THE HIGH TABLE

THE FORGOTTEN RUINS

“The ruins do not reward the brave… they consume the careless. Choose your path… and let us see if you are worthy to continue.” The whisper dies somewhere above me, swallowed by the dust and the weight of stone.

My pulse drums against my ribs, still quick from the fight in the forest. Two beasts lie behind me, cold and twisted in the mud — but their blood still stains my blade, dark and sticky. I wipe it clean on my sleeve and lift my torch higher. The flame trembles, spilling light over the two archways ahead.

LEFT PATH — THE BROKEN HALL Broken columns lean like fallen giants. Ancient faces carved in stone seem to watch every step. Their eyes follow, hollow and accusing.

RIGHT PATH — THE BLOOD CORRIDOR The walls are marked with claw-scratches and old blood. The air smells of iron and damp dust. Something in that darkness breathes — slow, deliberate. I listen. Only the echo of dripping water answers. My boots leave no sound. I am alone now — and yet, every shadow seems to wait for me to choose wrong. I take a deep breath, feel the weight of my weapon, and whisper to no one, “Let’s find out what waits for the foolish...”

!coin Flip the coin.... right!

I turn toward the RIGHT PATH — THE BLOOD CORRIDOR. The air thickens after the first step, heavy with the stench of rust and damp stone. My torchlight dances across the scratches and dark stains — a story written in suffering. The corridor narrows quickly. Above, something creaks — bone against metal — followed by a long, dry rattle that sets my teeth on edge. I lift the torch.

The light strikes something pale in the dark. At first, I think it’s a statue… until it moves. It drags itself into view, built from broken things: ribs wired together with chain, skulls fused into a grotesque mask, scraps of armor nailed into place like trophies. Its arms end in weapons — a jagged blade on one side, a spiked gauntlet on the other.

The Bone Collector.

The stories said it made itself stronger with every kill, rebuilt from the dead it claimed here. Now its head tilts, the many skulls grinding softly. It seems to listen — to my breathing, to the trembling of my torch. I tighten my grip on the hilt, heart pounding so loud it fills the corridor. I’ve fought beasts in shadowed woods — but this thing… this thing used to be men.

The Bone Collector lurches forward with a sound like the breaking of ribs, and the corridor leaves me no room to run. So, I raise my blade, exhale, and whisper one last time — “If you want more bones… come take them.”

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

The Bone Collector’s Bullets: 15

Etienne Moreau’s Bullets : 25

The Bone Collector’s Attack: 6-5 = 1

The Bone Collector moves faster than I expect. The clatter of metal and loose bones erupts into a screech that fills the corridor. It lunges, dragging its malformed limbs forward with brutal momentum. The blade-arm swings wide — a flash of rust and jagged steel cutting through the air where my head was a heartbeat ago. I drop low, feel the wind of the strike graze my hair, and roll sideways against the wall.

The stones bite through my armor, but the pain keeps me sharp. I hear its gauntlet smash into the floor — a thunderous crack — shards of stone spray across my face. The thing shrieks; the sound is like dozens of skulls being scraped together. It doesn’t think, it just attacks — relentless, mechanical. I duck beneath the second strike, pivot on my heel, and shove my torch straight at it.

The flames lick across its front, catching on scraps of old fabric. For an instant, the corridor glows orange and gold, revealing the monster’s true shape — bones blackened, armor melted into flesh. It reels back, not afraid… just confused. In that space between its ragged breaths, I retreat a few steps and pull the blade up.

My lungs burn, my heart stutters in rhythm with its movements. Every instinct screams to run, but my body knows better: pause, watch, let it strike first. The collector steadies, then tilts its head again — listening. And I realize it’s not tracking sight… it’s tracking sound.

Etienne Moreau's Bullet: 25-1 = 24

Etienne Moreau’s Attack: 6-6=0

I shift my weight, grip the hilt tighter, and launch forward before it can read me again. My boots scrape the stone — a mistake. The sound draws its head toward me instantly, but I’m already in motion, blade cutting upward in a desperate arc. Steel meets nothing but air. The Bone Collector slides aside with an unnatural grace that shouldn’t belong to something so broken.

Its joints click and grind like gears, but it moves as if the ruin itself carries it — precise, inevitable. I strike again — and again. Sparks burst as my sword glances off a shard of bone, but no wound follows. The thing tilts its head, as though appraising a child learning to fight. Then it raises one arm and lets its weapon clang lazily against the wall, a gesture stretched out… deliberate.

The sound echoes like laughter. A low rattle follows, a rhythm made from bones striking together — mock applause. The fragmented skulls that form its face twist in impossible unison, their empty sockets fixed on me. “You mock me…” I breathe, half in disbelief, half in rage. The creature doesn’t answer, but its head dips slightly — a bow, maybe — before dragging one finger slowly across the floor.

Bone on stone. The scraping hum becomes a wordless taunt, a sound that says try again. My grip trembles. The ruin watches. The air seems to close in. But I raise my sword once more — because mockery burns hotter than fear.

