The World of Scars: A Grimdark Dungeon World

The wind howled across the Whispering Dunes, its voice a tormented wail as it carried the scent of rust and decay. Beneath the fractured sky, where the remnants of long-dead storms still smoldered in the heavens, a lone figure pressed forward. Cloaked in tattered leathers reinforced with scavenged plates, Saren Wolfbane narrowed his eyes against the grit-filled gale, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade—a wicked thing of serrated steel, forged in the dying embers of a forgotten forge.

The ruins of Varkhesh loomed ahead, a corpse of a city that had once stood defiant before the Cataclysm. Its bones jutted skyward, broken towers clawing at the storm-ridden clouds, its streets choked with the remnants of the past. Statues of long-dead rulers lay shattered, their faces weathered beyond recognition, their names swallowed by time. Yet Varkhesh was not truly dead. Not yet.

Saren knew better than to believe in silence. In the wasteland, silence was never empty—it was the breath before the scream, the pause before the kill. He tightened his grip on his blade and glanced at his companion, a wiry figure draped in the shifting, smoke-colored robes of the Whisperers.

"This place stinks of death, " Saren muttered.

The Whisperer beside him tilted his masked head. "All places do, these days." The voice behind the mask was hollow, like echoes bouncing from unseen corners. The psychic's robes stirred in the wind, the faint glow of his eyes visible beneath the dark slits of his mask. "But this city is different. Something lingers. A whisper beneath the bones."

Saren exhaled, steam curling from his breath. "That's what worries me."

The pair stepped past a toppled obelisk, its once-grand inscriptions reduced to a language of cracks and dust. Somewhere in the distance, a low growl reverberated through the ruins. Not the wind. Not the echoes of a dying world. Something alive. Something waiting.

They weren't alone.

Saren raised a fist, and the Whisperer halted. In the dim light filtering through the ever-present clouds, shapes moved among the wreckage—shadows slipping between crumbling archways, figures that did not belong to the ruins themselves. Saren's lips curled back. Raiders. Scavengers. Or worse.

A glint of metal betrayed them before their voices did.

"Dominion scouts," the Whisperer murmured. "They hunt for survivors."

Saren's pulse quickened. The Solar Dominion had eyes everywhere, seeking to crush resistance before it could fester. Here, in the grave of a fallen city, they had come like vultures, hoping to pick through bones that did not belong to them.

A sharp whistle cut through the air—one of the Dominion scouts signaling his brethren. The shadows stirred, growing more defined. Five, maybe six of them. Armed. Hungry for a fight.

Saren grinned. "Then we'll give them one."

Before the Whisperer could protest, he surged forward, blade in hand. The first scout barely had time to turn before Saren's weapon found flesh, the serrated edge carving through the man's throat in a spray of crimson. The others reacted, drawing their weapons, but Saren was already moving, his body a blur of violence.

The Whisperer moved with practiced ease, lifting a gloved hand. The air crackled, and suddenly the Dominion warriors staggered, clutching their heads as if an invisible claw had reached into their minds. One screamed, dropping to his knees as blood trickled from his nose. Another twisted violently before collapsing, his own psyche betraying him.

Saren wasted no time dispatching the rest.

Within moments, the ruins fell into silence once more, the bodies of Dominion scouts cooling against the dust-choked stone.

The Whisperer turned to Saren. "That was reckless."

Saren wiped his blade on a fallen soldier's cloak. "That was necessary. They would have sent word back to their masters. Now they won't."

The Whisperer did not argue. Instead, his gaze turned towards the depths of Varkhesh, where the ruins swallowed light and the air itself felt heavier, like the weight of forgotten things pressing down upon them.

"What we seek is deeper within. And we are not the only ones searching."

Saren followed his gaze. Beyond the ruins, past the wreckage and the bones, something ancient slumbered. He could feel it. A hunger. A call.

And deep within the heart of the ruins, something answered.

