The air here is thick, humid, and foul. Every surface carries the scent of rot, and faint gnawing sounds echo from unseen corners. Once a burial chamber for the servants of ancient Thassilonian masters, it was later claimed by necromancers and fleshcrafters who twisted its purpose into something abhorrent.
To the east, a ritual chamber reeks of blood — its floor slick with the remains of failed experiments, their bodies splayed like offerings to some unspeakable hunger. Along the western corridors lie the resting alcoves of the dead, their sarcophagi long since cracked open and emptied by claw and tooth.
At the crypt’s heart, a lightning conduit crackles with unstable energy, linking two blackened orbs that pulse like dying hearts. The walls around it are scorched with arcane runes, remnants of a forgotten experiment — perhaps one meant to reanimate, or devour, the soul itself.
Those who linger here too long find their appetites twisting into something alien. The whispers that fill the air do not speak of hunger in the mortal sense, but of consumption — a craving for life, for warmth, for the pulse of another’s heart. Few who descend return unchanged.
