There is a story I've heard from my youth about a figure who was changed by the dungeon. A man who delved far too deep. His body warped from the influence of the dungeon depths. It grew twisted and towering, a form built for battle. His mind slowly cracked from the ever present darkness. Maddening by the day. Causing them to lose their sense of self. Turning them into a beast. Slavering for death.
The treasures they took from the dungeon as they returned to the surface were cursed. Or so the story goes. One weapon, a scimitar, whose blade seemed to disappear in the darkness. An unseeable blade of ink that lashed out against impaired foes. Another weapon, a sword built to execute. Sporting only a blade for chopping. I've heard rumors that when that blade is swung, anything and everything in it's arcing path is rent. Even the air screams as it passes. Suffering invisible wounds that suffocate those nearby as they lose balance from the sudden vacuum.
And lastly their face, thought to be a mask from how jarring the man's features are. His eyes, black pits of ink. His mouth agape in an eternal scream. Some rumors say if you catch their visage in the dark your heart will stop. I'm not too sure if any of these rumors are true but...
I've met the man from this story once.
He didn't match the towering description but his face left an everpresent chill in my heart.
He was terrifying. So terrifying that I couldn't pull my eyes away from the inky pits that he looked down on me with. He was silent. Eyeing me up. Learning some truth about me that I was blind to. He gently grabbed my arm and stared
deep into my eyes. I felt like I could see a light screaming in those eyeless sockets.
And then... he left, venturing back into the dungeon depths.
I don't remember seeing any gaps between his face and the mask he wore. I wonder if it hides under their midnight black hair... or if the mask melded with his skin and became his visage.
He usually enters the dungeon with just his scimitar. His shoulders slumped from boredom. The larger blade usually left by a random home in the village. Sioned says she has never seen him wield it, but the worn edges speak another truth all together. One of countless battles against towering threats. Threats that we sisters have never seen before. Threats that the scimitar by his side would be lacking against. I can't help to hope that I never get to see what kind of threats would require him to use that blade.
That blade that devours everything.