Elsewhere, within the Solar Dominion's War Council

The war chamber flickered with the ghostly light of old-world projectors, displaying maps of the fractured continent. General Varian Tiberius, clad in battle-worn power armour etched with the sigil of the Solar Dynasty, scrutinized the shifting borders and the ever-present incursions from rebel forces. The Dominion's grip was slipping, and he knew it.

"The Freeborn have struck again," an officer growled, gesturing to a smoldering ruin on the map. "They sabotaged our supply line near the Cloudspine. Our forces are stretched thin. If this continues—"

"Then we will adapt." Tiberius's voice was cold, deliberate. "The Freeborn are bold, but they are not invincible. They fight for an ideal. We fight for survival."

A murmur ran through the chamber. Another officer, one bearing the crimson cloak of the Crimson Spears, sneered. "The Freeborn are growing bolder. If we do not crush them now, they will become more than just an inconvenience."

Tiberius leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "We will deal with them in time. But my concern lies elsewhere. Varkhesh."

The name sent a ripple of unease through the room. The ruins held more than just history. Rumors of something stirring beneath the city's bones had reached even the Dominion's ears.

"Sir, shall we mobilize the Solar Legion?" one of his captains asked hesitantly.

Tiberius closed his eyes for a brief moment. "No. We send the Iron Falcons."

A silence fell. The mercenaries were unpredictable, ruthless, but they got results. If something lurked within Varkhesh, they would either retrieve it or die trying.

And if the Freeborn, the scavengers, or worse—Saren Wolfbane himself—stood in their way, they would be crushed beneath iron and blood.

The ruins of Varkhesh did not sleep.

Saren and the Whisperer moved deeper into the city's husk, their steps soundless against the broken cobblestones. The scent of dust and stagnant air clung to them, mingling with the faint metallic tang of old blood. The Dominion scouts had been only the beginning—Saren knew that much. Someone else had stirred these ruins before them. Perhaps something not human at all.

"The air is thick here," the Whisperer murmured, running gloved fingers along the jagged edge of a collapsed archway. The masonry was scorched, twisted from heat that had long since faded. "Residual energy. Something unnatural passed through."

Saren crouched beside the remains of a shattered doorframe, brushing away dust and debris to reveal a sigil carved into the stone. It was a crude thing, likely made in haste, but he recognized the pattern—an interlocking series of jagged lines, forming an eye with a clawed iris.

"The Crimson Tide," he muttered, his voice barely above a growl.

The Whisperer stiffened. "Cultists. Here?"

Saren nodded, tracing the rough carving. "This is recent. They're close."

A distant clang echoed through the ruins, like metal striking stone. The Whisperer turned sharply, hands twitching at his sides, the faint glow beneath his mask intensifying.

"We're being followed."

Saren didn't question it. He moved, pressing against a shadowed alcove just as movement flickered in the periphery of his vision. A figure in tattered crimson robes, the hem darkened with dried blood, stepped into the moonlight filtering through a collapsed tower. The man clutched a jagged, rusted dagger, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

A scout.

Saren's hand darted out, seizing the cultist by the throat and slamming him against the stone wall. The Whisperer lifted a single finger, pressing it to the man's forehead, and the cultist spasmed violently.

"Where is the rest of your kin?" The Whisperer's voice was layered, distant, as if a dozen unseen voices whispered alongside him.

The cultist's mouth gaped open in silent agony. The skin beneath his eyes darkened, veins bulging against his pallid flesh as the Whisperer burrowed into his mind. Saren watched impassively. There was no room for mercy in the wasteland.

Then, suddenly, the cultist gasped, his voice barely audible. "Below. The Black Maw… the Gate… it opens."

The Whisperer released his grip, and the cultist slumped, his body convulsing before he fell still. Dead.

Saren exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his blade. "The Black Maw. I was afraid of that."

The Whisperer's gaze darkened. "Then we must move quickly. If the cult has found a way to open one of the Gates… this city may not remain standing much longer."

Meanwhile, at the War Council…

Tiberius stood before the Dominion's grand war table, watching as a strategist traced the most recent Freeborn incursions across the map. The old empire's borders, already frayed, were unravelling at an alarming rate.

