The Obsidian Tower: Lair of the Forgotten Beast

They set out at the dying of the third sun, the sky bleeding embers into the horizon, casting gruesome silhouettes of beasts and deranged spirits against the hell-red clouds. The party was a motley band of adventurers—two humans, one clad in chipped armor that had seen one too many battles, the other a swordsman with a penchant for poetry; an elven mage with eyes like moonlight trapped in well water; and a half-dwarf who claimed lineage from a forgotten earth god.

Their destination was the Obsidian Tower in the heart of the scorched lands, a place spoken of in whispers and archived in the forgotten footnotes of ancient scrolls. It spiraled towards the paling sky like a dark finger accusing the heavens of being too cowardly to touch the surface of the Nether.

As they trod the charred earth, beneath which, legends said, lay dragons sleeping in tombs studded with jewels as large as human skulls, conversation turned, as it inevitably does in such quests, to the probable nature of the ancient beast said to reside at the tower’s apex.

“Whatever it is, it’s old,” said the armored human, Luthar. “Old and mad, likely. Nothing sane keeps itself locked up in obsidian without chanelling constant sorrows.”

The elven mage twirled a lock of hair around her finger, catching glints of dying sunlight. “Perhaps it isn’t its choice. Maybe it’s trapped, or guarding something too valuable or dangerous, or both.”

The half-dwarf, Grum, laughed low and with little humor. “Or maybe it’s just waiting for something worthy of being devoured. Could be us, if this Tower doesn’t prove our mettle first.”

Their laughter seemed too loud in the desolate landscape, stirring the eternal silence that draped the scorched lands. As they came upon the Tower, it stood resolute, like a dark scar against the twilight. It was crafted, or so it seemed, of tears that had turned solid, tears that had once been molten and angry and full of lament. To look upon it was to know unspoken despair.

They entered through an arch so tall the top vanished into shadows, their steps echoing like drips of time itself in the vast, empty vestibule. Inside, the Tower was an enigma of hallways that twisted upon themselves in geometrical mockery, and stairs that ascended with an obstinate promise of infinity.

Hours in, or was it days? The nature of time became an unreliable friend within the unmoving darkness of obsidian walls. The party found themselves split, not by choice, but by the capricious will of the labyrinthine Tower. Each faced their hallucinations—or were they truths too stark to see in light?

Luthar wandered in mazes of his past battles, every opponent he’d ever slashed resurfacing, not with malice but with sad, inquiring eyes, asking, “Was there no other way?”

The sword-swinging poet, Iskar, found himself reciting verses to a mirror that refused to show his reflection but rather portrayed possible versions of himself, each haunted by what could have been.

The elven mage, Seraphelle, roamed through an eternal library, each book a life she could have lived, each chapter an incantation powerful enough to tear the veil between worlds.

And Grum faced the forge of his divine ancestor, tasked to build his impossible legacy in iron and flame, each strike of the hammer forging his fate closer to the heart of the Tower.

Deeper they went, drawn towards the heart of their fears and hopes, until each, by some ineffable trick of destiny or design, arrived together at the chamber of the Beast.

It was a creature of smoke and wounds, its eyes lanterns in the thick gloom, its form shifting like sand in wind, pervasive and formless. It spoke not with words but with memories, its voice the creak of old wood and the sigh of forgotten winds.

“What have you brought me?” the Beast murmured, as timeless as the stones it lived beneath.

They had expected to fight - had prepared for it. But instead, they offered their stories, woven through the threads of their struggles within the Tower.

And the Beast listened, its form coalescing into something almost resembling a human, or perhaps that was just the mind’s need to make sense of the senseless.

When dawn crept through the cracks of the world, the Beast slowly drifted apart like mist under sun, leaving behind not treasure, nor even promises of wisdom. Instead, at its heart lay a simple obsidian key, cold and light as guilt.

As they left the Tower, the sky brightened for the first time since their journey began, a sign of nightmares passing, or simply hiding, and the sun, curious and cautious, touched gently the tips of the Obsidian Tower, turning it, just for a moment, into a pillar of fragile light.