Herald of lust

Footfalls echoed against the cold cave walls. Derek scrunched his nose, the atmosphere was dense and heavy with the scent of damp earth and moss. Stalactites, like stone daggers, formed on the ceiling, while stalagmites rose to meet them, forming silent sentinels that seemed to guard the cave. Derek walked deeper into the darkness. The silence itself began to feel oppressive and suffocating, so he decided to break it with a question.

"Those wraiths you call... damned souls... not even rocket launchers can kill them. How are you managing it with just that?" Derek asked, failing to mask his contempt for the ugly blade.

Hunter scoffed. "First off, I didn't kill them, they were dispelled. Souls are energy, and energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Moreover, this blade is not your normal blade."

"Oh? Do you mind telling me where you got it?"

"I made it myself," Hunter remarked, a note of pride in his voice.

"Well then, do tell how it was made. Let's see if I can perhaps get one for my own protection."

"Very well," Hunter replied, his creaky voice shifting into lecture mode. He began, "At its inception, this blade was forged from Lothrang alloy, an alloy found only in the deepest recesses of the Wilderness of Goth, where the land is defiled and danger lurks around every corner. Of course, I went there and got it myself." A hint of gloating crept into his tone.

"After which, I soaked it in the ichor of an ancient fallen sovereign for fifty years. Its corpse lay upon a forgotten land, and its blood never ran dry."

"Then, I traveled to the far reaches of the south, found the witch who claims she hasn't seen sleep in millennia. With the necessary sacrifice, I had her enchant the blade with the seven spells of doom."

Derek's eyes widened with each sentence, but Hunter continued, seemingly pleased with his reaction. "I then enlisted an ancient immortal skeleton friend of mine—the Lich of Arenai—who, in exchange for a hundred years of service, enhanced the..."

"Alright, alright, I get it. It's impossible to make," Derek interrupted, rolling his eyes.

As they walked, the cave grew darker, making it increasingly difficult for Derek to see.

Hunter noticed this impairment and, with a flick of his wrist, ignited his sword in flames.

Derek was about to ask just how many tricks the sword possessed when he noticed that the cave walls were lined with murals. These weren't mere drawings but a sprawl of graphic and startlingly realistic images that immediately captured his rapt attention. He scanned them as he walked, the light from the flaming blade casting an ominous orange glow.

He saw a lone figure atop a jagged mountain. The figure resembled a god, or perhaps a man glorified as one. His hands were stretched wide, claiming the sky as his own, while a golden crown inlaid with rubies adorned his head. The figure's face was lifted, not in awe, but to his own reflection carved into a mirror like disk of polished stone that hovered before him. A faint smile played on his lips, not of joy, but of self-reverence.

Below him, armies bowed, their heads to the dirt. Their backs were hunched, not from defeat, but from the weight of enforced worship. Others reached up, not in praise, but to pull him down, their hands clawing at the mountain, crumbling it from beneath. Yet, the proud figure remained oblivious to the chaos below, his eyes glued to his own reflection in arrogant glee.

The next mural depicted the end, the cliff crumbling, the crown slipping from his head as he fell, arms still outstretched in glory, even as his doom approached. Around him, the very mountain he conquered fractured into ruin, taking with it those who knelt below.

Beneath the entire mural, scorched into the stone in solemn ancient glyphs.

He rose so high, yet he couldn't see his fall.

Derek gulped and moved on to the next.

At its center loomed a monolithic figure, a king not of flesh, but of want.

His eyes were hollow, the sockets burning with gold-leaf inlays that still glinted faintly in the gloom. Fingers, unnaturally long, gnarled, and resembling roots, stretched out in all directions, clutching coins, chalices, jewelry, and even the starving hands of others begging below. His bloated form sprawled across the stone, swollen not with sustenance but consumed by his own hoard. His lower body seemed to melt into endless piles of treasure.

To his left, emaciated figures reached upward, their hands like claws, their eyes sunken but wide with desperate longing. Some were children, some were warriors, each indistinguishable beneath the grime of their shared desperation. Their faces, etched with jagged lines, screamed in silent agony, mouths open yet eternally unheard.

The next mural depicted the end:

, the figure dissolved into a heap of treasure, which was then swallowed by the ground.

Beneath the mural, etched in stone, was the inscription: "He who takes all, takes even from himself."

Derek realized he was lagging behind and decided to skim through the rest of the murals to catch up. But when his gaze snagged on one, his heart lurched.

No damn way.

Dominating the mural was a gigantic, colossal skeleton, perched atop a mountain of bones. Its hollow eyes stared into the void, and its mouth hung open in an expression of utter contempt. Below, naked men, women, and beasts engaged in every conceivable form of sexual perversion. The atmosphere was thick with pure, unbridled lust. Even the skies in the mural seemed to lean towards the skeletal figure, as if craving its presence.

Derek's stomach churned at the sight. He quickly moved on to the next mural, which showed its fall.

The colossal mass of bone crumbled to the ground, eviscerating everything and every soul at its feet. A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, seeming to announce its demise.

Beneath those murals, similarly etched into the walls in a deep, dark hue, were the words: "Driven we were by lust; now we are consumed by it."

Derek stood petrified, the atmosphere of the cave growing suddenly eerie.

"Hey... what are you looking at?"

"This," Derek replied, pointing at the murals.

"What?" Hunter squinted, bringing the flaming sword closer to the wall. Confusion was etched across his face. "Hey, I know I'm half blind, but I can't see anything here."

"What? It's right here! These paintings, all over the walls!" Derek exclaimed, almost touching the murals. But the old man still seemed unable to see them.

"I've threaded this cave countless times, and I've never seen anything resembling a painting," Hunter said.

"Are you sure everything is alright with you, revolutor?"

"I don't know," Derek replied, his face grim.