734: Story 734: The Hollow Feast 734: Story 734: The Hollow Feast The Rotting Cathedral trembled as Rothwyn collapsed to his knees.
His breath ca in ragged, uneven gasps, his fingers clawing at his throat.
The infection spread like fire, twisting his insides into sothing wretched.
Selene Nocturna lood over him, her grin widening as his pupils darkened, his body convulsing beneath her spell.
“Do you feel it now?” she whispered, circling him like a patient predator.
“The hunger… gnawing at the edges of your soul?”
Rothwyn gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright.
He wouldn’t surrender—not to her.
With a roar, he thrust his silvered blade forward.
Selene didn’t flinch.
Before the strike could land, the shadows around her thickened, tendrils of decay curling around Rothwyn’s wrist.
The sword trembled in his grip as the veins beneath his skin blackened, the corruption spreading faster.
“Tsk, tsk,” Selene sighed, pressing a gloved hand to his forehead.
“Fighting it only makes it worse, darling.”
A pulse of necrotic energy rippled through his skull.
Rothwyn scread.
Behind them, the Choir of Rot swayed in unison, their withered voices humming a low, sickly tune.
Their sunken eyes burned with hunger.
Selene tilted her head, watching her newest creation take shape.
His armor, once gleaming with holy light, began to rust.
His skin paled, his lips cracked, and his breath ca in slow, agonized hitches.
Then—the first twitch of a smile.
Selene’s grin mirrored his.
“There it is.”
Rothwyn gasped, shuddering.
His hands trembled as he reached toward his own face—his jaw tightening, muscles spasming.
Selene stepped back, watching as his lips peeled into a grotesque grin.
A grin that wasn’t his own.
The Choir of Rot laughed softly, their voices overlapping.
“He sings with us now,” one rasped.
“He feasts with us now,” another crooned.
Selene chuckled, flicking a strand of silvered hair from her face.
“Yes… he does.”
The hunger in Rothwyn’s eyes blazed to life.
His fingers twitched, then clenched into fists.
His gaze lifted to her—not with hatred, but with adoration.
Selene purred, running a gentle hand over his cheek.
“Good boy.”
She turned, walking toward the cathedral doors, her new thrall following in obedient silence.
Beyond the decayed archways, the city of Blackmoor awaited.
The wretched, the faithless, the weak.
All would succumb.
Selene sighed in delight.
“It’s ti for a feast.”
And as the Choir of Rot followed in her wake, the streets of Blackmoor began to scream.
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