The encroaching darkness dancing beyond the torchlight beckons to the group of adventurers, the void calling out to them, begging them to step into the darkness and meet the rattle of bones that echo of the stone walls all around them. Taking out a small book and quill, and with a sharp scrape against the paper with ink forming out of nothing, a figure clad in a grey robe steps closer to the people around him as light begins to fill the air; the cold dark stone walls stretch on as wooden doors dot either side of the party. Some were ajar, some sealed shut with exorcism wax, and others hanging by threads of wood and their hinges. Staring forward, the party is met with more darkness as the corridor stretches into a path that leads left or right. Sconces unlit, bones litter the ground, and dried bloodied hands crawl and slide on the walls themselves. An ominous praying, in mutters, can be heard as the party passes each door. Miralith, the city of wonders, the city of adventure, the capital of the empire, the royal seat; a city known for its sprawling streets and splendor; yet, the red eyes of the rattlers dot the hidden streets under them. The massive dungeons under Miralith are home to vast treasures lost to time, secrets of sorcery gone forever, and monsters indescribable to mortal comprehension. A slight rattle, and a crash sound from the right path, the light from the spell weaved doesn’t reach the dark depths, and red eyes greet the party, piercing red eyes; unblinking, unmoving, unfeeling. Undead. Creatures created from forbidden Glints of sorcery, unlike runes to create fire, water, or many other types of things to defend a young Rune weaver; these create uncontrollable monsters. Foul decay falls off of the rattler, the bones a sick shade of grey, and a dagger glints in the spell light hanging from the black appendage of the rattler. “Formations, Now!” A rough voice comes the figure weariag armor with plates of iron covering them from the torso, to the bottom of his feet. Drawing a sword, his sheath rattles against the wall as his blade pommel crashes against the carved stone wall to his side causing sparks to shatter out; a figure with a hood pulled up pulls out daggers of her own and throws one towards the head of the rattler and the garnets floating in air stagger back being struck. Stepping into the light; the blackness falling off the creature begins filling the air.

“Masks, now, I don’t feel like bringing you back from a curse!” A voice echos off the dead stone walls, the figure dressed in all white garb stands behind the figure clad in armor with bits of iron strapped into the vital areas. Reaching out to the runes on the armored figure in the front, the white-robed figure, with a bit of concentration, the rune comes to life; the gold glow filling a small area on the armor of the figure in front. “Publius, that will protect you from their decay, use your shield if you must.” Publius steps forward drawing his sword from the rest of his sheath and pushes the rattler back with his might. The figure in the grey robe steps forward and begins scribing a rune in his book, but a shiver of cold runs through his blood, he freezes, death is behind him, his hair stands up and his legs begin to shake uncontrollably. His voice wouldn’t come out, his hand was far too shaky to continue his rune; his body felt cold. “Vitus, keep it together, get fire ready!” Vitus looks to their liturge, their sage, weaver of healing runes, Virgilius; his face is full of fear, and a contorted smile appears on his face. Horror is plastered onto his features, holding out a hand a rune drawn onto his palm emits a holy shard of light behind Vitus. Virgilius’ face is then suddenly let go from its prison of horror. Turning behind, Vitus almost falls backward into Publius, sixteen floating orbs of pure redness stare back at him. The decay floats up into his face and he almost falls into the abyss of the void, but a hand on his shoulder grabs him. Virgilius had shaken him from the trance. “You do your rune weaving, or we all die!” His voice full of dread is unmistakable; flying past his clouded vision, a figure moves faster than he could focus on, a glint of iron and two of the eyes vanish. “That was my last dagger, Vitus, do something!” Minerva, a pickpocket, the person who brought them into the dungeon under the inn they frequented. The Broken Dagger; the innkeeper was putting up sconces in his cellar when his hammer released the decay into his cellar and with all of them looking for work, they could have a permanent room for themselves. Yet, this was too much, even for experienced delvers. Vitus reaches to his palm and begins to scribe a great fire rune onto his palm; “give me time, please for Saint Dinnons sake.” Steeping to the back, Virgilius reaches out his other palm and focuses on the runes carved in and a shower of golden vibrant light fills the room behind them. The rattlers are stopped in their tracks, moving at a snail's pace, the entire room lit up as if it was day; the warm rays shine down upon the party, bolstering all of them, Publius up front is beset upon by more of the decayed. Their eyes move in erratic motions along with the shards of long-lost blades they wield. His strength depleting despite the blessing from Virgilius; begins to fall back, his armor pushing against Vitus and Virgilius, Minerva in the middle with Vitus getting bumped. “Agh fuck, my rune!” Cursing aloud Vitus drops his quill and scrambles after it, but stops; drawing out his dagger, he carves the rest into his hand.