The Bone Collector’s Bullets: 15

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚀ 1 = 4

The Bone Collector's Attack: 6-3 = 3

It moves before I can blink. The sound of bone and steel slamming together rolls through the corridor like distant thunder. The Bone Collector straightens to its full height — taller than a man, broader than any creature born of flesh — and steps forward with calm, almost regal precision.

The torchlight glints off its armor fragments, catching the dull gleam of centuries-old blood. It seems to enjoy the moment — the way I tense, the way my feet shuffle backward against the cold stone. Then, with a sharpened twist of its spine, it lunges.

The blade-arm comes first, slicing through the air so close I feel the force ripple across my cheek. Sparks explode as the weapon scrapes the wall behind me. I pivot, barely — but it’s already turning, following, fluid and confident. The next strike isn’t meant to kill. It’s a feint, a test. It wants to see me struggle.

Each movement carries a sort of pride — that terrible pride found only in things that know their own power. It circles me with a limping gait that somehow feels deliberate, the sound of bone joints echoing like laughter across the stone. Then the creature stops — lifts its twisted head — and opens its jawless maw.

No sound comes out at first, only a brittle hiss… and then, deep in the dark hollows of its throat, a mocking rattle begins. A hunter’s amusement. A warrior acknowledging prey that refuses to surrender. I steady my breath, trying not to give away the terror pounding through my ribs. But the way it watches me — patient, proud — I can feel it thinking: You fight well, little one. But not well enough.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 24-3=21

Etienne Moreau’s Attack: 6-1=5

It comes at me again — faster, prouder, convinced it already owns this fight. The air behind its swing hums from the force. This time, I don’t retreat. I let the blade whistle past, close enough for it to taste victory. I twist under its arm, feeling the jagged edge tear a line through my shoulder, but I’m inside its reach now. The creature hesitates — too confident, too slow to adapt.

That’s when I drive my sword upward, between the plates of its scavenged armor, where fragments of spine meet the mess of ribs. The strike sinks deep, metal ringing against bone. For the first time, the Bone Collector falters. A sound erupts from its chest — a grinding bellow that shakes the walls, half animal, half storm. Its body convulses, bones clattering as if trying to tear themselves free.

I tear my blade back, scattering fragments of shattered ribs to the floor. The thing straightens, trembling, and slams one clawed hand against the wall — rage and disbelief twisting its features of skull and steel. Its head jerks toward me; one of the fused skulls falls loose, cracking against the stones.

The howl that follows is no longer mockery — it’s wounded pride. It fills the corridor, a sound steeped in agony and fury, vibrating through the ruins like the voice of the dead calling for vengeance. I raise my weapon again, chest heaving, the heat of battle burning through the fear. For the first time since entering this cursed place… the hunter bleeds.

The Bone Collector's Bullets: 15-3=12

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚅ 6 + ⚂ 3 = 9

The Bone Collector’s Attack: 6-6=0

The Bone Collector roars and surges toward me, fury overriding reason. The corridor trembles under its charge; shards of broken armor fly with every step. Its blade arm swings wide, a brutal strike meant to cleave me in half. But the wound I left burns deeper than it knows. When it twists to strike, the broken ribs grind against the plates, a chorus of cracking bone echoing through its chest.

The movement falters — sharp, jerky. The blade misses by a breath, carving sparks from the wall instead of flesh. The recoil sends the creature staggering. It slams its clawed hand against the stone for balance, leaving a trail of blood that steams in the torchlight. I can see the pain ripple through it — a shudder that travels down its spine like lightning.

The once-proud posture collapses, shoulders trembling under the weight of its own broken frame. Its head snaps toward me in defiance, fractured skulls twisting into something that resembles a snarl. Yet its next step falters — a stuttering half-motion, as if the fury drives it forward but the agony denies it the strength to continue. For the first time, the Bone Collector looks almost mortal.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 21-0=21

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-3= 3

Its swing goes wide, the blade screaming against the stone — and I see it. The motion, the pause, the tiny hesitation that splits its strength in two. The pain is eating it alive. I charge before it recovers. My boots hit the cracked floor, slipping on dust and blood, but I don’t stop. The distance closes in a heartbeat.

I bring my sword high, feeling every muscle burn from the strain, then drive the blade downward — straight into the crevice I tore before. The steel plunges deep. A crunch, a crack, then a wet, splintering sound as bone gives way.

The Bone Collector screams — a sound that doesn’t belong to anything living. The force of its rage sends a gust of heat and dust through the corridor. Its arms thrash wildly, crashing into the walls, scattering fragments of skulls that fall like pale rain around us. I twist the blade, wrenching it free, then slash again across its side. The torchlight flashes in the spray of thin black ichor.

Its movements become erratic, furious but broken — each strike weaker, each roar shorter. It stumbles backward, crashing against a column with enough force to crack it in two. For the first time since entering the ruins, I’m not retreating. It is. My breath rasps in the smoky air, my arms trembling with both fear and anger — but I don’t lower my weapon. Because this time, the sound filling the corridor isn’t mockery. It’s the sound of something proud… realizing it might fall.

