Touch of Plague!

"Hah…"

Luther drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with oxygen to steel himself. He sprinted toward the landing at the top of the stairs, his boots pounding against the wooden floor. Behind him, the relentless sound of something slithering and crawling echoed through the hall, coming from both above and below.

Out of the darkness, four tentacles shot toward him from either side, twisting and writhing with deadly precision.

A chill of danger surged through him, sharpening his senses. Without a second thought, Luther hurled his kerosene lamp into the shadows, illuminating the room for a brief moment as the glass shattered and flames flared. In the sudden light, he caught a glimpse of the tentacles' path.

In a fluid motion, he grabbed the edge of his gray robe with his left hand, spun on his heel, and pivoted, narrowly avoiding the tentacles lunging at him from the left. With his right hand, he swung his dagger in a sharp arc, slicing through one of the tentacles on his right. The severed appendage writhed on the floor, oozing a dark, foul-smelling ichor.

Another tentacle struck toward his head, aiming straight for his temple. Luther jerked back, feeling the razor-like edge graze his cheek. Three thin, bloody lines appeared, stinging as if he'd been slashed by a blade. He touched the wound, wiping the blood with the back of his hand, and tasted the metallic tang on his lips; a reminder of the stakes.

A glint of determination sparked in his eyes, a hint of red flickering within his pupils.

The kerosene lamp lay shattered on the floor, its oil spreading, feeding the flames that snaked along the wooden planks. The light danced, casting eerie shadows, and in the dim glow, Luther saw a shadowy, writhing form lurking, carefully maneuvering around the fire to stay hidden.

Slowly, he backed up, pressing himself against the railing of the staircase, scanning the shadows around him. His senses prickled as he anticipated the next move. Then, without warning, six more tentacles surged toward him from the darkness.

With a quick decision, Luther pushed his weight back, letting himself fall over the railing. He avoided the deadly tentacles by a hair's breadth, gripping the edge of the floor to halt his descent. His body dangled for a moment in midair, hanging precariously between the floors.

He reached over and plunged his dagger into the wooden wall beside him, giving him leverage. Pushing off with his feet, he swung his body, flipping over the guardrail to land back on the staircase. His movements were swift, a blend of agility and control honed from countless battles.

As he landed, he paused, assessing his options. Should he keep fighting in this confined space, or retreat to the open area downstairs? His gaze flicked to the shadowy figure lingering in the corner, and in that instant, he made up his mind.

Slipping his left hand into his robe, he pulled out two small throwing knives. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them spinning into the darkness, aimed at the lurking creature. The knives whizzed through the air, disappearing into the shadows. Then, wrapping his robe tightly around himself, Luther retreated, descending quickly to the first floor to gain a tactical advantage.

Reaching the ground floor, Luther struck a match and quickly set some flammable items ablaze: papers, dried leaves, anything that could catch fire. He watched as the flames grew, then used them to ignite the linen cloth covering the dining table in the center of the hall. The fire spread, filling the room with a warm, bright glow that cast out the shadows.

From his position behind the table, Luther kept his eyes on the stairs, watching as the writhing mass of tentacles hesitated in the firelight, reluctant to advance. For the first time, they seemed uncertain, wary of the flames that separated them from their prey.

"They're afraid…" he muttered, a wry smile touching his lips. The fire was his ally here.

He tightened his grip on the dagger, his breath coming in heavy gasps. The recent struggle had taxed his muscles, and a faint burn of lactic acid reminded him of the toll his body was taking. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on a wooden clothes hanger standing near the door. Inspiration struck.

Grabbing the hanger, he wrapped the burning linen around it, fashioning it into an improvised torch. Holding it in front of him, he moved back toward the stairs, the light pushing back the shadows.

A strange, whispering hiss filled the villa, like some alien language being spoken just out of reach. The tentacles shrank back further, retreating into the darkness, but Luther wasn't about to let them slip away. Leaving these creatures here was too dangerous; he couldn't risk them remaining in town, lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike again.

With his torch held high, he ascended the stairs, meeting no resistance as he climbed. It was as if the tentacles had melted away, vanishing back into whatever unholy place they had come from. At the top of the stairs, he saw it: the source of the corruption.

In the center of the room, amidst strange symbols carved into the floor, sat a mass of black flesh, swollen and pulsating, its surface covered with a writhing nest of thin, slimy tentacles. They moved slowly, swaying like weeds under water, as though they were waiting, watching.

Luther took a step closer, his torch casting flickering light across the grotesque form. The tentacles, strangely calm, continued their rhythmic dance, giving the creature an almost hypnotic, surreal quality. He could feel its foul presence, a creeping, dark energy that filled the room, threatening to choke him.

He raised his dagger, glancing down at the torch in his hand. This thing, this monstrosity, couldn't be allowed to survive. Whatever foul ritual had created it, he intended to end it, here and now.

"Time to end this," he murmured, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming in his veins.

