Seventh leaned heavily on the mossy stone of the well. He, Fang-Knife, and the new undead had run for their lives— or in Seventh's case, hobbled— away from the gate and the carnage they left behind.

  Even if he tried to remember, Seventh only had a vague recollection of moving through the corridors, dashing through the halls, and sprinting down the stairs. Everything was just flashes and blur.

  He felt the back of his head. Dried blood and tender new skin. Concussion? There was brain leakage at some point— right?

  He could feel his splintered left leg straining under his full unsupported weight. The right ankle wasn't much better. It was sticking out at an unnatural angle and making an ominous snapping sound when walking.

  His body was covered in filth. Blood of his enemies. Dust and ash of used bodies. He felt the grainy particles in his armor, between his fingers, even in his wounds.

  He could still taste it. He could feel the weight.

  The bucket splashed in the well, and Seventh lifted it up. This time he didn't drink, not yet anyway. He splashed the cold liquid on his face, soaked his clothes and armor by tipping the bucket upside down overhead. Water mixed in— making sticky, greyish-red mud.

  Seventh rubbed it off with his bare hands. All that he could anyway. It took several buckets to clean himself. Wash away the failure. The pain.

  Dropping the empty bucket to the ground, Seventh leaned again— heavily— on the well. There was filthy water seeping below gravel. Trying to calm himself, he took a deep breath. Down below, he could see his reflection on the water's surface.

  Sliding down against the stone, Seventh sat on the gravel. The battle. The ratkin were aware of them. That wasn't just a hunting party, it was an eradication force. A small army led by one of their elites.

  Sent to kill him. And everybody else.

  Adam, Charles, Dylan, Eric, Frank, George.

  Seventh took several sharp, short breaths through his nose. It didn't help either. Shouldn't breathing help? He knew it should help.

  He had led them there. It wasn't the ratkin's fault.

  “NO! It is! Without them any of this wouldn't have happened! They would be alive!” he yelled out loud. Multiple undead turned to stare at him. Including Fang-Knife.

  Seventh spat out an order in anger. “LOOK AWAY!”

  All eyes turned away from him, and he didn't have to look at his party's killers in the eye. Or the disapproving glare of Fang-Knife.

  He had five minions now. So much smaller group, even counting him and Fang-Knife to the total.

  Seventh laughed at the joke. Seven. He felt his minions shifting around, wanting to look their master losing his mind.

  "GODSDAMNIT! FUCKING FUCKFUCKFUCK! SHIT!" he yelled, picked up a handful of gravel, and threw it all at the stone wall left of him, making the gravel bounce from the wall and scatter all around. "Damn it all."

  Something nagged back at his mind. His head throbbed.

  Seventh started to take stock of what he had. Spells and skills. Attributes. Nothing can take those away from him.

  And still, he would gladly give all away to get back his brothers-in-arms. Lowering his head, he saw his sprawling legs. They were ruined mess, needing a lot of care before becoming something useful to him again.

  Seventh didn't know anymore how many potions the party— no, the group had. Before, he could know it at the drop of a hat, but not now. How many potions it would take to fix all of this? There probably was one or two left in Fang-Knife's pouch.

  Immoral mathematics at work. Balancing potions and life. Pushing the inevitable just a moment further, one percentage at a time.

  Seventh let out a sigh of frustration. A hole somewhere made it whistle a little. "First thing first, let's straighten up that ankle."

  Reaching for his boot, he saw his hand. His rotting, undead hand. Missing fingers, stumps in place of full fingers. Desperately trying to suck air in.

  He didn't need air. He wasn't alive, not even close. He had always been dead.

  Desperately, Seventh tried to suck air in. A hole in his chest started to whistle loudly. He was stabbed there! His heart! There was no heartbeat. No blood to pump. He didn't breathe, he didn't bleed.

  He wasn't alive. He was hollow. Had always been.

  Trying to take shallow breaths, Seventh slid on his side, desperate for air.

  "Excuse me? If it all matters to you, would you kindly not soil my house?" an annoyed voice echoed.

  Seventh's eyes flickered open— when did he close them?— and reflexively collected mana to his arm for a fight— pushing all other thoughts away.

  The well was gone. The gravel, the blood, even the mosaic sky. In their place was stone and silence.

  He was sitting in a room made of dark stone, across a small stone altar placed on a low platform. Or a wide, heightened step.

  Four stone pillars supported a domed ceiling. The room was barely fifty by fifty feet making it cramped, bordering on claustrophobic. A handful of gravel littered the otherwise clean floor.

