Chapter IV – The Pit

The abyss within the creature's jaws widened, a pulsating, tooth-lined gullet that promised annihilation. Each fang, slick with a foul, viscous drool, shifted and writhed. The air throbbed with the reek of ancient rot and the metallic tang of death. Grimm's kick against the tentacle was a meaningless gesture, a fly's defiance against a swatter. He could almost taste the creature's vile breath as it dragged him closer. 

With a surge of feral desperation, he aimed the shotgun deep into the creature's throat and fired. The roar of the blast was swallowed by the creature's answering shriek, a sound that seemed to crack the very stones. A bloody geyser erupted, painting the charnel pit in a sickening crimson. The tentacle's grip loosened, the tendrils twitching in death throes. He wrenched his boot free, the slickness of gore making each step a precarious slide towards the ladder, a desperate climb out of the maw of oblivion. 

A sickly orange glow blossomed along the pit's edge, each flare a predatory gaze watching his every move. Torches, carried by shadows that moved with a disturbing purpose. From the tunnels, a chant crawled into the air, a low, rasping litany that scraped against his sanity: "Wendigo... Wendigo..." The name, a poisoned whisper, filled the crypt. Above, a silhouette emerged, crossbow held aloft, the tip igniting with a malevolent flicker. The pit's rim transformed into a circle of lunacy, eyes burning with feverish zeal, the chant a constant, maddening drone. The air throbbed with their devotion, a suffocating shroud. The reality was a cold blade against his throat: the beast, or the horde. There was no retreat, only a desperate stand against the encroaching abyss. 

The creature's shriek was a psychic violation, a sound that seemed to scrape against the very core of his sanity. The cultists' chant swelled, a savage, exultant chorus: "Gnm'oth! Gnm'oth!" The creature's name, a profane invocation, filled the reeking chamber. Grimm's hands moved with practiced speed, the shotgun's barrels snapping open. His fingers grazed the remaining shells in his pocket, each one a precious, dwindling resource. 

The tentacle struck, a gray, pulsating whip that sought to crush him. He dodged, his body slamming against the slick, decaying corpses. A wave of gleeful shrieks washed over him from the gallery as Gnm'oth's attacks pulverized the remains beneath, each impact a sickening crunch of bone and ruptured flesh. A sharp, venomous hiss cut through the din. A stick of dynamite, its fuse glowing red, landed with a soft thud against his boot. His eyes narrowed, the world slowing as he launched himself away. The explosion detonated, a violent eruption of gore and shattered bone, accompanied by the cultists' ecstatic cries. 

The force of the impact slammed Grimm against the stone wall, the air leaving his lungs in a ragged gasp. "Shit," he growled, the taste of blood and dust thick on his tongue, as he staggered back to his feet. His eyes, narrowed slits of fury, scanned the perimeter. Cultists, their faces contorted in manic glee, produced sticks of dynamite like grotesque offerings. Gnm'oth's roar, a guttural bellow of rage, shook the very foundations of the crypt. Another tentacle, a slick, gray whip, smashed against the wall, leaving a glistening, obscene mark on the pulverized stone. Grimm fired, the metal fragments tearing through the creature's hide, eliciting a roar of pain. The answering lash of the tentacle was a brutal counter, another crater forming in the stone. Gnm'oth's maw, a cavern of bloodied teeth, gaped wide. Grimm aimed, the shotgun's report echoing through the chamber. A bloody geyser erupted, painting the air in a crimson mist. The cultists' chants rose, a chorus of feral delight. 

Damn it all, how do I kill this thing? The question clawed at his mind, a desperate plea in the face of overwhelming horror. Then, the hiss of fuses, three sticks of dynamite arcing through the air. He dove, the explosions ripping through the silence, each blast a concussive wave. Gnm'oth's cry, a sound of agony and rage, filled the crypt. Grimm's gaze, sharp and calculating, fell upon a mangled tentacle, a gaping wound torn by the cultists' reckless explosives. "Fools," he muttered, the word a venomous whisper against the rising tide of their chants. 

