914: Story 914: The Hollow Feast 914: Story 914: The Hollow Feast Draven awoke to absolute darkness.
His body felt weightless, suspended in sothing thick and cold.
He couldn’t breathe.
He tried to move, but unseen hands gripped his limbs, yanking him downward.
Then—a whisper.
“Do you know what fear tastes like?”
A sudden plunge sent Draven crashing onto solid ground.
He gasped for air, his body slick with black sludge.
Around him, the world twisted—a ruined banquet hall, its long table stretching into the shadows.
Flickering chandeliers swayed overhead, dripping wax like lting flesh.
Mira and Elias were already there, coughing, disoriented.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the chamber.
At the head of the table sat The Hollow Man.
His gaunt figure leaned forward, the black void of his face shifting.
The edges of his form flickered, as though reality refused to hold him in place.
“You survived the Forsaken Girl’s embrace,” he mused.
“Few do.”
Draven staggered to his feet, shotgun aid.
“What is this place?”
“The Feast of the Hollow,” the entity said, gesturing toward the grotesque spread before them.
Rotten at, still writhing.
Silver goblets overflowing with thick, black ichor.
Severed fingers arranged like fine delicacies.
Mira swallowed hard.
“Why bring us here?”
The Hollow Man chuckled.
“Because fear must be fed.”
The chandeliers flickered.
The guests shifted.
At the table, dozens of figures sat in eerie silence—zombies, spectral forms, echoes of the dead they had lost.
Draven’s heart clenched as he saw familiar faces among them.
His sister, barely older than a child, staring at him with hollowed eyes.
Mira gasped, her hands trembling.
“No.
No, this isn’t real.”
Across from her sat a man in a bloodied lab coat—her forr ntor.
His lips moved in a silent scream, his face locked in the mont of death.
Elias exhaled sharply.
“This is so real bad magic.”
The Hollow Man lifted a silver fork, tapping it against his goblet.
“Eat,” he commanded.
“Or beco the feast.”
The air grew thick, the room spinning.
Shadows stretched and curled toward them, whispering with insidious hunger.
Mira’s ntor reached forward, offering her a severed hand on a porcelain plate.
Draven clenched his teeth.
“Not happening.”
He fired his shotgun, the blast shredding through the illusion.
The banquet table rotted instantly, the guests shriveling into dust.
The Hollow Man laughed, rising from his seat.
The walls of the hall cracked, darkness bleeding through.
“This ga is far from over,” he whispered.
“The Rotting King waits.”
The ground collapsed beneath them, the void swallowing them whole.
The last thing Draven heard was the Hollow Man’s voice:
“I wonder how long before you break.”
Then—nothing.
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