The Bone collector's Bullets: 12-3= 9

!dice 2d6 Roll the dice... ⚁ 2 + ⚅ 6 = 8

The Bone Collector's Attack: 6-2=4

I take a step forward, blade still raised, ready to finish what I started. The Bone Collector is slumped against the wall, its breaths coming in ragged, rattling waves. For a moment, I think it’s over — that the fight has finally drained the last spark of life from this thing stitched from death. Then its fingers twitch.

A subtle movement — small enough to miss, but my instincts flare too late. The creature surges upward with terrifying speed, fueled by rage, not strength. Its ruined arm swings low, catching me off guard. The impact slams into my chest, sending me sprawling backward across the stones. My sword clatters from my hand.

Pain bursts through my ribs; the air leaves my lungs in a broken gasp. Before I can rise, the creature looms again. The damage hasn’t slowed its will — its pride keeps it alive. It lashes out with its clawed hand, smashing down where my head was a second ago. The blow leaves a crater in the stone floor. Thousands of bone fragments scatter across my face like shrapnel.

The heat of its fury hits me as it slams its arm down again and again — each miss closer than the last. I roll aside, heart hammering, dust choking my breath. The monster’s howl fills the corridor — no longer pained, but furious, wounded pride turned to vengeance. I can't reach for my fallen weapon with trembling fingers. My advantage is gone. The Bone Collector is fighting on sheer will now — and it wants, above all else, to drag me down with it.

Etienne Moreau's Bullet: 21-4=17

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-6=0

I try to move, but nothing answers. My arms feel like lead, my lungs burn from the dust and the blows. The sword lies just out of reach, glinting faintly in the torchlight — so close, yet impossibly far. The Bone Collector towers above me, silent now. Its movements have slowed, but its presence has changed — no longer rage, but certainty.

The kind that only comes to something that knows it’s already won. I can see the ruin’s ceiling crumbling above it, dust swirling down like falling ash. My mind races, searching for strength, for a gap, for anything. But the truth settles heavy against my chest: I have nothing left to give. Every breath is a battle.

The pain drags me into the stone beneath, whispering that it’s time to stop fighting. My journey through this cursed passage feels like it’s dissolving here — every victory, every breath since the forest, meaningless before this thing built from death and pride. I think about the words that greeted me at the gate — The ruins do not reward the brave… they consume the careless. And for the first time, I wonder if courage was just another way of being careless.

The Bone Collector's Bullets: 9-0= 9

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚂ 3 + ⚀ 1 = 4

The Bone Collector's Attack: 6-3=3

The Bone Collector leans forward, its shadow stretching across the floor until it swallows me whole. The air thickens — I can taste the iron in it, sharp and hot. The creature’s chest heaves, the jagged gaps between bones glowing faintly in the flicker of my dying torch. Then it attacks. With a guttural sound, it drives its blade-arm down in a furious arc.

The strike hits the stone beside my head, tearing deep into the ground, sending shards and dust into my eyes. The impact shakes the corridor; the ruins themselves seem to groan. I flinch, but before I can move, it comes again — faster, heavier. The clawed hand slams toward my ribs, scraping metal against flesh. I twist, pain exploding in my shoulder; the blow grazes instead of landing true, cracking the wall behind.

The rhythm of its fury becomes mechanical — strike, recoil, strike, strike again — like a machine powered by rage and the need to finish what it started. Each impact rains splinters and echoes. The space shrinks until only its madness and my breath remain. I see the hollow eyes behind the skull-mask, and for a fleeting instant, I swear there’s triumph in them — the joy of a predator that knows it will feed. It raises its blade one final time, the motion deliberate, confident. The ruin’s air hums around the edge — and I understand in that moment that this strike is meant to end me.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 17-3=14

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-1=5

The blade comes down, and I roll sideways — more by chance than strength. The strike shatters the floor beside me, scattering fragments of stone across my chest. My sword still lies too far away, gleaming faintly in the dust. My fingers close around something rough — a broken piece of the wall, sharp at one end, heavy like a jagged shard of bone. I don’t think. There’s no time for thought.

Only movement. I rise halfway, bleeding, and drive the stone forward with everything I have left. The blow lands against its chest where the ribs meet the armor plates. The sound is sharp, brutal — stone grinding against bone.

The creature jerks back, more surprised than wounded. The torchlight flares across its form as it bends toward me, the unnatural joints creaking in protest. I swing again, wild and desperate, smashing the stone against its shoulder. This time there’s a crack — a fracture spidering along one of the fused bones. It reels, emitting a guttural hiss, a sound between rage and disbelief.

The jagged edges of the stone tear at its frame, sending small fragments flying. I press forward — screaming now, because silence feels like death — and strike once more. The impact drives it a step backward. Its blade arm thrashes but misses; its clawed hand hits the wall instead, pulverizing another section of stone. For the first time since the fight began, I see its posture falter — not from pain alone, but from doubt. A creature built from the corpses of warriors, shaken by a piece of ruin.

