Hall of Infinite Doors
You feel a black fear roiling in your belly, and before you even know what you're doing you've spun on your feet and are dashing wildly through the brush and silt by the riverside in mad flight from the hideous crocodile-dragon behind you. You can only hear the wild beating of your heart at first, that and the rushing of the stream and the sound of the wint as it buzzes past your ear. You can only feel the tremendous fear and the almost sure knowledge that some horrible historic throwback is going to pounce on you and eat you. But as soon as the panic subides you realize that nothing's following you. As you turn to look behind you, you can see faint in the distance (did you really run THAT far?) the greenish bulk of the monster bent in the gold-colored sunset pool, nose buried in your torn package, devouring your spoils. It's clearly uninterested in giving chase, now that you've provided it dinner. Sullen, defeated, you return to your cave, to the stern but wordless glance of your mate and the hungry squealings of your unfed son.
As the season continues, your hunting does not improve, and you are only able to gather the barest of provisions before the snow and cold of winter sets in. You try to return to the river with several of your fellow tribesmen, but the ice sets in murderously quickly and soon thickens to the point where you simply cannot penetrate it. Before long the snow rushes down from the mountain and chokes the rugged exit from the cave-pocked valley, and though you dig and burn at it you can't venture out into the forest to gather wood and fire and food. In desperation, your tribe performs many rituals and sacrifices to the mountain, but the stern and unforgiving god does not hear you, and the snows only increase in bitter fury.
It is a harsh night full of icy rain when the whimpering cries of your son, grown so soft these past few weeks, stop and do not start again. Before you can draw close to see what's the matter, his tiny body has grown cold. Your mate wails, and you can do nothing. Your tribesmen suggest devouring him or offering his body to the mountain, but you can say and do nothing. Your son is the first of many children to die, and your mate, heartbroken, follows them all.
Without wood, without food, without companionship, you shiver in the back of the cave, bundled in furs and your own offal. Snow chokes the entrance to your cave and your tribe gives you up for dead. You drink runoff, and wallow in desperation, alternately begging for mercy and praying for death. As soon as the snow choking the pass begins to melt you rush outside, your bare feet fast on the melted snow, and dash into the woods in an expression of grief and misery and weakness and madness.
There you die, and provide some lucky creature a skinny, edible reward for enduring the long winter.
As the season continues, your hunting does not improve, and you are only able to gather the barest of provisions before the snow and cold of winter sets in. You try to return to the river with several of your fellow tribesmen, but the ice sets in murderously quickly and soon thickens to the point where you simply cannot penetrate it. Before long the snow rushes down from the mountain and chokes the rugged exit from the cave-pocked valley, and though you dig and burn at it you can't venture out into the forest to gather wood and fire and food. In desperation, your tribe performs many rituals and sacrifices to the mountain, but the stern and unforgiving god does not hear you, and the snows only increase in bitter fury.
It is a harsh night full of icy rain when the whimpering cries of your son, grown so soft these past few weeks, stop and do not start again. Before you can draw close to see what's the matter, his tiny body has grown cold. Your mate wails, and you can do nothing. Your tribesmen suggest devouring him or offering his body to the mountain, but you can say and do nothing. Your son is the first of many children to die, and your mate, heartbroken, follows them all.
Without wood, without food, without companionship, you shiver in the back of the cave, bundled in furs and your own offal. Snow chokes the entrance to your cave and your tribe gives you up for dead. You drink runoff, and wallow in desperation, alternately begging for mercy and praying for death. As soon as the snow choking the pass begins to melt you rush outside, your bare feet fast on the melted snow, and dash into the woods in an expression of grief and misery and weakness and madness.
There you die, and provide some lucky creature a skinny, edible reward for enduring the long winter.
