A pair of dice, a canteen half full of water,
My tattered clothes, and an aged claymore;
The items I take with myself into this minor hell.
Legends say a monastery once used this place
For burials until a necromancer cult infiltrated.
The clergy couldn’t stop them. They penetrated
Every facet of the faith until they could replace.
Eventually they created a laboratory deep underground
To reanimate the deceased, inspired by fabled liches.
Fabled. The truth is they aren’t. Two factions of the dead
Fighting for revenge centuries overdue. I’m just unlucky.
I slept sound in my home yesterday. In the late of the night they came
And dragged me to this death trap. A victim, a candidate; the same.
Vasha'Lakar 