The Bone Collector's Bullets: 9-5=4

!dice 2d6 Roll the dice... ⚅ 6 + ⚀ 1 = 7

The Bone Collector's Attack: 6-6=0

The Bone Collector roars, the sound echoing like a storm trapped in stone. Its body lurches forward, bones grinding, shards falling from its chest. It raises its weapon arm again — but the strength that once made it terrifying is fading. I see it too late, but not too late to act. The movement is heavy, sluggish, a battle between power and pain. Its blade carves a slow arc through the air, slicing dust and smoke, but the force is mistimed — the timing broken by the wound I left behind.

I shift aside, letting the blow rush past me. The wind of it grazes my face, hot and foul, but the steel finds nothing. It crashes into the wall with a deafening crack, sending shards and sparks flying through the corridor. The creature’s imbalance pulls it forward. The weight of its own weapon bends its frame, forcing it down onto one knee. Its breath comes out in short, grinding bursts, a furious chorus of frustration. I step back, chest tight, every instinct screaming to move — yet I can’t help but stare.

The monster looks slower, older. The arrogance fades, replaced by the staggering fatigue of something caught between life and ruin. But it’s still dangerous. I can see the fury burning in the hollow sockets as it tries to rise again — slower, weaker, but not done.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 14-0=14

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-1=5

The Bone Collector stays down, caught between motion and collapse. Its wounded arm shakes, the blade scraping uselessly against the ground. That sound — once terrifying — is now the sigh of something that knows it’s losing. I don’t wait. I grip the stone tighter, my fingers slick with sweat and blood, and I charge. The distance between us vanishes in an instant. I drive the improvised weapon straight into the hollow of its chest, where the cracked ribs gape like the mouth of a dying beast.

The impact rings out — a dull, final vibration that travels through my arm and up into my bones. Then the sound changes: a series of sharp snaps, deep and wet, one after another, like a chain breaking link by link. The creature spasms. Its spine arches violently, an unnatural shudder racing through the tangled mess of bones and stolen armor.

The glow in its chest — faint and cold — flickers once… then dies. I step back as the structure begins to unravel. The first bones fall loose from their bindings, hitting the ground with hollow clacks. Then more follow — vertebrae, ribs, skull fragments — collapsing in a scattered rhythm, as if gravity itself reclaims what was stolen.

The armor plates crumble next, dissolving into brittle flakes that melt into dust before touching the floor. For a few seconds, the air fills with a pale haze of drifting ash and bone dust. The shape that once towered over me disintegrates, piece by piece, until all that remains is a mound of gray residue and a silence so deep it presses against my chest. I lower the stone. My breath trembles out of me, ragged and heavy. The ruin is still again — nothing left of the Bone Collector but fragments, returning to the dust from which it was built.

The Bone Collector's Bullets: 4-5= -1

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 14+3=17

The silence feels heavier than the fight itself. My body trembles, every nerve screaming. Blood seeps down my arm, sticky and warm, tracing the edge of a dozen small cuts. My shoulder throbs where the creature struck; every breath feels like a knife pressed just beneath my ribs. I stumble to one knee, drawing shaky air into my lungs. The torch flickers beside me, barely holding on — like I am.

My hand goes instinctively to my belt, fumbling past the pouches until I feel the cool glass of the vial the village magician gave me before I left. “For when your spirit falters more than your body,” he’d said. His voice echoes faintly in my memory as I uncork it. The potion glows faintly, a swirling mixture of deep gold and pale blue. The smell is sharp — like wild herbs burned with honey — and it stings my nose even before I drink.

I hesitate only a second, then raise it to my lips and swallow. Warmth spreads through me at once, but not gently. It’s a rush — fire under the skin, light in the veins. My vision blurs, the world bending for a heartbeat; then the pain recedes, pulled back as if the potion tears it out by the roots. My heartbeat slows, steadier now, and the trembling in my limbs fades to a dull hum.

I can feel the strength returning, old wounds sealing just enough to move again. But more than my body, it’s my mind that clears — the haze of fear lifting, replaced by something sharper, calmer. For the first time since entering these ruins, I can stand without the weight of dread pressing my shoulders. The Bone Collector is gone. I live. Still, the fading glow in the vial worries me. No magic lasts forever — and this path, I know, is far from finished.

Etienne Moreau's Bullet: 17+3=20

I push myself to my feet, the warmth of the potion still coursing through my body like quiet fire. My breathing eases, steadier now, though each movement cracks against tired muscles. The torchlight stretches thin across the corridor, shadows creeping back into corners the fight had seemed to banish. I take a slow step forward. The air has changed — colder, but alive. It vibrates with something… waiting.

My instincts, dulled by exhaustion, begin to sharpen again. There’s a rhythm here, faint but certain — the subtle scrape of claws against stone, the whisper of displaced air. Then, a flicker. A shape in the dark — low, long, and fast. Before my eyes can focus, it’s gone. A rush of wind brushes my side, and I feel rather than see it — the presence, the force, the promise of death in motion.

