* The Catacombs of Despair (CHUD RPG Campaign)

“Only fools and dead men feel no fear and I am neither. But I do not fear death or the evil that lies in these catacombs. I am for it.”

He puts down his war mace and reaches into a small bag at his waist and pulls out a roll of thick leather bindings.

These straps are wound around his heavily gloved hands and wrists revealing large metal studs that run their length. Clenching his fists he assures that they are fitted properly.

He reaches back down and grabs his primary weapon. Shouldering it, he strides into the halls and with a word a bluish-white light spreads out from his talisman in a 5 foot radius.

(Hello...ello...lo............. It's lonely in here. )

(I'll post something this evening. It's been a bitch of a week so far... I liked your 'The Grim Reader' tale, BTW. I appreciate someone using my locale. )

(I wondered whose that was. Thanks for a great place name and the compliment. I've written a couple more Grim Reader stories since and punched that one up a bit with Wickerman's help. I'd love to have you read 'em.)

(wonders if this is anything like the pit of despair.

Sig frees his warhammer, and gazes down into the depths.

"A great debt remains unpaid, and can only be fulfilled...im blood."

His choice is clear.

Gomrath smiles at the others.

"Afraid of the dark?" he growls. "You try and beat the darkness back with light. I merely embrace it".

He removes another of his small pouches, and inhales the dusty remains within. Immediately, his pale eyes turn pitch black, like ink injected into milk. He can now see the interior of the catacombs as clearly as the owl sees the mouse in the night.

"That's better", he hisses.

Zaran grimaces at the new foes. “Not afraid of the dark corpsegrinder, just not too eager to join it.”

Knowing his mace would probably do precious little good against these wraiths, he steps aside to clear the way for the others.

He speaks a word and the light surrounding him collapses and focuses to a single point. The pearly ray lances into one of the shades and it dissipates with a scream.

No longer needed as a light source, white flame wreaths the talisman and it awaits direction.

(Just a quick request before I begin... GL could you list the character names of all participants at the beginning of each thread. Unfortunately, I never know where I will be when I have an opportunity to post and would like to have a refernce. I would greatly appreciate it. )

The blood mage has remained silent to this point. He has been pondering his companions roles in the play that has unfolded before them. Does this journey signal the end of his quest?

However, the creature that has given an unholy birth draws his attention to the here and now.

"Ah! This is more like it!", Eibon chuckles. "A foe of substance. These I should be able to use..."

His left hand snaps forward the fingers splayed out in a rigid fan. With a sharp cry, "Ia!", he yanks it back towards his body. With it a single black shape is jerked through the room to him. The tips of his fingers enlongate into talons just as the squirming shadow reaches his grasp. As it tightens he sighs.

"Not all blood is red nor of substance."

As he speaks the words, the darkling in his ever clutching fist begins to shriek. This sound causes a shudder to course through his companions as it too closely resembles the screaming of an infant. It's dim shape collapsing upon itself in exquisite agony. Eibon drinks the black gloom substance until there is nothing more than a wisp of shadow sifting through his fingers.

His eyes closed for a moment, the sorcerer relishes the ichor driven power that now runs through his very being. Curious as to how it will manifest itself through him he gently taps it forward. Never knowing how his enemies blood will react to his manipulations, only his own blood allows for total control, he always begins to use it hesitantly.

This time his control is fleeting. The black power that now runs through him causes his entire form to stretch and darken. The features of his young face are consumed by shadow and replaced with a grinning maw of jagged, razor teeth. The talons the were is hands twist and bend into evil deep scarlet claws that glitter in the light supplied by Scakarr's magicks.

No longer does the human form of Eibon stand among his group. A beast of pure instinct and hunger nows turns to face the gibbering horde. The grin ever wideneing, no other features visible, as spittle drips between it's fangs. With a hiss like nails on slate the Eibon-thing wades into the fray in a whirlwind of pain and suffering.

(I got chills they're multiplyin. Goood stuff Tindalos!!)

Sig stands fast, guarding his magic-wielding comrades from attack. A shadowy figure sweeps in steeply, slowing swiftly as Sig brandishes his war hammer. The runes on the head of the hammer glow brighly as the did in the surface battle.

Sig seems to have encountered this form of undead before, as his combat style seems to have shifted somewhat; he now fights on the defensive, parrying a blow to give one. The wraith seems to recoil against the light given off by the war hammer, but does not retreat. The wraith slowly gives ground until Sig brings the war hammmer up in an arc which seems somehow to shatter the wraith's ethereal torso.

A bit of foam has gathered in the corner of Sig's mouth; he roars a battle cry as the wraith disintegrates, wisps of its form sinking thru the stone floor.

Sig turns as a shadowed movement catches his eye. Another undead spirit lashes out, spearing his ribcage with a freezing touch. Sig's roar turns into a gasp and he falls to his knees. The wraith pauses as the dwarf rests on the ground; then curls back, preparing to strike. Sig suddenly leaps to his feet and unleashes a flurry of swings from his hammer, each of them finding their mark. The wraith has disintegrated like the first as Sig brings the hammer back behind his head for yet another blow.

The pain of his wound catches up with him, and he seems much older.

Peter stares, gaping, at the unholy battle going on before him.

"Bloody good show," he says. "Y'all just take care of that beast and send him back to those unholy depths from whence he came, and I'll go look for treasure."

As he turns to leave to go look for treasure, a strange pang of guilt strikes him.

"Now do I abandon these fine warriors for my own financial and personal gain," he asks himself, "Or do I plunge headfirst into the icthorian ooze and tackle such an unholy manifesto head on."

He thinks for a moment.

"Tackling the unholy manifesto works for me..."

Zaran makes his way over to Sig, lashing out at one of the shadowy demons on the way. His studded gloves flash a milky white before impact and the beast is sent into a wall. It leaves a black smear as it slides down the roughly hewn rock.

Upon reaching his comrade he lays both hands on the dwarf’s shoulders and utters a prayer. Zaran’s hands crackle with energy that floods into the compact body in front of him. Sig feels his wound knit and his body recalls the energy of its youth.

Zaran steps back, the lines around his eyes are deepened with strain, which passes after a moment.

One of the creatures takes this opportunity to strike from behind. It rakes both claws down the warrior-priest’s back, shredding his robes and finding a weakness in his mail. Blood streams from the rent in his armor as he falls to his knees. The wraith hisses with glee at the man’s pain and the sight of the blood.

Deep in the midst of the wraithlings the Eibon-Shadow's talons have cut a path closer to the mass of slick black tentacles that birthed the gibbering horde. If his faculties were still available to him, the blood mage would have registered that the foul mother was still ejecting it's young into the corridor, creating a seemingly unending army of inky foes. But, the magicks unleashed have removed all reason from him and replaced it with an instinctive lust for the destruction of the evil that nips and shreds at his newly formed hide. His companions forgotten, Eibon-Shadow continues to slice it's way closer to the Mother.

A low childlike giggle begins to leak from his toothy, slobbering maw as he nears his goal.

(Sadly it's become evident that between work, baby duties at home and trying to keep writing for CHUD Stories, I just ain't got the time to do this justice. I hereby turn over that gnarly bastard Gomrath to the care of General Logan. Do with him as you will - he can be either good or evil, it's up to you!)