Terror descents

As the last word left the hunter's lips, a violent tremor rippled through the tavern, shaking the very foundations of the establishment. The wooden beams groaned in protest, and glasses of ale and wine clattered against the tables, their contents sloshing over the edges in chaotic waves. Chairs scraped against the floor as patrons stumbled, struggling to keep their footing amidst the rolling quake. Some hunters, despite their battle-hardened reflexes, found themselves thrown off balance, tumbling to the ground with startled grunts.

Yet, for all the disorder, there was no panic. The men and women in this hall were warriors, seasoned by the trials of combat, their nerves tempered by years of facing death in the wilds. A mere earthquake was but a minor inconvenience, a passing tremor in the grand scheme of the dangers they had survived.

In the far corner of the tavern, Orion sat unmoved by the commotion. His half-full mug of wine rested untouched upon the table, its surface as smooth and undisturbed as a still lake beneath the moonlight. His chair remained firm, rooted to the ground as if the tremors dared not touch him. Even as the wooden beams creaked and dust trickled from the rafters, his surroundings remained eerily untouched by the chaos that gripped the rest of the room.

The other patrons took notice. Whispers passed between them, their voices hushed yet laced with curiosity. While many of them were mages of respectable skill, they knew well that maintaining balance during an earthquake required concentration. Yet here was this noble-looking youth, perfectly composed, as if the shaking world had no dominion over him.

Before any of them could voice their inquiries, a sound split through the tavern like a blade through flesh—a roar, deep and primal, shaking the very marrow of their bones. It was a sound not of mere rage but of dominance, an ancient and terrifying force that sent instinctual fear crawling up their spines.

The tavern windows shattered in an instant, shards of glass cascading like deadly raindrops onto the floor. The wooden walls groaned, and cracks snaked their way across the floorboards. The hunters, who had moments ago scoffed at the tremor, now stood frozen in place, their faces drained of color.

Then, before anyone could catch their breath, a second, more ferocious quake surged through the building. The force of it was monstrous, as if the very earth had been ripped apart by some colossal force. The ceiling above trembled violently, beams splitting with sharp cracks, and dust billowed from the rafters, veiling the room in a ghostly haze.

Debris rained down, a wooden chandelier crashing to the floor, scattering embers that flickered but failed to ignite. By sheer fortune—or perhaps something more—the falling wreckage spared those within, yet the message was clear. Whatever was outside was no ordinary beast.

"Something is coming," a voice whispered. It was barely audible, but in the deafening silence that followed the quake, it carried with it a weight of dread.

Then the true terror began.

A cacophony of sounds erupted from the streets beyond the tavern's walls. The muffled thuds of heavy impacts, the sickening crunch of buildings being torn apart. Explosions roared, shaking the air with their concussive force. Above it all, cries of fear and pain echoed—shouts for help, desperate screams of those who had no hope of escape.

Inside the tavern, no one moved.

Hardened hunters, warriors who had braved the depths of the cursed Death Forest, now stood frozen, their breaths shallow and erratic. For all their strength and skill, none dared to venture beyond these walls. They knew better. Whatever prowled outside was beyond their reckoning.

But not everyone was willing to cower.

A figure stepped forward, his presence undeniable even amid the suffocating dread. His golden hair gleamed like a lion's mane, his face worn by battle yet unshaken. A trimmed beard framed his strong jaw, and his gaze burned with the fire of one who refused to bow to fear.

In one swift motion, he unslung the massive axe from his back, the steel blade catching the dim light of the tavern, gleaming with lethal promise. His voice, when it came, was like thunder rolling through the mountains, commanding and absolute.

"You call yourselves hunters?" Brian Goldsman's voice was a whip, lashing through the air with raw disdain. "Yet here you stand, trembling like frightened children before a mere roar? Pathetic."

Silence followed his words, save for the distant screams that bled through the walls. Many of the hunters looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze. Shame flickered across their expressions. Others clenched their fists, torn between fear and the instincts that had driven them to take up their weapons in the first place.

Brian stepped forward, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. "There are people out there dying. People who rely on us to be their shield against the darkness. And I, Brian Goldsman, will not stand idly by while they perish."

For a moment, the weight of his words pressed down upon them. Then, one by one, figures stepped forward. Some clutched swords, others gripped bows or staves, their resolve steeling beneath Brian's rallying cry. Their numbers grew, a small but determined band, prepared to face the nightmare beyond the tavern walls.

Orion, still seated, watched them with a mixture of curiosity and something close to sigh. "Fools," he murmured under his breath. He had sensed it the moment the quake began. Whatever lay beyond those doors was not something mere hunters could vanquish. Brian, despite his bravado, was leading them toward an end they were not prepared for.

As they reached the tavern's threshold, poised to step into the storm, the atmosphere shifted.

A suffocating aura descended upon them, thick and tangible as if the very air had turned to lead. The temperature dropped, not to the chill of winter, but to something more unnatural—something ancient and malevolent. It was not mere presence but a force, an oppressive will that demanded submission.

Then came the roar.

This time, it was no mere bellow. It was a declaration of power, a symphony of raw, unbridled rage that sent a tremor through the souls of all who heard it. The windows that had already shattered now seemed to vibrate with the very essence of the sound.

A hunter gasped, his hands trembling. "No… it can't be…"

A woman beside him paled, gripping her dagger so tightly her knuckles turned white. "One of them… here? How?"

Brian, for all his bravado, stiffened. His grip on his axe tightened, his breath shallow. And in that moment, Orion saw it—the flicker of hesitation, the sliver of doubt creeping into the man's stance.

For now they understood.

This was no ordinary monster.

It was not a troll, nor a corrupted beast from the Death Forest.

It was something far worse.

A descendant of dragons.

A duke of the Death Forest.

Its the great wyvern, that had come to haunt their city.