I spin, blade half-raised, but there’s nothing behind me. Only the fading echo of a snarl, as if the breath of the creature itself mocked my slowness. Shadow Beast. The name surfaces from memory — a legend whispered by hunters, a predator not of flesh, but of absence. Said to move in and out of sight, feeding on fear and hesitation.

The torch flickers again. In that split-second of darkness, I see it clearly — eyes like silver embers, a lean, black shape merging with the walls. When the light returns, it isn’t there anymore. My pulse quickens. The potion steadied my body, but now it betrays me — every heartbeat feels too loud, too sharp. Somewhere in the shadows, the thing breathes — one slow inhale that feels like it’s testing me.

!dice 2d6 Roll the dice... ⚁ 2 + ⚄ 5 = 7

The Shadow Beast's Attack: 6-2= 4

The silence snaps — not breaks, snaps. A gust of air tears past my face, and something strikes before my thoughts can even form. Pain blooms along my side, sudden and blinding. The force spins me off balance; my shoulder hits the wall with a crack that steals the breath from my chest. The torch tumbles from my hand, its flame bursting then dimming across the floor.

Shadows twist and coil around me. I barely see it — a blur of movement, sharper than memory, faster than sight. For an instant, two luminous eyes flare in the dark, and then they’re gone. Another hit — claws scrape my forearm, cold and deep. I try to raise my sword, but the creature is already gone. My senses can’t catch up; every motion feels a heartbeat too late. I turn toward the sound — only to find emptiness.

My breath echoes too loud in the narrow space, masking everything else. The corridor becomes a trap of sound and fear. Then, a whisper of wind behind me. I spin, but the attack has already landed. A heavy impact against my back hurls me forward to the floor. The armor creaks under the blow; heat flares across my skin. The world tilts. I taste blood, dust, and something worse — helplessness. The beast moves like a shadow cast by thought alone, here and gone between heartbeats. I don’t even know whether it’s still near me, or just waiting for the next chance to strike.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 20-4=16

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-5=1

I stumble backward, blade slick in my grip, breathing too fast to think. The darkness shifts again — a hiss, a blur, then claws flashing toward my throat. I react without seeing. I bring the sword up blindly, guided only by instinct and the sound splitting the air. Steel meets flesh — not deep, but enough. There’s resistance, a tear followed by a sharp, guttural cry.

The Shadow Beast recoils, its silver eyes flaring wide for a heartbeat before vanishing into the broken dark. A faint smear of dark blood glistens on the edge of my blade — proof that it can bleed. I press a hand to my chest, panting, trembling, half in disbelief that the strike found its mark. The air reeks of iron and fear.

Somewhere in the shadows, the creature circles slower, its steps less confident now. The silence between us changes — no longer pure dominance, but wary anger. It growls low, the sound reverberating through the walls, promising it will return — and that next time, my luck will not save me.

The Shadow Beast's Bullets: 18-1=17

!dice 2d6 Roll the dice... ⚄ 5 + ⚃ 4 = 9

The Shadow Beast’s Attack: 6-5=1

The silence breaks again — a rush of air, the whisper of claws cutting through the dark. I pivot just as the Shadow Beast lunges, faster than thought, its form splitting the torchlight into fragments. Instinct moves me before reason. I duck low, twisting to the side. The creature’s strike still finds me — a grazing blow along my arm, sharp enough to draw blood, shallow enough to remind me that I’m learning its speed.

Pain flares, brief and biting, but I stay upright. I turn just in time to see the beast vanish again, a blur melting into dust and shadow. Its rhythm is erratic, yet now I can feel the hint of pattern — the pause before it moves, the faint tremor in the air that betrays the direction of the next attack. My pulse pounds, matching the rhythm of its movements. I raise my sword higher, my stance lower, no longer blind — just waiting.

The shallow wound stings, warm blood tracing down my forearm, but it’s proof that this time, I survived the strike mostly intact. The beast circles slower, the glow of its eyes flickering in the gloom, uncertain whether I’m prey… or beginning to fight back. For the first time, I feel a flicker of control — fragile, but real.

Etienne Moreau's Bullet: 16-1=15

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-4=2

The torchlight trembles, and I can almost sense where it will strike next. The air folds inward, the faint ripple of movement revealing its path for the briefest instant. I act before doubt ruins the chance. My blade cuts through the darkness, sharp and desperate — straight toward the shadow that flickers near the ground.

For a moment, I feel contact: the edge meets flesh, resistance surges up my arm, followed by a low snarl that shakes the air. But the wound is shallow, quick — nothing fatal. Just a spark of pain that drives the beast faster. It leaps back instantly, its sleek form blurring out of reach. The silver eyes flare, wide with fury, not fear.

My breath catches; I can’t tell if I’ve wounded it or only angered it further. A thin line of dark blood stains the floor — proof, but not victory. The Shadow Beast tilts its head, watching me through the gloom, low growls rumbling like thunder gathering behind a storm. I tighten my grip on the sword, realizing too late that small wounds aren’t enough. Against something that vanishes between heartbeats, every weak strike is an invitation.

