strong, but finally ready: not to survive, but to choose the next fight.

THE END

Published: 2026-04-09, viewed 47 times.