"The Iron Falcons will reach Varkhesh within the day," one of his officers announced. "They've been given strict orders—secure the ruins and retrieve anything of value before the scavengers can claim it."

Tiberius nodded, but his gaze lingered on the eastern front. "The Freeborn are growing too bold. They must believe we are weak."

"They are rallying behind the Shepherd's legacy," the officer said. "Their dream of an egalitarian world has infected more settlements."

Tiberius frowned. "A dream is a dangerous thing when left unchecked."

The officer hesitated. "Do we press the campaign further, sir?"

Tiberius's fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword. "No. Not yet. First, we see what Varkhesh holds. If there is anything of worth beneath those ruins, we must claim it before the Freeborn—or worse—the cultists."

The war council fell silent, the weight of the decision settling over them. Beyond the walls of the Dominion's stronghold, the fractured world churned in conflict. And at its heart, something ancient was beginning to stir.

Beneath Varkhesh…

The tunnels beneath the ruined city stretched into a labyrinth of collapsed corridors and forgotten catacombs. Saren pressed forward, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something far more sinister. The glow of bioluminescent fungi clung to the ceiling, casting eerie shadows across the crumbling walls.

The Whisperer's voice was barely audible. "The cultists have been here for weeks. The Gate… it's close."

Saren gritted his teeth. The last time he had encountered a partially-opened Gate, he had lost an entire squadron of scavengers to the things that had crawled out of it. If the Crimson Tide had truly managed to breach the veil between worlds…

A low, guttural sound reverberated from deeper within the tunnel. Not human. Not natural.

Saren exhaled sharply. "We're out of time."

The darkness ahead of them shifted. Something was coming.

The darkness stirred.

Saren's grip tightened around his blade as the sound of something heavy slithering against stone sent a shiver up his spine. The Whisperer inhaled sharply, eyes glowing brighter beneath his mask. The unseen presence in the tunnel carried an aura of hunger, a palpable malice that made the very air feel heavier.

"Something has crossed through the Gate," the Whisperer whispered, his voice layered with static-like distortions. "Something old."

The tunnel walls trembled. From the abyss beyond their dim torchlight, a wet, chittering noise rose, followed by the clinking of bone against stone. Then, a flicker of movement—something inhuman shifting just outside their vision.

Saren didn't hesitate. He drew a flare from his belt, striking it against his vambrace. The sudden burst of red light illuminated the corridor in erratic flashes, revealing a grotesque figure lurking just ahead.

It was tall, its skeletal frame wrapped in tattered remnants of cultist robes. Its flesh, where it remained, was withered and stretched impossibly thin over elongated limbs, and its mouth was a gaping ruin of needle-like teeth. In place of eyes, the creature had a single, jagged fissure of darkness in its skull, from which something… moved.

"That is no mere cultist," the Whisperer murmured, his voice laced with apprehension. "That is what remains when the Gate takes too much."

The creature hissed, and the shadows around it writhed like living things.

Saren launched forward without hesitation. His blade flashed as he slashed at the creature's midsection. The steel met resistance—flesh that felt more like petrified wood than decayed skin—but his strength drove the weapon through. The abomination shrieked, its limbs flailing as a sickly, black fluid splattered onto the stones.

The Whisperer raised a hand, fingers splayed wide, and a pulse of raw psionic force erupted from his palm. The wave of energy struck the creature square in the chest, sending it crashing against the tunnel wall. But the momentary reprieve was short-lived.

The darkness around them shifted again.

More figures emerged from the depths, their grotesque forms illuminated by the flickering flare. Some crawled on twisted limbs, others stalked forward in silence, their empty eyes fixed on the intruders. The Whisperer cursed beneath his breath.

"Too many."

Saren knew a losing battle when he saw one. He grabbed the Whisperer's shoulder, pulling him back. "We need to move. Now."

The creatures shrieked in unison, the sound reverberating down the tunnel like a war cry. The very walls seemed to pulse in response, as if the ruins themselves were waking up.

They ran.