Shik! Grimm's eyes snapped to the gallery, a flaming arrow arcing towards him. He twisted, the burning tip searing his arm, a raw, agonizing brand. "Aaargh!" His scream, a primal cry of pain, was swallowed by the cultists' slithering cheers, their chants echoing like a death knell. He gripped the wound, his gaze fixed on the arrow, now a pyre embedded in a corpse. The flames licked at the dead flesh, a growing inferno. Kill it. Now. His finger found the shotgun's break lever, the spent shells ejected with a metallic clatter. He reloaded, the fresh rounds cold against his skin, and snapped the barrels shut. 

The fire intensified, a ravenous beast consuming the pit, joining the cultists and Gnm'oth as a triple threat. The creature roared, its tentacles a storm of destruction, pulverizing the corpses beneath. Grimm moved like a wraith, dodging and weaving, seeking a sliver of opportunity. Then, another stick of dynamite, a harbinger of death, landed at his feet. An idea, sharp and brutal, ignited in his mind. He lunged, snatching the dynamite moments before detonation. The leather of his gloves tightened around the stick, and he hurled it into Gnm'oth's flesh. Boom! A geyser of gore erupted from the creature's back. The monster's tentacles slammed down, a furious, desperate assault. Grimm's legs coiled, then exploded, launching him onto the creature's slick hide. He aimed the shotgun's barrels into the raw, gaping wound. Boom! A tidal wave of blood and bone splattered across the creature's back. He leapt away, landing on the slick corpse heap just as another stick of dynamite arced from the crowd. This is it. His legs propelled him forward, his hand grasping the dynamite in mid-flight. His head snapped up, his body twisting, and he hurled the explosive into Gnm'oth's gaping maw. Ka-boom! The creature detonated, a visceral explosion that sent Grimm crashing against the stone walls, painting the crypt in a grotesque tapestry of blood and bone. 

Grimm stood over Gnm'oth's ruin; the silence heavier than the beast's roars. A leaden silence descended upon the cultists, the air thick with the stench of gore and their shattered faith. Their sentinel, the grotesque Gnm'oth, lay in ruins. Grimm's breath rasped, a ragged echo in the sudden quiet, each exhale a testament to his brutal struggle. The cultists, their eyes wide with fear, retreated from the ledge, the realization of their vulnerability a stark, chilling truth. Grimm straightened, his chest heaving, his gaze a burning brand that seared through their ranks. A primal roar, a declaration of dominance, ripped from his throat, shattering the silence. He turned, his boots striking the slick hide of the fallen beast and launched himself onto the platform. His landing was a brutal impact, the crushing sound of bone and flesh a visceral testament to his wrath. The cultists scattered, their panic a swarm of shadows fleeing the torchlight. Grimm's eyes, narrowed and predatory, followed their retreat. 

"Gloria Wendigo!" a voice, cracked and feral, ripped through the silence, a blasphemous hymn that ensnared the cultists in its deranged melody. The cultist's hand clutched an antlered trinket as the words spilled forth. The mob's eyes, glazed with fanaticism, locked onto Grimm, their mouths chanting "Wendigo, Wendigo," as they surged towards him, a tide of gray and brown cloaks. Grimm's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising tide of his rage. He roared, dropping the empty shotgun, a guttural challenge, as the cultists swarmed, a suffocating sea of madness. 

A red haze descended, and Grimm's body became a weapon, a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. His fists, like iron mallets, pulverized bone and flesh, each blow a sickening crunch. He seized them, their frail bodies mere playthings, and hurled them into the abyss below. His boots smashed faces, his knees ruptured guts, his fingers gouged eyes, each action a grim sacrament in his war against the horde. Some, their trance shattered by the carnage, fled into the tunnels, their screams echoing in the darkness. 

