Weapon Strikes
Control
The screen flickers to life, your cursor trembling over a pixelated wasteland as static claws at the edges of the monitor. A distorted growl ripples through tinny speakers—*they’re here*. Your finger jams the mouse, rapid-fire clicks firing like panic-gunshots. Neon glyphs explode across the interface, each tap spawning jagged barriers of code to hold back the writhing mass of corruption seeping into the system. "C’mon, c’mon—" you snarl, slamming the keypad as crimson warnings blare. Glitch-tendrils snap through your defenses, fractal teeth gnashing inches from the core. One misclick, one stutter, and the entire network collapses into that hungry, electric maw. Your wrist aches, sweat dripping onto the desk, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not until the last line of code burns bright or the dark swallows everything.
description
The sun dips low, casting long shadows over the cursed ruins of Eldermist. You tighten your grip on the rusted sword at your side—its jagged edge still bears dried blood from the last skirmish. A low growl echoes through the crumbling stone corridors. Your party freezes. The rogue’s fingers flicker toward her daggers; the mage mutters a spell under his breath, faint runes glowing around his wrists. Something moves in the darkness ahead—a pair of glowing crimson eyes, then another, another. Too many. The air reeks of rot and iron. "Well," the dwarf beside you grunts, hefting his warhammer with a toothy grin, "looks like the locals finally rolled out the welcome wagon." No time to strategize. No time to flee. The first creature lunges—a sinewy, clawed horror dripping venom. You swing. Let’s dance.