  Slowly, Seventh moved his gaze around. Had he hallucinated the voice? Where was he? Had he wandered around? Had his mind finally run out of all sanity? He wouldn't be surprised. He would welcome blissful insanity instead of— cold feelings.

  Still preparing to fire Shadowbolt, he slowly got himself back up by leaning heavily on the wall. The stone was coarse, cool to the touch.

  There were faint carvings on the stone, but time had smoothed the hard edges of chisel away. Tiny humanoids surrounding different kinds of monsters. In the dome monsters transformed into gigantic walking apocalypses. The ceiling looked like a mouth of a monster, preparing to gulp him down in a single bite.

  Instinct told him he hadn't hallucinated, he wasn't that crazy. There was too much detail, too much feeling. And something was in there with him.

  Behind the pillars? The altar?

  Slowly dragging his feet, Seventh circled around the room finding nothing, but a lone ray of silvery light shining on the altar, on a single symbol. Antlers growing from a thorny infinity symbol.

  Still, he felt the presence. Lurking around just beyond his field of vision. No, not beyond. He could barely see a blurry shape.

  With a jerking motion, he spun around, blasting his magic towards the shape. The bolt was dodged with unnatural speed by a twisting motion to an unnatural angle.

  "Hey, that was pretty close!" the voice said, happily this time. Seventh fired another bolt. It was dodged again.

  The shape was a man. Filthy brown hair wildly matted in every direction, leather armor covered in gods knew what, and most limbs horribly mutilated. Sunken bright yellow eyes, and a mouth with too many teeth.

  A bestial copy of Seventh was smiling while dodging Seventh's barrage of spells. Moving smoothly even both legs busted, creating a macabre dance. While firing, Seventh drew his newly looted axe.

  His copy seemed to know where Seventh was firing, and easily dodged by stopping mid-movement, causing a miss or twisted its body in wild, impossible ways to spring behind cover at the pillars. Just to sprint in the open on all-fours. Starting dodging again.

  Laughing echoed in the small room while Seventh's mana slowly depleted.

  Firing his last bolt— it was dodged— Seventh lifted the axe and charged at the thing. His attack was halted by a strong hand grasping the handle. The sharp edge was just an inch away from the bestial face.

  A bestial copy of his own face was staring at him. "Feel better?" his own voice asked. No, not his own voice. There was a deep, animalistic timbre in the background.

  "Physical activity is a great way to clear your mind! Especially if you drain all mana, brings clarity, purity of a soul," the thing said.

  Seventh answered by breathing heavily, eyes staring right into yellow eyes. There was a long, narrow vertical pupil. To the thing's credit, Seventh actually did feel better.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  He almost forgot he was slowly decaying and falling into pieces.

  "What— are you," Seventh finally said. Hands still pushing the axe forward. It felt like trying to move a boulder with a twig.

  "He speaks!" happy voice exclaimed. "So what brings you to my house? Is it wisdom you seek? Power? Fate? Two left feet?"

  Seventh gave his double a blank look. “I didn't come here. Where even are we?”

  “Closer than you think. Far enough nobody can listen to us. ”

  “Closer to...what?” Seventh asked.

  There was a sigh and a look of annoyance. “Where you originally were. Obviously. Just a teeny tiny push through the door.”

  Seventh furrowed his brow and stared at the thing silently.

  “Divine Essence is a bit tight. No long-distance miracles. Just nudged you through the right door, ” the thing said, and pointed behind Seventh.

  Before he even realized it, Seventh turned his head— and there it was. A simple wooden double door. Exactly where he was sitting and leaning on stone before. He could remember the texture.

  He turned back to face his conversation companion. “But that's where I—“ Seventh started to speak, his axe's head was missing.

  His double was multiple feet away, waving his hand.

  Seventh took a step back. He wasn't sure what was happening or what the thing was.

  “Right! A low-budget epiphany time!" the thing muttered before coughing to clear its throat. He lifted his hands like an actor greeting his audience on a grand stage.

  "I am the God of Hunting, Monsters!" the so-called god proclaimed with glee, aiming for theatrical boom-god-voice. All he did was slightly echoy voice too impolite for indoor use.

  Seventh fired another Shadowbolt at him. It missed.

  "The audacity! In my temple!" Hunting huffed in mock anger. "Love the spunk, but man, you are a wreck," he continued while gesturing his own body of Seventh.

  With a single step the god moved right beside Seventh. "All it needs to fall apart is. Just. Tiny. Tap," he said while making a small poke on Seventh's shoulder.

