The vast central chamber, shaped like a great seven-pointed star, hums with residual magic that never fades. Each corridor leading outward once connected to a separate wing devoted to one of the seven runelords — pride, greed, lust, envy, wrath, sloth, and gluttony. Now, these paths lead only into silence and ruin, their magics fractured and half-aware, watching those who dare enter.
At the center of the chamber, a pool of shimmering blue energy churns like a living thing, fed by the remnants of the runelords’ power. The walls pulse faintly, engraved with sigils that seem to breathe in the dim light.
Legends say the Runeforge cannot be found — only remembered by those who carry the touch of ancient Thassilon in their blood or dreams. And once you find it, leaving is no simple matter. The air itself whispers promises, tempting intruders to stay, study, and become part of the endless circle of power and decay.