The Beast Shadow's Bullets: 17-2=15

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚄ 5 + ⚄ 5 = 10

The Beast Shadow's Attack: 6-5=1

The Shadow Beast doesn’t wait — its fury unfolds in silence. It moves so fast that the world seems to blur around it. One moment, it’s a shimmer in the corner of my vision; the next, it’s upon me. I raise my blade, but the strike comes from below — claws slicing across my thigh, sharp and precise.

Pain bursts like fire, my leg buckling under the sudden weight. I stagger, the torchlight spinning sideways with my fall. The creature doesn’t linger. It flows past me like smoke, a flash of black muscle and silver eyes, cutting another line across my back as it disappears again. The wounds aren’t deep, but they rob me of strength — each one stealing another fragment of motion, another breath.

I drop to one knee, the rough stone biting into my palms. My sword feels heavier than before, the potion’s warmth fading as blood replaces its strength. The air itself seems to pulse with the beast’s presence — circling, waiting for me to crumble completely. The echo of its snarl hums through the gloom — not victory yet, but confidence. It knows I’m weakening. And I can feel it too — as if every heartbeat costs more than I have left to give.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 15-1=14

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-5=1

My breathing rasps against the stone. The pain burns deep, but my fingers still cling to the sword’s hilt — one last thread of resolve refusing to break. The Shadow Beast circles again. I can feel it, moving with quiet precision around me. Every heartbeat seems to draw it closer, every flicker of light a warning. I lift my weapon, slow and trembling, the weight almost unbearable. When it lunges, I act without thought — a short, clumsy swing, more survival than skill.

The edge meets the creature’s flank, just enough to cut through scales or skin. It cries out, a sharp, furious sound that pierces the air. But the blow lacks strength. It’s a shallow cut, nothing more. The beast barely slows; it twists away, the light catching the slick glimmer of its dark blood before it melts back into the ruins’ gloom.

My arm drops. The impact sent a shock through my shoulder, leaving it numb. The torchlight wavers, as if even the fire can feel my fading energy. The creature prowls again, slower this time — cautious, but not afraid. It knows the truth I’ve tried to ignore: my strikes have grown weak, and all I have left is endurance.

The Beast Shadow's Bullets: 15-1=14

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚀ 1 + ⚀ 1 = 2

The Beast Shadow's Attack: 6-1= 5

The Shadow Beast doesn’t hesitate. It bursts from the darkness like a living blade, all speed and intent. I barely turn before it’s on me — claws flashing, eyes burning with liquid silver. The first strike hits my side — deep, tearing through cloth and flesh. The pain is raw, sharp, immediate; the air leaves my lungs in a gasp that turns into a cry. I stagger backward, trying to raise my sword, but the creature is relentless.

Another blow follows, harder than the first. It slashes across my shoulder, the claws scraping bone. My hand goes limp; the sword slips, clanking against the stone floor. My knees buckle. It moves past me in a blur, the air curling with its speed. When I turn, its tail lashes out, a whip of shadow that cracks against my chest, sending me crashing into the wall. The sound of impact drowns out my heartbeat; dust fills my mouth, gritty and metallic with blood.

My world narrows — just darkness, pain, and the sound of the creature breathing, slow and deliberate. I try to rise, but my body refuses. Every movement sends shivers of agony through the torn muscles. Warm blood spreads down my ribs; the floor beneath me feels slick. The Shadow Beast doesn’t finish me yet. It circles once more, watching, proud and patient, savoring the sight of strength fading into helplessness.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 14-5= 9

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-1=5

The pain blinds me, but not completely. Beneath it, something still burns — a stubborn spark refusing to die. My breathing is ragged, my blood too hot, but I can still move. The Shadow Beast prowls closer, ready to strike again. Its growl vibrates through the stones; its confidence is almost visible, a living shadow feeding on my weakness. I wait — just a fraction of a second longer — until it’s near enough that I can feel the wind of its movements.

Then I act. My hand shoots forward, not for the sword I dropped, but for the broken piece of armor lying near my knee. When the creature lunges, I twist aside and drive the jagged metal upward, straight into its flank. The resistance is sudden and solid — then a sickening crack. The beast screams, a high, tearing sound that shakes the corridor. Its claw slashes across my back in retaliation, deep enough to steal my breath, but I don’t let go.

The improvised weapon bites deeper, dark blood spilling over my hands. The smell is sharp, acrid — more smoke than life. The creature jerks, thrashing in pain, dragging me with it. I tear the shard free and collapse to the floor, half-blind from the effort. The Shadow Beast stumbles away, limping, its breathing harsh and uneven. I can see the wound pulsing black where the metal pierced it. It’s still dangerous, still alive… but now, as broken and injured as I am. For the first time, we’re equals — two predators bleeding into the same dust.