Click-clack. The metallic sound, a harbinger of death, echoed through the crypt. A cultist, armed to the teeth with brass bullets, his eyes wild with terror and frenzy, unleashed a torrent of machine gun fire. The bullets ripped through his brethren, painting the stone walls with their viscera. Grimm dove for cover, the bullets whizzing past, some striking stone, others exploding against the walls, scattering brain matter. The firing ceased. Reloading. Grimm launched himself from cover, a predator unleashed. The cultist fumbled with the clip as Grimm's massive frame slammed into him, a brutal collision that sent them rolling into a cluster of barrels. Grimm rose, his eyes burning with a murderous intent, and proceeded to beat the cultist to death, each blow a thunderous crack that turned the once-crazed face into a pulpy ruin. 

Without hesitation, Grimm seized the machine gun, its cold steel a welcome weight. He turned, and unleashed a storm of lead, the bullets tearing through the remaining cultists, their bodies ripped and torn, scattered across the platform like discarded puppets. His symphony of violence reached its bloody crescendo, leaving only a grotesque tableau of carnage. 

Grimm stood, his breath a ragged rasp in the aftermath of the carnage. The once-raging fire had dwindled to smoldering embers, casting long, macabre shadows across the blood-soaked stones. He glanced down at the headless machine gunner, his eyes drawn to the heavy ammo belt draped across the corpse's chest. A crude sling and buckle, designed for brutal efficiency, lay beneath the ruined torso. With a brutal kick, he rolled the corpse, revealing the bandolier's clasp. He unbuckled it, the leather cold and slick with blood, and slung it across his shoulder. His gaze lingered on the cultist's belt, finding a small, worn leather satchel. He ripped it open. Inside, shotgun slugs gleamed dully, and a small, weathered journal lay nestled among them. Grimm pocketed the slugs, the weight a grim reassurance. He turned his attention to the journal, its leather cover bearing the familiar, unsettling pentagram with antlers. The coppery tang of blood, a stark reminder of his handiwork, began to fill his nostrils, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt flesh and gunpowder. 

He rose, the journal a cold weight against his chest, slipping it into his breast pocket. He reached behind, the blood-slicked bandolier a grim adornment, buckling it across his torso. The machine gun, a tool of brutal efficiency, found its holster. He retraced his steps, his boots squelching on the gore-soaked stone, to where the shotgun lay abandoned. Gloria Wendigo. The phrase, a venomous whisper, clung to his thoughts. Was it a command, a curse, a psychic shackle? The cultists' eyes, glazed with fanaticism, flashed behind his eyelids, a haunting tableau of madness. He'd witnessed fanaticism before, the Order's twisted devotion, but never this raw, this violent. Where was the Order? The Order's shadow flickered in his mind, a betrayal he'd never outrun. This heresy, this blasphemy, should have drawn their wrath. But perhaps not. This nest of depravity lay deep beneath the earth, hidden, a secret he'd only stumbled upon by chance. They cared nothing for their own, the gunner's indiscriminate slaughter a stark testament to their callous indifference. He knelt, the shotgun's cold steel a familiar comfort, and reloaded it with the scavenged shells. The click of the mechanism echoed in the silence, a harsh counterpoint to the lingering chants. He turned; his gaze fixed on the gaping maw of a nearby tunnel and stepped into the encroaching darkness. 

Grimm's gaze traced the maze of tunnels, the crypt's stone closing in like the petrified gullet of some ancient leviathan. Each passage was a plunge into absolute black, a gaping maw that whispered of deeper horrors. He halted, a coil of icy dread tightening around his heart as he stared into the nearest tunnel. The air within hung thick and still, the silence a suffocating blanket. A low growl, a predator's instinct, rumbled in his chest, a grim acceptance of the path ahead. His boots scraped against the stone, the sound swallowed by the oppressive gloom as he turned and descended. A faint scrape echoed from the darkness, a fleeting glint of bone-white antlers catching the scant light, a silent herald as the corridor consumed him, leading him deeper into the beast's lair.