The Lich Catacombs were never intended to be a dining hall. The air was a heavy, suffocating blanket of damp obsidian and ancient rot, illuminated only by the rhythmic, sickly pulse of purple moss clinging to the jagged stone ribs of the chamber. It felt like standing inside the ribcage of a dead god. Liam stood at the centre of this nightmare, his shredded armour straining against his frame, the only thing standing between his party and a permanent "Game Over."
"I don't know what that is," Liam thought, staring at the Eastern passage.
The thought arrived with a cold clarity that bypassed his chef's instincts. He didn't know its stats, its loot table, or if his legendary soup could even scratch its hide. The creature that stepped into the moss-light was a tectonic shift of flesh and chitin, armoured plating, too many limbs, and voids for eyes that reflected the purple glow like shattered glass.
It opened its mouth.
