Hall of Infinite Doors
Somewhere inside you there was terror, yes, but there was also hopelessness, and the two of them make for a bittersweet marriage. You went willingly into the beast's lair, and though that was stupid, probably, now you know exactly why there is no food, why there couldn't be food. A creature this large cannot survive on water. A creature this large would need to eat. Birds, fish, bears, deer, men, anything and everything. It could be stealthy, it could be powerful, but it would need to eat. Destroying it would end the hungry siege against your people, and ensure your tribe survived.
But how could you destroy it? You didn't have anything that would work. You had no guns or missiles or chainsaws or nukes. You had no magic swords or mystic spells, no longbows or crossbows or deadly aim or sniper rifles. You didn't even have a knife. You had a branch studded with obsidian, and sharpened pieces of flint. And now it knew you were there.
Fear and hopelessness married, and you strode forward, confident that there was no way to kill the thing and you would die horribly. You held your cudgel in one hand and a handful of sharpened flint in the other. You lobbed your stones like gray stars at the thing's head, and with a hearty, primordial, hopeless cry, you lunged in at the beast, meeting it in epic conflict.
And then it struck you, killed you, and devoured you. And if after death the gods look on your soul, and if they consign you to Hel or Valhalla, you would go to be with them, to drink and feast and laugh at your bravery. But the important thing was that you were right. You rushed in, and you annoyed it slightly, and it killed you, and there was absolutely nothing you could do.
But how could you destroy it? You didn't have anything that would work. You had no guns or missiles or chainsaws or nukes. You had no magic swords or mystic spells, no longbows or crossbows or deadly aim or sniper rifles. You didn't even have a knife. You had a branch studded with obsidian, and sharpened pieces of flint. And now it knew you were there.
Fear and hopelessness married, and you strode forward, confident that there was no way to kill the thing and you would die horribly. You held your cudgel in one hand and a handful of sharpened flint in the other. You lobbed your stones like gray stars at the thing's head, and with a hearty, primordial, hopeless cry, you lunged in at the beast, meeting it in epic conflict.
And then it struck you, killed you, and devoured you. And if after death the gods look on your soul, and if they consign you to Hel or Valhalla, you would go to be with them, to drink and feast and laugh at your bravery. But the important thing was that you were right. You rushed in, and you annoyed it slightly, and it killed you, and there was absolutely nothing you could do.
