The city's tangled alleys of Blackburgh end abruptly at an open space scarcely fifty feet across, its center devoured by a crumbling sinkhole. The sides fall away steeply into a heap of rubble, filth, and bone some thirty feet below — and something in that pit is watching.

This is the den of Verboveztzor, a mythic vescavor swarm: thousands of buzzing, gnashing Abyssal things that, when roused, boil up into the air and knit themselves into the ten-foot semblance of a single monstrous insect. It has fed on many minds of late, and grown strangely curious — for it has heard the whispers that these newcomers have somehow made Baphomet himself afraid. It would rather rant and threaten than simply devour, at least for a while.

Speaking with this insectoid lord of darkness is no cozy affair; it issues doom-laden demands in a droning voice, warning you to flee the labyrinth, shun the prison, and bow to the Horned Lord. But buried in its ravings may be knowledge worth the risk. To face Verboveztzor is to bargain at the edge of a devouring pit — where wisdom and hunger churn together in the dark.