Two hulking figures stepped out of the shadows, blocking their path. They were clad in black plate armor, their faces completely obscured by executioner's hoods with narrow slits for the eyes. Each held a massive, rusted iron axe.
"Hold! State your business, else forfeit your lives in here," one of them growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble that promised violence.
"It's me, Grog! I sell slaves for your master! Let me in, I have something to talk with him!" Grog yelled, yanking down his hood to reveal his scarred, brutish face. He puffed out his chest, trying to project an air of confidence that he no longer truly felt.
A sudden, guttural sound tore through the damp air, a raw, ragged moan of pure agony, followed by a choked, gurgling groan. The sound was inhuman, a symphony of suffering that bounced off the stone walls and made the very air vibrate with pain. It shattered the tunnel's oppressive silence, replacing it with a symphony of horror.
The guards stiffened, their axes coming up half an inch, but their heads didn't turn. "He is busy," one of them stated flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Wait here." They resumed their rigid posture, their featureless masks fixed on Grog and Lark, who were now visibly pale and sweating.
Lark swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden quiet. The moans continued, rising and falling in a horrific rhythm. It sounded less like a person and more like a devil being flayed alive, a sound that spoke of rending flesh and breaking bone.
The fifteen minutes that followed were an eternity of psychological torture for the two bandits, who flinched with every new, pained scream.
Finally, one of the guards spoke, his voice a low gravel. "Come in." He pushed open a heavy iron door, the sound of its ancient hinges a deafening, grinding shriek that set their teeth on edge.
The smell that billowed out was overpowering: the coppery tang of fresh blood, the sickening stench of voided bowels and bile, and a thick, cloying scent like burnt sugar.
They stepped inside and were hit with a scene straight from the abyss. The chamber was a charnel house.
Heads, their faces frozen in silent screams, were impaled on spikes jutting from the walls. Severed limbs and glistening loops of intestine hung from chains like grotesque party decorations, dripping thick, coagulating blood onto the floor.
The floor itself was a slick, red lake, and from the ceiling, a recent victim—a young woman with her ribcage torn open was hung by her ankles, her lifeblood draining in a steady patter against a pile of her own organs on a wooden tray. The warm, viscous fluid dripped from the ceiling, splashing onto Grog's bald head and Lark's shoulder, the shocking warmth making them both gasp and flinch back in primal terror.
At the far end of the blood-soaked chamber, a single iron cell door stood ajar. The horrific, pained moans originated from within that dark space, a source of constant, rhythmic agony.
Suddenly, a new sound began. A soft, sucking squelch, like a boot being pulled from thick mud, followed by another. Then again, slightly louder this time.
Squelch… squelch… squelch… The sound grew in volume and frequency, a slow and inexorable approach. A shadow fell across the floor of the cell, small at first, then stretching longer and longer as its owner moved toward the doorway.
CRACK!
The sound was sharp and violent, like a bone snapping. A hand, pale and yellowed, shot out and gripped the iron doorframe. The metal groaned, the hinges protesting under the immense strain as the figure pulled itself out of the cell and into the flickering torchlight.
Grog and Lark's hearts hammered against their ribs, their breath caught in their throats. The figure that emerged was tall and unnaturally gaunt, wrapped in a stained leather apron. Its head was a smooth, featureless ovoid of polished yellow metal, with only a thin, dark slit where a mouth should be. There were no eyes, no nose, just a blank, terrifying mask that reflected the dancing flames in a distorted, monstrous way. The two bandits took an involuntary step back, their terror peaking at the sight of this inhuman horror.
From behind the featureless yellow mask, a voice rang out, surprisingly mellow and smooth, like that of a cheerful, middle-aged bachelor. "My children, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?" The voice was a complete paradox to the ghastly scene, so calm and pleasant it was more terrifying than any roar.
He raised his hands, the fingers long and pale, stained dark with drying blood to the second knuckles. Casually, he wiped them on his already-filthy white apron, leaving a long, dark streak.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the soiled apron aside, where it landed with a wet slap on the floor. Underneath, he wore a simple black priest's cassock, its dark fabric stark against the gore splattered on his clothes.
He began to walk toward them, his movements unhurried, his feet making soft, sticky sounds as they stepped through the pools of blood.
As he drew closer, a palpable aura of menace washed over Grog and Lark. They could feel the gaze from behind that blank mask, a predatory stare that seemed to pierce right through their skulls and weigh their very souls.
"Greeting, Father," Grog said, his bravado failing him as he lowered his gaze to the floor. "It's me… Grog. Who has been selling those 'goods' to you all this time."
"I remember you, my child. Do continue, please," the man in the mask replied, his voice still unnervingly warm and gentle, like a shepherd talking to his flock.
"Actually, I've come because… something happened." Grog hesitated, his voice tight with nerves. "My place was destroyed. By a mystery figure. A woman, I think. She could control monsters."
"A woman who can control monsters? How very fascinating. Can you describe her for me?" The priest's voice held a note of genuine curiosity, an almost scholarly interest that made the horror of the setting seem surreal.
"She wore a black cloak that covered her whole body, with a black mask," Grog stammered, trying to recall every detail. "That was all I could really see. But… oh! And the monsters she commanded were three goblins. I don't know what kind of goblins they were, but they all wore black clothes and they could… teleport around. Very fast." He trailed off, his eyes wide, waiting for the priest's reaction.
The father said nothing. He simply stood there, a tall silhouette against the flickering torchlight, the blank yellow mask giving away nothing.
The silence stretched, becoming heavy and suffocating. Grog and Lark could feel the cold sweat dripping down their backs. The oppressive weight of the priest's gaze was almost physical, a crushing force in the blood-soaked chamber.
After an eternity of quiet, the priest finally spoke, his voice as placid as ever. "Very well. I understand the situation. And that means you cannot continue providing me with the number of slaves I require in the future?"
"I can! It's just… I just need some help from you to take back my camp and continue the process of gathering more slaves," Grog pleaded, his voice trembling. "Just a little help."
The priest turned and began to walk back toward the tunnel exit, his black cassock whispering against the stone floor. Grog and Lark scurried to keep up, trailing behind him like terrified chicks, with the two hulking guards falling into step behind them, their axes resting on their shoulders.
"I will help, so do not worry," the priest said, his voice carrying easily through the passage. "You two must be tired. One of them will lead you to a place where you can rest." On his cue, one of the guards broke away from the rear and gestured with a gauntleted hand for them to follow.
"Thank you! Thank you very much, Father! I won't forget this!" Grog gushed, a wave of relief washing over him that was so potent it made his knees feel weak. He and Lark eagerly followed the guard out of the tunnel, not daring to look back.
Soon, only the priest and the remaining guard were left standing in the blood-soaked chamber, silent and unmoving. A long pause passed as the priest spoke, his voice as dispassionate as if he were commenting on the weather. "The Saintess is about to venture into the wild to join an expedition, is that true?"
"It is, Father," the guard confirmed, his voice a deep rumble.
"Tell her and her friends to pass through the Red Death bandit camp and take a look," the priest instructed. "Since she is very righteous, she will know what to do." He then turned and walked toward the far end of the chamber, his steps measured and unhurried.
Without looking back, he added, "Also, cut off one of the hands of that useless man. I will not tolerate incompetence under the house of God." The priest spoke the command as if it were a simple, mundane task, like fetching water or cleaning a floor.
"I understand, Father," the guard replied, his voice showing no hint of surprise or hesitation.