Sword of Famine

Oliver wakes up.

Which- is a bit of a surprise, frankly.

The ground is solid- if not damp- beneath him, and his shoulder screams expletives in his ear, so he’s probably not dead.

Opening his eyes is a bit of a challenge. His right eye is crusted shut. Oliver rubs at it, looking down at his gloved hand afterwards. It’s stained a sticky red. Blood, probably.

Well, fuck. That’s not great.

There’s a pile of broken vines and branches scattered around him, and a hole in the canopy above him. “So, they broke my fall?” His voice rasps. He has no idea how long he’s been since he fell. It had been midday when he left, but Oliver can’t see the sky from where he’s laying to make any guesses more accurate than ‘well, the sun’s still out.’

Oliver’s shoulder twinges as he reaches up with his left hand to brush back his hair. The tie must have gotten caught on something during his fall. A prickle of pain reveals a scratch on his forehead, which would explain the blood. Thankfully it doesn’t feel too deep.

His leg is laying a few feet to the side, mercifully undamaged.

Having taken stock of his situation, Oliver lets his head thump onto the ground and stares at the sky. Ignoring the sharp throb of pain that radiates through his skull because of his thoughtless movement.

This sucks.

Heaving a sigh, he starts to try and stand. Sitting up jostles his shoulder and his vision swims, almost blacking out entirely. Definitely dislocated. Even if he knew how to re-set it himself, there’s no chance he’s climbing anywhere like this.

Based on the amber colored light, the sun is starting to set, and he’s already tired just from sitting up. Part of him just wants to lay there and just wait for something to come eat him.

But… he really can’t do that to Jean and Marianna. Not without leaving them a body to grieve.

He knows them both too well, they’d spend weeks looking for him– and with no proof he’s dead– years waiting for him.

He knows, he remembers that he used to be just like them; too hopeful for their own good.

Oliver steels himself to at least look for another way out.

Grimacing at the damp unpleasant texture of his clothes, especially his socks, Oliver re-secures his leg and uses one of the side walls of the ravine to push himself upright. It hurts like hell, and he almost falls back over immediately, but at least he’s standing.

While he can barely see anything through the tangle of roots and vines above him, there are worn stone bricks under his feet. Time has pushed them askew, but it’s still clear that this used to be a path or some sort of underground courtyard at some point. There are intentionally placed brick basins that might have been garden beds. The walls of the ‘ravine’ are carved and there are sconces in place to hold torches. Though if there were any left here from the last visitors, they’ve long since rotted away.

Distantly, Oliver remembers the earthquake that had shaken the region a few months ago. Judging by the hole in the ceiling and the relative age of the vines he crashed into, that might have been the cause of the cave in.

There’s a pile of rubble to one side of the room. Any potential pathways in that direction have been blocked.

Coming to a decision and letting the wall support most of his weight, Oliver stumbles further into ruins, leaving the sunlight behind him.

Each step takes ten times the amount of effort he would like, but he keeps going. As he progresses, he notices the noises he’s always associated with the forest beginning to fade. The creeping roots and vines transition to a stone ceiling.

Nature disappears the deeper he walks. The air growing stagnant and dusty.

After a disconcerting amount of time, Oliver stops to find himself at a dead end. His eyes are useless, but touching the wall in in front of him reveals a smooth but ornately carved door that looms taller than he can reach.

Curiosity mixed with a tinge of desperation to find his way back home pushes Oliver to try the handle.

There’s a quiet pop, his glove bursts into bright orange flame the moment he touches the door. Oliver jumps back, swearing. He tears at the on-fire glove, trying to rip it off with the limited dexterity he has left, but he realizes belatedly that the fire isn’t hot, and it’s not spreading.

Oliver stares at his gloves in bewilderment before realizing that the flame is eating away at the blood stains from the scratch on his forehead.

A dull grinding sound echoes through the enclosed space and Oliver’s eyes snap up to the door, which is now not only opening itself, but glowing. The symbols carved into it look foreign, illuminated by a cold blue light. He’s sure if Marianna was here she would be able to decipher them, or at least make a guess at their origin, but, on his own, his best guess is that it’s some sort of pre-cataclysm magic.

A cold shiver races up Oliver’s spine. He might have just made a terrible mistake.

The worst part is– there’s no going back here.

Oliver does his best to steady his wobbly legs and regain his bearings. The stone door has fully parted to reveal a dark staircase. The carvings lining the edges are ostentatious, revealing that whoever made this structure had money, a lot of it. Especially with the tiny glowing gems dotting the path down every so often, casting inconsistent light.

Strangely enough, though the outside of the ruins were old and decrepit, the inside was perfectly maintained. Like the owner had just stepped out for a walk, and not abandoned this place for hundreds of years.