The tunnels twisted in chaotic patterns, remnants of old catacombs and pre-Cataclysm structures that had long since merged into an incomprehensible labyrinth. Saren relied on instinct, taking sharp turns and narrow passages, leading them away from the Gate's influence. Behind them, the howls of their pursuers echoed through the stone corridors.

After what felt like an eternity, they burst into a large chamber—an ancient atrium, partially collapsed, its high ceiling riddled with cracks where faint moonlight seeped in. At the center of the room stood a grand staircase leading further down, flanked by enormous statues of long-forgotten rulers. The air felt clearer here, less tainted by the Gate's corruption.

The Whisperer doubled over, panting. "They… stopped."

Saren turned, blade still raised. The tunnel behind them was empty, though the air carried the weight of unspoken threats. The creatures had not followed.

"Something keeps them out," Saren muttered, scanning the chamber. "But I don't trust it."

The Whisperer straightened, looking toward the massive staircase. "If the cultists are still alive, they will be deeper in. We need to find out how far they've gone. If they've managed to fully open the Maw…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Saren nodded grimly. There was no turning back now.

Meanwhile, Above Varkhesh…

The Iron Falcons had arrived.

A column of armored warriors marched through the ruined streets, their ragged banners fluttering in the ashen wind. Their leader, Captain Rask, observed the shattered cityscape from atop his mechanical steed—a pre-Cataclysm war construct, rusted but still functional. His men moved with the precision of seasoned killers, eyes scanning every shadow for signs of movement.

"Scouts, report," Rask barked.

A wiry scout in mismatched armor stepped forward. "Signs of recent battle near the old market square. Blood. Dominion, probably. But the bodies are gone."

Rask's expression darkened. "Something is cleaning up after itself. That means something intelligent is down here."

Another soldier approached, holding a scrap of torn crimson fabric. "Cultists, sir."

Rask sighed, rubbing his temples. "Of course it's cultists. It's always cultists."

He turned toward the ruins ahead, where the jagged remains of a grand temple loomed over the city. The reports of strange activity, the rumors of a Gate stirring—it all led here.

"Double the perimeter," he ordered. "We move in cautious. Whatever's in these ruins… we're not leaving without answers."

The Falcons pressed forward, their boots crunching against the debris-strewn streets. Overhead, the fractured sky churned with distant storms, as if the heavens themselves were watching.

And deep beneath the bones of the city, something watched back.

Saren's heartbeat slowed as he scanned the ancient atrium, senses sharp despite the eerie silence. The Whisperer had been right—the creatures had stopped their pursuit, held back by some unseen force. But that only made the chamber more unnerving. What had kept them from following?

"The air is different here," the Whisperer murmured, his fingers brushing against the massive stone staircase leading down. "Not clean, not safe. Just… different."

Saren nodded. "No choice but to press on. Whatever the cultists are after, we can't let them have it."

They descended carefully, the ancient steps worn smooth by time. The further they went, the colder the air became. A thin mist clung to the lower levels, carrying the scent of damp stone and something foul beneath it—like old rot mixed with the metallic tang of blood.

At the base of the staircase, the tunnel widened into a vast underground chamber. Massive pillars, half-cracked and covered in ancient carvings, loomed on either side. Strange symbols glowed faintly on the walls, pulsating with an eerie rhythm. The chamber pulsed as if it were breathing.

The Whisperer froze. "This place… it's alive."

Saren frowned. "What do you mean?"

Before the Whisperer could answer, a low, guttural chanting echoed through the chamber. Shadows flickered along the far end, revealing robed figures encircling a massive stone altar. The cultists knelt in reverence, their arms raised toward a swirling vortex hovering above the altar. Within the vortex, reality itself seemed to twist and fracture, tendrils of darkness seeping into the surrounding air.

"They've done it," the Whisperer whispered, his voice laced with dread. "The Maw is opening."

Saren clenched his jaw. "Then we shut it. Now."