The Beast Shadow's Bullets: 14-5=9

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚅ 6 = 10

The Beast Shadow's Attack: 6-4=2

The Shadow Beast breathes hard, each exhale edged with pain. Its silhouette trembles in the torchlight, the wound along its flank glistening dark and thick. The fury in its eyes has dimmed, replaced by something colder — endurance, vengeance held in restraint. It circles again, slower now, its steps leaving faint streaks of blood across the stone. The snarl that rises from its throat is quieter but sharper, like the hiss of a blade leaving its sheath.

Then it strikes — not with the wild speed of before, but with purpose. Its claws rake across my arm as I raise it to block; the blow isn’t deep, but the pain flares bright, reopening a wound that had only begun to close. I flinch, stagger a step back. The creature doesn’t press forward — it watches, testing, adjusting. The movement is deliberate, patient, cruel in its control.

Another swipe follows, slower, more precise. The claws catch the edge of my armor, tearing away fragments of leather and chain. Sparks burst, and the sound is maddening — not an assault born of rage, but of precision, a predator savoring the art of weakening. It’s hurt, yes, but still dangerous — still capable of cutting me down, one deliberate wound at a time. I tighten my grip on the shard of metal, breathing through the pain. Neither of us rushes now. The corridor feels like a heartbeat waiting to stop.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 9-2= 7

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-6= 0

My arms feel heavier with every breath. Each time I try to lift my weapon, it trembles, the weight of it threatening to pull me down. The warmth of the potion is long gone; in its place, a cold ache spreads through my bones. The Shadow Beast moves in that slow, wary circle, its silver eyes fixed on me — patient, calculating. I can see its wound still bleeding, but I know the truth: it has the strength to endure.

I don’t. My knees falter. The stone beneath me feels soft, almost welcoming, as if the ruins themselves are inviting me to rest. My pulse pounds in my ears, louder than the creature’s motions, louder than thought. For the first time since entering these halls, a whisper of despair seeps in — quiet but relentless. You’ve come too far to fall here, I tell myself, but the words sound distant, hollow, like someone else is saying them

 try to steady my breathing, to focus, but the edges of my vision pulse and blur. Every drop of blood that falls feels like a piece of my will leaving with it. The beast watches, waiting, knowing. And as I grip the weapon tighter, one truth settles in my mind — not fear, not panic, but an almost calm acceptance: I might not win this fight. I just don’t want to die running.

The Beast Shadow's Bullets: 9-0= 9

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

The Beast Shadow's Attack: 6-3=3

The Shadow Beast tilts its head, as if finally deciding the game has lasted long enough. Its breathing deepens, a low, rhythmic growl vibrating through the corridor like the echo of a storm. Then it moves — not fast like before, but steady, confident. Its claws scrape the ground once, a warning, before it crosses the distance between us in a single, fluid stride.

I try to lift my weapon, but the motion is too slow. My muscles scream; the sword rises only halfway. The creature’s strike lands across my chest — sharp and heavy, a clean line of agony. The impact sends me backward, staggering into the cold stone. I feel the breath leave my lungs in a gasp that turns into silence. It follows through, driving its shoulder into me with crushing force.

The air trembles from the blow; the wall cracks under the weight of my body. Pain floods every nerve — heat and pressure and the cold sting of blood dripping down my side. My vision flashes white, then dims. The beast steps back, watching. There’s no fury now, only certainty — the cold precision of a hunter finishing its prey. It lowers its head slightly, growling low, as if to ask if I will try again. I can barely stand, the sword trembling in my grasp. Yet even as my knees threaten to give, I raise it — half instinct, half defiance. The Shadow Beast growls once more, preparing the next strike.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 7-3=4

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-1=5

My legs barely answer. The world tilts — walls shifting, light flickering like water over the stone — yet my grip tightens on the sword. The Shadow Beast crouches, ready to finish it, muscles coiled, eyes burning with quiet triumph. I know I can’t outmatch its speed. My body is too slow, too broken.

But I don’t need precision — only a single heartbeat of defiance. When it leaps, I push forward instead of backward, meeting death head-on. The sudden motion seems to startle it; the silver eyes widen, the rhythm of its attack faltering for the briefest instant. I drive my sword upward, shouting through clenched teeth. The blade catches its chest at an awkward angle — not clean, not deep — but enough to cut through flesh and shadow alike.

A burst of dark blood sprays across the stones, hissing as it touches the air. The impact throws me aside. I crash to the ground, pain exploding through every limb. My vision darkens, sounds blur, but above the ringing in my ears, I hear it: a snarl twisted into something that almost sounds like pain… or anger at being touched by weakness. I try to lift my head.

The creature reels, staggering a few steps back, clutching the spot where the sword found purchase. The wound isn’t fatal — not yet — but it cost it something. And though I can barely breathe, a flicker of grim satisfaction steadies me. If I am to fall here, at least it will bleed with me.

The Beast Shadow's Bullets: 9-1= 8

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚅ 6 = 10

The Beast Shadow's Attack: 6-4= 2

The Shadow Beast straightens, its growl deep and strained, dark blood streaking its chest. The wound I gave it burns bright in the torchlight — but so fait la rage dans ses yeux. It leaps again, quicker this time, its pain turned into momentum. The claws strike across my side, ripping flesh already torn. The shock makes me stagger, my sword slipping from my grasp to clang against the floor.

