A dark hallway stalked by the denizens of Mundus Mortis. Something stirs within the final chamber…
Author: gd
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You Didn’t Die…
…but there are some things worse than death.
You don’t remember anything but the gnashing of teeth and the rending of flesh.
As the muscles, bones, and nerves of your friends’ limbs mend with your own, you feel their final moments of agony seep into your mind. Your wounds burn, ichor oozing from between the sutures binding them. You try to crawl away—somewhere, anywhere—but you discover with swelling terror that all of your strength has abandoned you.
Your resolve crumbles as you writhe in darkness, stripped bare, helpless.
“A fine surgery, truly,” croaks a voice from the shadows. Above you, two glowing, emerald orbs regard your disfigurement with keen interest. The stench of decay is overwhelming as Necrow looms over you.
“There wasn’t much left once Matryoshka had her fill,” he concedes, “But I gathered what I could find and brought it to the Mistress. You were just a ragged lump of meat before, and now look at you… A work of art!”
Twin rows of glistening ivories are exposed in a hideous simulacrum of a smile. A black, bony hand caresses your naked flesh, admiring your trembling frame. Your skin crawls as it slowly inspects every inch of you, piece by piece. Saliva runs from between its owner’s teeth and onto your exposed belly. The foul liquid is colder than anything you’ve ever touched, instantly taking your breath away with a fluttering gasp.
“Such beauty,” he continues, “Should be shared.”
Necrow stands astride you now, the dark magic animating him swirling in the black sockets of his skull. As you muster the will to resist, a sinewy foot presses against your ribs, pinning you to the chamber floor and squeezing the air from your lungs. He slips his hallux claw into your navel, perhaps as a warning.
You can feel it poking inside you.
“Would you indulge me in a dance?” he asks coyly, his head turning a full circle on his elongated neck as he leans in closer. “I am something of a connoisseur of the flesh, and yours has stirred within me a most bothersome fascination.”
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No Escape.
MISTRESS
Eye-melting full-color graphics! Blood-curdling stereo sound! Four zones of unspeakable terror! Delve into the darkness of Mundus Mortis in search of fame and fortune, but keep your wits about you: This dungeon is the domain of the dread lich queen, Grizelda, and her legions of undead minions! Will you defeat her and save humanity? Or will you fall into her clutches like all the rest?
Playable with mouse and/or keyboard. Compatible with 68k/PowerPC processors. Requires 66 MB storage space, 8 MB RAM. Available on disk or CD.
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The Ranger, or: A Primer on Mundus Mortis, Part Two.
There was an age, now long since passed, when hope prevailed. In the days when Grizelda first made her ambitions known, fierce resistance broke the waves of her rising tide of evil. But as these mortal men and women eventually grew old and feeble, Grizelda only continued to grow in power.
Her nightmarish cult had swollen in number, as well—despite the torment stirred in the wake of her Grand Experiment, the power of her ichor was impossible for the weak-willed to resist. They gladly fought and died for her, and when they fell, she stitched their corpses into a patchwork legion that continued to serve her will in undeath.
Surely some brave remnants of humanity still linger? A band of valiant adventurers, each with abilities complimenting those of their allies, should certainly be capable of breaking the lich queen’s dark spell… Or so it’s been said.
Gasping for air as he sat hiding behind a crumbling stone column, Rufus Swift felt the walls closing in. His left shoulder was gushing from the razor slice of his assailant’s slender arm, still coated in hot crimson. He could hear her chittering nearby as he desperately fumbled through his pack for what remained of the medical supplies. He was losing the feeling in his fingers, and he knew the crushing fatigue creeping into his eyelids meant that it wouldn’t be long until he succumbed to his injury. His garments were becoming heavy as they soaked with his escaping essence.
“Don’t be shy,” Vorpal chirped, licking his blood from the length of her bladed forearm, gurgling as it ran down her throat. Her head swiveled on her neck as she scanned the morgue’s examination chamber for her final victim.
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Bound by Flesh. [5/?]
It was a curious thing, to suddenly become more than oneself. Like a weed taking root, the new flesh wove its way through her, so entangling itself with the host that it was impossible to say where one ended and the other began. The vessel had been fully assimilated, reshaping what was once the broken body of a true believer into the playground of an ancient power.
Grizelda felt old wounds mend as the glowing ichor worked its sinister magic. Her nerves were electrified as it coursed through her veins. Flesh that was limp from age and abuse became supple, as if returned to youth. Her mind, previously the rubble of her predecessor’s obsession, had been completely resculpted. She flipped through the Doctor’s knowledge like a book, digesting the entirety of her being into little more than a footnote in her own compendium. The vast library that had once threatened to collapse under its own weight was now expanding.
Inside her, the tentacles licked and caressed. Her rejuvenated muscle and bone were delectable to these demonic tongues. As they explored her organs, supping on the last of the blood pumped by the former owner, they had also begun to change. It was imperceptible to a creature whose existence had only been without form; incarnation was strange to something so accustomed to intangibility. But this attachment had become more than physical—Grizelda was utterly smitten.
A world of bliss had opened its tender lips to her; ten millennia were not enough to prepare her for enslavement to her own desires. The Doctor’s mania had infiltrated her eldritch thinking, slipping through the fortifications that had granted immunity to such foolish mortal sentiment. Indulging these whims, relinquishing control—even for a moment—felt dangerous. She knew the longing would give way to even more vexing emotions, but the gates had already been breached. The vaults of this conquered fortress were hers to plunder, and for a time, she reveled in the spoils.
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Containment Breach.
Vorpal showing off her container. She doesn’t know what a “meme” is, but she’s decided she’s gonna eat one.
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The Adamantine Ficron. [4/?]
Its existence was an enigma. The brilliant, glassy surface of the biface’s blade seemed to enclose the cosmos, glittering even in the absence of light. The rough, cloudy base fit so snugly in Doctor Grau’s palm that it felt as though it had been carved for her hand alone. As soon as she touched it, she could sense the odious magic contained within its impossible edge. The intentions of its creator had long since been forgotten, but there was no mistaking it—this curious tool would easily cut through the bindings of her imperfect vessel.
What brought her to those crumbling ruins? Somewhere within her addled brains, she felt the pull of a distant memory; it beckoned her from the shadows of a thousand ancient lifetimes. She had never set foot there, and yet she knew the location intuitively. The worn stones of its crypt had a peculiar familiarity that drew her deeper, as if welcoming her back from a long absence. Unable to discern her own experiences from those bestowed by her benefactor, Doctor Grau allowed herself to be led.
As the shadow inside her took the reins, she felt a pitch black calm envelop her mind, folding it into a darkness devoid of the chaos and noise that gnawed at her thoughts for so many years. In that moment, suddenly alone in the vast silence, she found herself filled with relief. There was fear, as well, knowing that this seduction would soon conclude with the complete surrender of her body, but it was tempered with the knowledge that these earthly concerns were only temporary.
The Doctor’s finest operation was the excision of her soul. Removing it with the ficron and encasing it in a phylactery of her own creation, Hildegard Grau ceased to exist. Something else now resided within her corporeal form: A wet, writhing mass that possessed all of her memories and knowledge, but none of her mortal weaknesses. As it devoured the remains of her fractured mind, it made a nest within her hollowed skull, extending its tentacles throughout every inch of her body. Its burning ichor filled her, changing her, and they became one.
It decided to be reborn as Grizelda, knowing its patience would be rewarded.
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Welcome to the World of MISTRESS.
Happy Halloween from the cast of MISTRESS!
All tricks, no treats… except YOU. You’re the treat.