  He felt a jolt of pain avalanching through his body, snapping the final sliver of his left femur to pieces. Seventh crumpled down like a sack of rotten potatoes. Pained scream escaped from his mouth.

  He tried to hit the god with the axe handle, but missed miserably.

  "Are we done now? No more magical bolts flying towards my head? We ready to talk?" the god asked while squatting on his altar. Seventh hadn't noticed how he moved there. That was moving dozens of feet in a split of a second.

  Seventh groaned from the floor. "Come closer so I can properly try to hit you."

  The god chuckled.

  "Are you really a god?"

  "Yes, of course. Didn't you hear the booming sound and all?"

  Seventh gave the god a slow nod. This had happened way too fast. Just a moment ago he was at the well, trying to gather himself together. Now there was a raving trickster wearing his face and claiming to be divine.

  Hunting waited patiently, perching on his smooth stone altar. Seventh could feel the intense stare even while not looking directly at the god.

  It wouldn't hurt to speak. Right?

  "You asked what do I want?" he finally asked.

  "Yeeees," Hunting answered, clearly getting excited.

  "Why do you want to help me?" Seventh asked.

  “Simple, that's my job. To help the poor mortals with their lives. Granting boons and banes alike,” Hunting said while smoothly raising to attention.

  Seventh nodded at the answer. “And you just— what— kidnap people and offer salvation? Just like that?”

  “Just. Like. That,” Hunting said, emphasizing the last word with a snap of his fingers. He had long, curved nails.

  Odd. Ten fingers. Why not copy the damage, Seventh thought.

  Keeping his only weapon still aimed at Hunting, Seventh hoisted himself up, trying to sit. “Can you even help me? You said something about low Essence, and I—”

  In an instant, Hunting moved inches away from Seventh's face, staring him deep into his eyes. The god seemed to stare right into his soul. As well as Seventh knew, he actually was.

  Up close, Seventh could see long and sharp teeth. The breath smelled like a fresh kill in a meadow.

  “You think my 'low budget' makes me weak? I've killed worlds with less,” Hunting quietly hissed.

  Seventh gulped. “I— didn't mean to disrespect. You just— seem a little... eh, desperate?” he said in a tiny voice next to a god.

  Hunting gave Seventh an incredulous glare. “Pots and kettles— so on, so forth— you know.”

  The talk was starting to slip. Seventh had to say something to appease the god. He gulped to clear his throat.

  “I want out,” he blurted out quickly. “With Fang-Knife. Out of the dungeon.”

  Hunting raised an eyebrow in surprise. He leaned back. Further away from Seventh's face.

  “That might be doable, oh yes. But!” Hunting said and clapped his hands together and pointed them at Seventh.”

  "I want you to help me help you," the god continued. “No freebies. You get to work for your final salvation.”

  Seventh blinked once.

  The god stood up slowly while talking. "You have been doing well. And I have been watching. I see everyone who finds my door. Especially if by accident."

  "You had a small tumble. That's all. We all need a little help to get up every once in a while," Hunting continued while circling Seventh slowly.

  "I can fix you. Legs, arm, your mind, even that rotting body," he whispered behind him. "And the best part? All it takes is to do what you already do— killing monsters, but now with strings attached!"

  The sound seemed to move all around him, surrounding him.

  Seventh laughed. “I have heard that one before! What next? A handshake?” He waved with his three-fingered right hand.

  "Nothing so— pedestrian, but I'll leave a taste of things to come. And my contact info."

  A window crackled into Seventh's view. Unlike others, it was deep-green with golden text. The text faded out for a second before snapping back on and seemed... electric, almost alive. The text glowed, and big fat sparks fell to the ground, twinkling out of existence. Seventh could feel the heat.

  ╔╦══╩╦╬╩═╦╩╦╦ ╩▄? *

  ╠   NEW QU ES T  ║ ╠╦╣▄ |

  ╚ ╦╩╬═╦╩╬╗╔╩╣ ╗╝ ║ █ * *

  K?ll the umbrefel.

  Timel?ne: 7 days

  Progres-s: 0/1

  Rew@rd: Poti?n, Special God of Hunting, Monsters Edition

  ═══════╬══╩╔╔╦══╬╦▓

  There wasn't a button to close the window, no button to accept the quest, no little X on the corner. Nothing. Not even mental commands worked.

  Waving the box away highlighted the new tab in his vision. It was next to the Log, and clicking it showed his only quest but in the normal blue coloring. And with little X in the corner.

  “Hey— I didn't accept anything!” Seventh yelled, and turned his head to face the god.