At least it means the staircase is stable.

There’s no railings, so Oliver stays close to the walls as he descends.

Each step echoes loudly against the smooth stone, making Oliver wince. every extra noise puts him further on edge. He’s just waiting for someone– or something– to jump out and attack him. But his worries go unfounded as he uneventfully reaches the end of the stairs.

This deep into the earth, the air is cool, and Oliver can feel a faint breeze flowing down the path alongside him, as if urging him to continue walking.

There are branching hallways and closed doors extending to either side of him. It’s easy to imagine getting lost in a never-ending maze of paths and doorways.

He keeps walking forward.

Eventually, the pathway he followed downwards opens up. In front of him is a giant, round room, the floor is decorated by magic circles so complex that Oliver can feel the headache he’s been ignoring return with a vengeance just looking at them. There are four hallways connected to the room, each leading to a different cardinal direction. Or, that’s his best guess as to where they lead.

Finally, in the center of the room, illuminated by a mysterious light coming from the ceiling, a single sword rests.

Even from a distance, Oliver can see the skilled craftsmanship that has gone into it’s creation. The silver blade glimmers, breaking the light into bright colors and reflecting it onto the stone dais it lays on top of. Clearly made from metal Oliver’s never laid eyes on before.

Oliver takes a step forward, his body moving without his input.

There’s something radiant about the sword. It doesn’t look like much; other than a very expensive– maybe even decorative?– weapon at first; but the more he looks at it, the more Oliver is convinced that there’s something off about it. Everything about this situation is strange. From the undiscovered abandoned ruins so close to the village, to the pre-catalysm magic, to the very fact that someone, somewhere, centuries ago, decided that this sword, whatever it is, needed to be sealed away.

It’s fucking weird. And Oliver wants nothing to do with it.

There are three other hallways leading into this room. The path Oliver just exited lead to something like a garden; maybe one of the others will lead to a real exit. If he keeps his wits about him, he should be able to double back and find his way back home once he makes it above ground—

Oliver freezes, the hairs on the back of his neck raising.

Something is following him.

He turns, every instinct screaming at him. There, in the dimly lit hallway behind him, movement catches his eye. The thing following him tucks itself lower, avoiding his gaze. It’s long, segmented legs folding and twitching.

Chitinous creaking rasps against his eardrums as it shuffles closer– one halting, broken stride at a time.

Oliver breaks away from the wall walking backwards; further into the light, closer to the dais. His eyes locked on the last spot he saw the creature before it vanished into the dark. His mind turns to his dagger, which he realizes is probably still stuck in the rocks he stabbed it into while he was falling earlier. Even if it had fallen along with him, he forgot to check. Fuck.

He takes another step back, and trips. He’s in the center of the room, now. His back pressed against the alter where the strange sword rests.

The creature follows him into the main room, revealing it’s main body. The lighting isn’t perfect, but it’s enough for Oliver to recognize what he’s looking at.

Six legs, longer than Oliver is tall, tipped with talons that tap against the floor with each shambling stretch forward. Two clawed arms in front of a set of glinting fangs. The carapace, black as the night, dotted with thorn-like curved spikes. A Spined Harvestman, one of the Abyssal Forest’s many beasts. Oliver knows them as cowardly creatures who fear light and excessive noise. Generally they hunt at night– preferring their prey to be sleeping, docile. They ambush then inject a potent venom that paralyzes the victim near instantly.

Oliver has not been quiet, and the lights coming from above are much brighter than what these beasts prefer.

This one, however, has been dead for quite some time now.

One of it’s powerful claws is cracked, and through the wound Oliver can see the fruiting body of a corpse spore. The familiar color, a sickening pus-like orange and yellow, has been burned into Oliver’s mind. He could never forget it, even if he tried.

The harvestman lurches to the side, a clear sign of the later stages of infection. The spore has eaten most of the host’s ligaments, and the body has begun to fall apart.

Now, all it searches for is the next host.

White-hot fear spreads through Oliver’s nerves. His hands shake and he tries, desperately, to push himself further away. His right arm hangs limp by his side, his left searching for any purchase he can find. He doesn’t dare look away from walking corpse that’s hunting him.

Oliver grips the edge of the stone dais; hefting himself up.

And then, his hand hits something with a clang.

The sword. It’s ominous energy is even stronger when he’s this close to it.

Oliver swears. He’s not sure if he should scream or cry. He’s stuck between a monster and a cursed artifact. It’s no longer a question of if he’ll survive this, now it comes down to which of these things will kill him faster.

Fuck it. He’s going to die either way. He might as well go down fighting. He looks upwards, cursing the gods for what’s probably the last time and grits his teeth, reaching out. Oliver’s hand closes around the hilt of the sword-

-And the world explodes into color.