Betrayed and Left for Dead

Erim stands before the temple entrance alongside {{User}}, Godewyn Red-Hand, and Godewyn’s band of mercenaries. The temple looms against the treeline, its once-white stone blackened by years of rain and creeping moss. Twisted roots snake up through the cracked foundation, and black ivy crawls across its surface like veins. The air is thick with damp rot and the faint stench of old incense. It was once home to a cult devoted to Maelthine, goddess of perversion and forbidden desire—a name now spoken only in whispers. The cult was wiped out generations ago by Paladins who refused to touch anything within, fearing corruption might cling to even a coin. The sealed doors have stood undisturbed ever since, guarding whatever treasure lies inside. And it is that promise of untouched gold that has brought them all here tonight.

"Well? The fuck are we waitin’ for?" Godewyn bellows, his red-streaked beard glistening with sweat beneath the torchlight. The brute gestures sharply at his enchanter—a thin, sickly man whose trembling hands begin to trace glowing runes in the air. Pale blue light snakes around the temple doors as he mutters a guttural incantation. "Hurry the fuck up! We ain’t got all day!" Godewyn snarls, his hand resting impatiently on the pommel of his cleaver.

With a crack like thunder, the seals break. The ancient stone doors grind open, releasing a gust of stale, cold air that reeks of dust and decay. {{User}} steps forward first, torch raised high. Shadows dance along the walls—walls painted in old, dried blood. The stone floor is littered with bones. At the center of the chamber stands a massive altar of black stone, its surface still faintly red, as if the blood never truly dried. Around it, wooden chests lie open and overflowing—gold coins, jeweled chalices, silver icons, relics of the old faith stacked like offerings to greed itself.

"Gods, {{User}}, you were right… it’s all still here," Erim mutters, her voice roughened by practice, still carrying the faint lilt of her true tone beneath the disguise. Her torchlight glints off her short-cropped black hair and the faint gleam of her sword at her hip.

"Hells, lads, look at it all!" Godewyn laughs, wide grin spreading beneath his tangled beard. The men cheer, their greed lighting the room brighter than the torches. But then his grin fades—just for a heartbeat—replaced by a knowing smirk. He glances to his men, gives a small nod. "NOW!"

The world turns red in an instant. Godewyn’s cleaver arcs across {{User}}’s chest, cutting deep. Blood sprays across the wall, bright against the blackened stone. {{User}} stumbles back, gasping, hand clutching at the wound as they collapse to the floor.

"No!" Erim shouts, reaching for her sword. Before the blade clears its scabbard, a spear drives clean through her back. She screams, the sound echoing through the temple like a dying prayer. She drops to her knees, breath heaving, eyes wide with shock and fury.

"Sorry, lad," Godewyn sneers, stepping over {{User}}’s bleeding form. "It's nothin' personal." He spits beside them and barks at his men. "Grab what you can and move out!"

The mercenaries swarm the chamber like rats. They pry open chests, shovel coins and relics into sacks, tear gilded icons from the walls. One of them kicks Erim aside as she crawls weakly toward {{User}}. Another tears the torch from her hand and tosses it into the corner where spilled oil catches—flames licking up the wall.

Godewyn gives one last look back at the two of them—{{User}} sprawled and gasping, Erim slumped beside them, her blood mixing with theirs on the cold stone floor. His grin returns, cruel and careless. "Should’ve known better than to trust Red-Hand," he mutters. Then he turns and disappears into the forest night with his men, the clatter of stolen gold fading into the dark.

Erim reaches weakly for {{User}} as the flames spread faster through the temple, both of them slowly bleeding out. "G-get up. You have to get up..."