Terror in his heart, his hand shaking, finishing the rune, Vitus holds his hand up as a gout of fire sprouts from his hand, intense flame dissipating the golden glow of Virgilius blessing. A wall of flame akin to wyrms of legend encases the hallway in flame splintering wood into ash, melting iron, and burning the bones to ash as Vitus begins to turn around to the ones in front. Something stops him, a sharp pain in his arm, an arrow, through his upper arm. His hand falls to his side, catching Publius in the flame; his screams ignite the halls with more noise. The smell of burning skin, the shrill yell of Publius fighting for his life, and the chaos around them forces Vitus to stop the rune. Holding his arm and looking around, the pathway they were going down is still crammed with rattlers, their eyes striking fear into Vitus even more. Minerva's screams fill the hall; turning his head Virgilius spies more rattlers behind them, Minerva in the middle, daggers flashing in the ball of light above them, her feeble movements are soon slowed to a stop as Virgilius looks to Vitus. Running into a room behind them Virgilius vanishes; Vitus reaches out with his good arm but he is gone, abandoning him to his fate. Reaching down and grabbing Publius's sword, Vitus bolts into the room Virgilius had vanished into. Looking around, Vitus spies a normal room, one with a hearth, an old broken bed long not used, and a window that leads to nothing but cold hard stone. Where could have Virgilius gone? Thinking quickly, Vitus tries to come up with a plan to live. A stone wall? Yes, a stone wall. Falling to the ground Vitus begins to run his hand along the ground drawing a stone wall rune, he must buy himself some time. The rattlers stumble, their bones clanging on the walls outside of the doorless entrance, the ball of light giving him room to work, Vitus almost starts praying, but he needs time. The shrill screams of Minerva haunt his mind, what he did to Publius, and Virgilius running like a coward, this is all too much. The decay enters the room, first reaching him, and then the rattlers enter; shaking and falling over themselves, shrouded in tenebrosity. Vitus's heart beats faster, he is almost done. With a final stroke, the wall springs forth in front of him, covering the doorway. Falling to his back, Vitus begins to breathe heavily; darkness shrouding his eyes, dimness filling his vision, he holds his good arm up and his vision is starting to get blurry. Maybe it would be good to sleep for a little bit. Perhaps rest is what he needed, the stone wall would be there a good long while. Closing his eyes, Vitus drifts off into the murkiness of slumber.

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With a cough, his abyss travels are interrupted; Vitus sits up, the wall still there, a sconce lit in the room; a torch hangs from it, lit, but the light is dim and barely enough to fill the room. Looking about Vitus searches over his wounds and finds them healed as if done by a litruge; looking around, a white-robed figure stands in the room with him; Virgilius looks haggard, his clothes dirty and covered in decay. Darkness falls off of him; “perhaps this is my punishment, I am sorry Vitus, you deserve better; I thought if I healed you, you would help me escape. Alas, I am too far gone; the curses have taken effect already.” Vitus gets up and backs up towards his created stone wall, “There is a hidden room in the hearth, but alas I am not smart enough to divine the answer to such a puzzle.” Falling to the ground Virgilius rolls onto his back and begins to trace a rune onto his chest with his blood. “I will buy you time from my inevitable turn, and since you cannot take on the rattlers behind your wall, you must find the answer to the puzzle in the hearth.” Finishing the rune on his chest a golden glow emits from it, darkness taints the glows giving off wisps of his curse. “Tell my sister I love her if you can Vitus.” A groan emits from Virgilius, and his hand falls to his side after he signs the Saint Dinnons symbol. Setting to the hearth, Vitus begins to look for what might be a puzzle, and he finds nothing but soot, nothing but cold stone from a long ancient hearth. Pushing on every stone he can, nothing. That liturge lies in death it seems. Shuffling out of the hearth, Vitus looks to Virgilius and spies the golden glow getting weaker and curses under his breath. He would be a skinwalker soon enough, this would be more than he could handle. His death is all but assured. Taking a second to lean against the wall, Vitus thinks, he cannot teleport, the dungeons prevent it, he can take down his wall and use fire to get out, he could draw another great fire rune on his hand and run. All of this has far too many chances to fail. Why would Virgilius lie, why would he hate him so?

Cursing him to eternal damnation, Vitus gets up and drips his hand into his blood on the ground and begins to draw a symbol for fire on his palms. He would need both. Finishing the runes, Vitus steps over to his rune for the wall and takes a huge breath. Leaning down he releases the hold on it as the wall crumbles down in front of him, the decay assaulting him even more; Vitus coughs, he will need to get to a liturge soon, as the rattlers step and stumble their way through the broken wall, Vitus ignites one of his fire runes and the ones in front of him fall to ash at his feet. Stepping through the rubble, Vitus bolts up through the hallway they had come down, holding his other rune up ready to strike out at a moment's notice. Vitus stumbles through broken doors, chairs, and corpses that litter the hallway. Running through the maze of corridors, Vitus reaches the entrance they had used. Purple flakes of light dot the air as usual, he calms down, his heart rate stopping as he reaches the opening in the cellar of The Broken Dagger; Vitus turns around to find Minerva standing there, blood covering her blonde hair, gashes and entire swaths of her body exposed and gone, the decay falling off her freely. Her face tilted down. Vitus almost steps forward but stops himself, she's gone; far gone. Vitus drops to the ground as quick as his body will let him, drawing a sealing rune as well as a wall creation rune together. This place will be sealed off, there is no clearing it out. Curse that dungeon. Drawing intricate runes on the floor, what used to be Minerva was sprinting forward at an alarming speed. Daggers in her hands the skin walker throws one at Vitus and nails him right in his stomach. The pain was hot, far more hot than anything he had felt so far, the decay was sure to claim him. Looking up from his crumbled position, Vitus stares at the visage of what used to be Minerva as he reaches down with a weak arm and closes off the rune; as the wall closes off the empty eyes and smile that Minerva was giving him vanishes. The decay was on him, the coldness of death was a comfort to Vitus, he knew he could die in such a place, but he was scared. His heart could not slow down, the warmth of his own blood felt foreign after what seemed like hours as darkness began to cloud his vision. The inky blackness of the decay and the twilight of the sconces of the cellar begin to combine as Vitus begins to fade. Holding his hand up Vitus begins tracing a rune on his body, his blood as the base once again, but far more fresh, his vision begins to cloud and fade as his hand falls to his chest as he completes the rune. Blackness shrouds his thoughts and his subconscious falls, the void takes over. The decay slipped around to cover him.

Vitus musters up the last bit of his willpower but the rune fails…