  But the God of Hunting, Monsters had disappeared. Looking around he could see a small bottle on the altar. Basking in clean silvery light.

  Seventh had to crawl for the altar. His left leg was destroyed by the god's small tap, and he didn't trust his other leg enough to put his full weight on it.

  The bottle made of clear crystal, decorated with tiny vines and floral patterns. It seemed fragile, like it could break by just holding it. The cork was covered with green wax.

  Seventh lifted it up against the light. The deep-red liquid didn't let any light through. It was warm to the touch.

  He used Identify.

  Seventh groaned. “Well... fuck you too. 'This is a potion'... I know it is a potion, I want to know what it does!” He complained loudly to the empty stone room.

  There was no answer in the silence and Seventh took a deep breath in. If a god wanted him dead, he would have done it already and hadn't bothered with some weird potion.

  he thought.

  What also drew Seventh's attention was the name. The syntax was— broken, there was a comma in the god's name. Seventh shrugged, making his shoulders snap and creak in protest.

  Oh crap, I need to drink this before I disintegrate.

  Seventh tore the wax and cork off with his teeth, and peered suspiciously in the bottle. It smelled of deep earth and herbs. The taste wasn't bad either. Like spicy, cold mint-tea.

  Immediately, his right ankle snapped to the right position and the grating bones in his left leg melded together. Stretching into a working bone.

  And it burned. Every vein in his body felt like molten metal was coursing through him. Searing everything under his skin.

  Seventh grunted. He yelled. Bit his teeth together and curled up. The burn lasted for hours. Or so it felt like.

  Slowly, Seventh felt his body cool off.

  He wanted to vomit, but he hadn't eaten in days. Weeks.

  When checking his legs by poking, Seventh saw that he still had only eight fingers. Right hand was still short by two, and the skin looked— healthy. Deadly pale, but it had lost the bruised black, yellow and green tint.

  "Okay, so. I'm gonna go, to kill an umbrefel— whatever that is," he mumbled to the empty room.

  Seventh marched to the door and pushed it open. He froze when plaster and pieces of broken mosaic fell to the ground. He had opened the wooden “wall” hidden behind the now even more broken mosaic.

  He made an apologetic grimace, and looked over his shoulder. The small temple stayed empty and silent.

  Fang-Knife and others were gathered next to the well, looking at the spot where Seventh sat.

  “Okay boys,” Seventh said and walked to the well. “I can't have you lot walk around the dungeon all ashed up. Bath time.”

  Fang-Knife's hands gripped his knives and he stood tall to his full height, then made a retching sound.

  “Good to know you volunteered to be the first one,” Seventh said, and threw the bucket down the well. While pulling it up, he made a careful glance at the closed door.

  In the temple, golden eyes followed Seventh through plaster and stone. While chuckling at the scene, he felt a familiar presence descend next to him

  "That body, do you recognize it?" Hunting asked.

  His guest was clothed in the blackest crepe mourning costume. A silken veil covered her face.

  "No, common as dirt. Boring death with no excitement, glory or valor," a voice as clear as a steam beneath ice answered. “Why are we looking at an undead infestation?”

  Hunting made a huge smile with Seventh's face. "Did you notice that undead— a soulless flesh puppet— actually has a soul?"

  Veiled head snapped sharply to stare at Hunting. "No, I did not. Care to elaborate?" a voice clear as a winter midnight whispered.

  Hunting grinned. "Nooope, more fun that way."

  There was a heavy sigh, more refreshing than a cool summer breeze with a hint of the winter's snows to come. "Please? For me?"

  "Okay! A nibble for you— just because I like your work," Hunting chuckled. "That soul banging around in that undead? Beyond ancient. Maybe even from the age of the Reform itself!"

  There was sheer excitement in the god's voice. "Never have I seen one with such... vintage. I reckon we either have a very interesting playmate or... veeery interesting playmate."

  Hunting's guest turned her eyes towards Seventh. He had made a system where one ratkin stood next to the well and was constantly barraged with bucketfuls of water lifted up by others.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Hunting's smile was too full of sharp teeth of unusual size for the maw they belonged. "Just a pup— mind you— but interesting. I'll ping you if it survives long enough for a second visit. Might be fun to watch."

  "Thank you for sharing," the chilly voice of the arctic ice whispered. "I'll wait for your invitation to eavesdrop in anticipation."

  "You know me— always one for icy women and lingering stares," Hunting chuckled to himself, the temple as empty as it was before Seventh stumbled upon it.

  Whooo!

  Also, colored text, yay or nay? I haven't found a good way to make different colored system boxes so this is what we get for now.