Above Varkhesh

Captain Rask narrowed his eyes at the ruined temple ahead. The Iron Falcons moved cautiously, their weapons at the ready, scanning for movement among the rubble. The further they advanced, the more unnatural the silence became. No scavengers, no beasts. Only the distant echo of something pulsing beneath the earth.

"Sir," a scout whispered, pointing at the temple steps. Blood—fresh, and in large quantities—streaked the stone, leading inside.

Rask dismounted his mechanical steed, drawing his blade. "This reeks of an ambush. Stay sharp."

They entered the temple cautiously, boots crunching against debris. The once-grand interior had been defiled with blasphemous symbols scrawled in dark ichor. The air was thick with an oppressive energy, making it harder to breathe.

One of his men grunted, nudging something with his boot. A Dominion soldier, throat slit, his armor cracked open. Rask scowled. "Cult work."

Then the chanting reached them.

A tunnel yawned open at the back of the temple, descending into the depths. The sound of ritualistic whispers drifted from below, their cadence growing faster.

Rask tightened his grip on his sword. "We're not alone down here. Move out."

As the Falcons stepped into the abyss, the storm above the city churned, darkening further. Lightning split the sky, and somewhere, deep beneath the ruins, something vast and hungry stirred.

The underground chamber trembled, dust cascading from the towering pillars as the vortex above the altar expanded. The chanting cultists raised their voices in frenzied ecstasy, their bodies trembling with unnatural energy. The air crackled with raw power, and the symbols on the walls pulsed faster, their glow intensifying to an almost blinding degree.

Saren didn't wait for the Whisperer's warning. He sprinted forward, blade in hand, weaving between the stone columns. The cultists barely had time to react before his weapon carved through the first of them, a robed figure whose chant was cut off mid-verse by the slice of steel through flesh. A second cultist turned, eyes wild, hands raised in arcane invocation, but the Whisperer struck first. A surge of psychic force rippled through the air, snapping the cultist's mind like a dry twig. The body collapsed, twitching as blood trickled from its nose and ears.

"The Gate!" the Whisperer called, his voice strained. "It's nearly open!"

Saren's gaze snapped to the altar. The vortex had widened, tendrils of abyssal darkness writhing from within. Something moved inside it, a shifting mass of malevolence, coiling like a serpent at the threshold of reality.

With a fierce snarl, Saren lunged toward the altar, bringing his sword down on the nearest cultist. Blood sprayed across the stone, but the remaining zealots did not falter. One of them, a high priest with a twisted, skeletal grin, raised a dagger high and drove it into his own heart. The moment the blade pierced flesh, the vortex shuddered.

A deafening shriek erupted from within the Maw.

The chamber quaked violently. Cracks splintered across the stone floor as tendrils of black mist slithered out, latching onto the bodies of the fallen cultists. One by one, the corpses began to rise, their empty eyes glowing with a sinister light.

"They're not staying dead!" Saren growled, slashing at one of the reanimated cultists. His blade struck true, but the creature barely flinched, its mouth twisting into an unnatural grin.

The Whisperer grimaced. "We have to sever the connection to the Gate. It's feeding them."

Saren glanced at the altar. The vortex's core swirled, as though something immense was pressing against the fabric of reality, eager to break through. There was only one option left.

He sprinted forward, dodging the grasping hands of the undead cultists. The high priest's body, still impaled upon the altar, pulsed with dark energy. Saren gritted his teeth and drove his blade through the corpse's skull, shattering whatever arcane control it still held.

The vortex pulsed violently, then contracted, the tendrils of darkness recoiling like a wounded beast. The reanimated corpses convulsed, their bodies collapsing into piles of decayed flesh and bone. For a brief moment, silence reigned.

Then, a deep, guttural voice echoed from within the Maw.

"You… cannot stop what is already begun."

Saren staggered back as a final burst of energy erupted from the Gate, hurling him against the stone floor. When he looked up, the vortex was shrinking, its edges curling inward like burnt parchment. The Whisperer stood panting beside him, his mask cracked, his eyes flickering with exertion.

"It's closing," the psychic gasped. "But not for long."

Saren rose to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. "Then we need to leave. Now."