Hidden in the tangled warrens of the Fleshmarkets stands a domed hall of deep red porphyry, reached only by those who know to follow the grim signs — mutilated doves nailed to lintels, their pointing talons luring the desperate through a maze of sleazy alleys to this dead-end sanctuary of vice.

This is Rapture of Rupture, the audition hall of the succubus aristocrat Vellexia — soft-voiced, conservatively dressed, and as deviant as any demon of her kind. Here, would-be performers starve and scheme and beat one another bloody for the chance to entertain her, for those she favors are granted fame and fortune beyond imagining. That most who accept her deeper invitations are never seen again does nothing to thin the endless line of the ambitious.

To pass through these doors is to enter a den where art and appetite bleed together, where a dazzling performance is the only currency that matters. Impress the jaded mistress of ruptures and your renown will spread through Alushinyrra like wildfire — but falter before her, and you may become the next entertainment to vanish forever.