As he stepped forward, the creature's tentacles began to twitch, reacting to his approach. But this time, Luther didn't back down. He knew its fear, its weakness, and he would exploit it. Holding the torch close to the mass of flesh, he prepared to strike, ready to face whatever horrors might emerge from the darkness.

Luther narrowed his eyes, pressing the flaming hanger against the pulsing, black mass of flesh. The instant the fire touched it, a shrill, inhuman scream filled the room, reverberating off the walls in a way that made his skin crawl. So, it feared fire, he realized, smirking with grim satisfaction. He dug the burning cloth deeper against the creature, rotating the hanger slowly, letting the flames sear the slick, vile surface.

The flesh sizzled, producing a hiss that mingled with its agonized cries. Luther's face twisted into an amused grin as he watched it writhe under the heat. "Fancy a barbecue," he muttered, his tone coldly amused.

Just then, that strange, guttural whispering filled the room again. He froze, senses prickling, and glanced around. Shadows began to shift as bodies littered across the floor began to stir. Slowly, they staggered to their feet, eyes vacant, skin pallid and stretched. From the open wounds that marked their corpses, small, thin tentacles emerged, writhing as if tasting the air.

Luther's smirk faded, replaced by a look of disgust. "Damn it," he muttered, watching the resurrected corpses shuffle toward him. Ignoring the approaching undead, he turned his focus back to the piece of flesh that he'd been roasting. Its surface had turned an angry shade of red under the heat.

"Not done yet, are we?" he growled, pulling out a dagger and driving it down through the center of the flesh, pinning it to the floor with a satisfying thud. But he wasn't finished. Drawing a second dagger, he began slicing small incisions into the mass, prying it open in several places. With a quick flick, he picked up a burning piece of charcoal from the hanger and shoved it into one of the cuts.

The flesh began to smolder, parts of it charring under the intense heat. Another scream erupted, even more piercing than before, the sound edging on desperation. Luther repeated the process, stuffing charcoal into each new incision, until the creature's cries dwindled to pitiful whimpers.

Leaning close, he spat, "If you understand me, stop it. Right now! Leave these bodies alone, you hear me? They deserve peace, not… whatever twisted game this is."

For good measure, he kicked the hunk of flesh, his boot pressing down hard. Behind him, the once-lurching corpses collapsed to the floor, the life or whatever animated force had reanimated them; fading instantly. He exhaled sharply, relieved but annoyed.

"Interesting," he muttered, shaking his head as he wiped his blood-streaked cheek with the back of his hand. "Didn't realize you could understand human language."

He squatted down, eyeing the now-charred lump on the floor with suspicion. "So tell me," he continued, voice laced with a mocking edge. "What in the hell are you?"

The creature didn't respond, not in words anyway. Instead, the blackened mass split slightly in the middle, revealing a smaller, almost pitiful-looking mouth ringed with tiny teeth. A thin tentacle, no thicker than a finger, extended toward him, almost… submissively, and brushed against his gloved hand, as if attempting to lick him like a grateful dog.

Luther recoiled, scrunching his face in revulsion. "Ugh! Why are you licking me?"

The creature didn't stop, its tiny tentacle tracing over his gloved fingers, a grotesque attempt at showing… respect? Submission? Luther wasn't sure, and he was too disgusted to care.

"I'm asking you a question!" he snapped. "What are you? And if you don't answer, I swear I'll turn you into actual charcoal!"

The creature responded with a pathetic series of hisses, but Luther could sense its terror. It seemed to understand him, even if it couldn't speak. Realizing its impending fate, the creature's tentacle licked his glove even more fervently, an urgent, panicked gesture that bordered on the absurd.

He groaned, rolling his eyes. "Enough with the licking! You know what? Forget it. I'll figure out what you are back at the lab. Maybe I can dissect you; learn what's in that rotten brain of yours."

As if on cue, a series of system messages suddenly blinked across his vision.

[Successfully subdued servant creature - Plaguetouch. Acquired racial skill: Blur. Note: A unique entity born from the plague source, possessing trace amounts of the plague.]

[Skill Acquired: Blur. Skill Description: Reduces visibility in certain environments. Note: Due to the host's dominant presence and mastery over Plaguetouch, this skill is now available for activation.]

Luther blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Wait… I've maxed out this thing's respect for me?" he muttered, a mixture of surprise and amusement. "And I get a new skill because of it?"

He turned his gaze back to Plaguetouch, which was still fawning over him, its tentacle timidly reaching up toward his hand as if desperate to prove its loyalty.

"Wow," he said, eyeing it with something close to disbelief. "Looks like you've got a hundred percent admiration for me, huh? You really think I'm something special."

He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he considered the possibilities. His eyes gleamed with a newfound intrigue as he observed the creature's groveling behavior, a dark, calculating expression crossing his face. "Well… guess you might come in handy after all."

Plague touch seemed to sense his approval, and its little tentacle eagerly brushed against his glove again, its pitiful form practically quivering with delight.

"Fine," Luther sighed, suppressing his distaste. "Looks like you're sticking around… for now."