I try to catch it — too late. Another blow follows, heavy and merciless. Its shoulder smashes into mine, the impact numbing my arm completely. I stumble backward, feeling nothing but heat and pressure and the dull thunder of my heart. My breath rasps, shallow and fast. My body feels less like mine — each command delayed, every movement dragging through a fog of exhaustion.

Blood drips down my thighs, my chest, pooling at my feet. The creature’s rhythm is steady now, deliberate. It doesn’t kill me outright; it dismantles me. Each attack takes another fragment of strength, another spark of will. I feel it with every heartbeat — my world shrinking, my vision darkening at the edges. I lift my arm one last time, but it trembles violently.

The sword wavers like a dying flame. My fingers lose their hold; the blade falls. The torchlight flickers low. My body barely stands, bending under its own weight. The Shadow Beast circles me again, slow and sure, knowing the end is close. I can still see it — those silver eyes, cold and calm — watching as the fire in me fades.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 4-2= 2

Etienne Moreau's Attack: 6-6= 0

I refuse to fall. My legs shake, my chest burns, but I force myself upright. Every fiber of my body screams in protest, yet I bend down, fingers trembling, and grasp the sword’s hilt once more. The blade feels impossibly heavy, as if the ruin itself weighs upon it. The Shadow Beast turns its head toward me — those silver eyes almost curious. It doesn’t rush. It waits, letting me try.

I breathe once, twice, and lunge — a clumsy, broken motion. The sword crashes against its side, but the strike has no strength left behind it. The edge scrapes over its black hide, sparks flaring uselessly before dying in the dust. The creature doesn’t even flinch. It steps back smoothly, more out of caution than pain, watching as I swing again — weaker, slower. Each blow I land makes no sound but the thin whistle of air and dull contact against armor too hard or flesh too fast to wound.

My breath becomes a series of ragged shudders. My arms feel distant, detached. The blade slips more than it cuts. The Shadow Beast growls low — not in anger, but in disappointment, as if my resistance isn’t even worthy of its rage. It moves closer, my blade striking feebly against the void of its shadowed shape. Each hit confirms the truth: my sword no longer hurts, my strength no longer matters. I am striking fear itself — and fear does not bleed. My grip loosens. My body sways, the weight of the weapon dragging it down. Still, I keep trying — because stopping would mean accepting that the battle is already over.

The Beast Shadow's Bullet: 8-0= 8

!dice 2D6 Roll the dice... ⚃ 4 + ⚂ 3 = 7

The Beast Shadow's Attack: 6-4=2

The Shadow Beast moves forward slowly, his silhouette swaying in the dying light of the blaze. Each step echoes in the stone like the beat of a foreign heart. Then, in a flash, it disappears. The air splits. A squall brushes against me—and suddenly, the pain explodes. The claws hit my chest in a sharp, precise movement, tearing flesh and metal in one gesture. I waver, the blade slips off my hands, breath torn from me by the shock. Before I can react, a second strike comes, lower, aimed at the leg.

The muscles give way, my knees crash into the ground. The monster reappears in front of me, mass of breathless shadow, eyes of liquid metal fixed on my throat. He breathes slowly, savoring every second of my fall. Then he brushes against me, almost softly, tracing from the claw the line of my shoulder to my side—a caress that burns and bleeds at once. A low rumble rises from his chest. The sound fills the corridor, heavy, vibrant, full of an unbearable certainty. I step back, on all fours, the hot blood on my hands. The world pitches, the light twists. And in front of me, the Shadow Beast stands up again, ready to strike one last time, sure that from now on, nothing can stop him.

Etienne Moreau's Bullets: 2-2=0

The Shadow Beast stands before me, silent now. Its silver eyes narrow, glowing faintly like dying stars. The corridor feels smaller, the air thick with iron and dust. I try to lift my sword again, maybe for one last swing, but my body no longer obeys. The weapon slips, hitting the ground with a hollow echo that sounds strangely final.

The beast moves. One step, then another — and then it vanishes. The air screams. Pain bursts through my chest as its claws pierce deep, cutting through what remains of my armor, through flesh, through breath. The world tilts; sound becomes dull. I feel myself falling, weightless for an instant before the stone catches me. My blood spreads outward, warm at first, then cooling too fast.

The creature stands over me. I see only its silhouette, sharp and broken against the fading torchlight. It breathes once — slow, certain — and then turns away as if the battle is already forgotten. My vision blurs. The ceiling above me dissolves into light and shadow.

The ruins feel quiet again, almost peaceful. My fingers twitch, reaching for a sword that no longer matters. The warmth drains from my body; my heartbeat fades, soft and distant. I think of the forest, of the whisper at the ruin’s entrance: The ruins do not reward the brave… they consume the careless. And then, everything slips into silence.

THE END

Published: 2026-04-13, viewed 51 times.