Continuing Forward

They descended the crumbling stairs, each step echoing ominously in the vast, subterranean chamber below. The air changed again, growing heavier, damper, carrying a new scent – something musky, feral, and vaguely reptilian that made the hairs on the back of Sorken's neck prickle. 

Azim reached the bottom of the stairs, his boots crunching on unseen debris, and casually traced a gloved hand over the cold, damp stonework. Nothing happened for a heartbeat, then another, then, with a low, grinding groan that vibrated through the floor and up their spines, another gate, hidden seamlessly within the stone wall, slid open.

Queek… queek… queek…

The sound was faint at first, almost like the chirping of insects, but it grew rapidly, rising in volume and pitch, becoming a chorus of high-pitched, unsettling clicks and chitters that echoed off the unseen ceiling of the vast chamber. 

Then, without any further warning, without any gradual build-up, a bloodcurdling shriek tore through the air, a sound that was pure, unadulterated terror, a sound that promised pain, promised death, promised something far, far worse than either.

Darkness erupted. Not just the oppressive gloom of the ruin, but a living darkness, a swirling, leathery mass that seemed to boil up from the very depths of the chamber, a swarm of creatures pouring forth from the shadows, blotting out the already meager light. 

Azim reacted instantly, a flicker of movement, a muttered word of power, and jets of violet flame erupted from his outstretched hands, blasting outwards, striking into the swarm, driving several of the leathery creatures back with sudden, searing bursts of magical fire.

But it was too late. The swarm, vast and overwhelming, erupted so fast that the men barely had time to even register the threat, let alone react in any meaningful way. Razor-sharp talons, like curved knives of bone and shadow, sliced through clothing, through leather, through exposed flesh with sickening ease as the creatures, dozens, hundreds of them, dove from all directions, a living wave of teeth and claws and shrieking fury.

"Stay down!" Jorah bellowed, his voice raw, a desperate command lost in the rising tide of chaos. "Stay down, you fools! Stay down!" But there was nowhere to stay down to. They were surrounded, engulfed, overwhelmed.

Kesta cried out, a high, thin shriek of pure agony as fangs, impossibly sharp, impossibly strong, clamped down on his wrist, bone meeting bone with a sickening crunch. Snarling, snapping beasts, lizard-like but twisted, deformed, wrong, grappled him to the dusty floor, their combined weight pinning him, crushing the air from his lungs. He kicked violently, his legs flailing, his boots scrabbling against the stone, feeling hot, slick blood gush down his arm, staining his clothes, the floor, the very air itself with the coppery scent of fear and pain. 

"Gods, help me!" he screamed again, his voice cracking, breaking, a desperate, futile prayer lost in the rising cacophony of shrieks and snarls and tearing flesh. "Gods, please help me!"

Sorken stood frozen, paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming horror of it all. He couldn't understand, couldn't process, couldn't even react. His mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by terror. He had nothing. No magic, no weapons, no training, no hope. Nothing he could use, nothing he could do to help his friends, to help himself, to even slow down the onslaught. 

Their cries, Jorah's roar of pain and fury, Kesta's thin, broken screams of agony, echoed in his ears, sharp and piercing, each one a fresh stab wound to his soul. Helplessness, cold and crushing, gripped him, a vise around his heart, stealing his breath, stealing his will, leaving him utterly and completely paralyzed.

If only… if only I had something… anything… The thought flickered through his mind, a desperate, futile wish, a longing for some impossible weapon, some mythical power, something, anything, that could turn the tide, that could save them from this living nightmare.

But there was nothing. There was only him, unarmed, untrained, utterly and completely vulnerable. And there were the beasts. And there were his friends, being torn apart alive. And there was Azim, standing back, watching, doing nothing. And there was only the crushing, overwhelming, suffocating weight of helplessness.

He still decided to jump. Not towards the beasts, not towards any imagined hope of victory, but just… anywhere. Just move. Just do something. Even if it was useless. Even if it was suicide. He couldn't just stand there, frozen, and watch his friends die. He had to try. He had to. Regardless of the outcome. Regardless of the cost. He had to move.