t's dark in here, and quiet, eerily quiet. I stand in the threshold of the structure, my eyes adjusting to the frigid gloom. The afternoon sun shines behind me outside, tempting retreat. But no, I know what lies ahead for me in this place, and I must face it, undaunted. Wraeclast is no place for cowards.

Thankfully, a feeble light illuminates the catacombs before me, filtering down from somewhere high above. I must make haste, for to be trapped in this gaol at night would be a terror beyond reckoning! I begin to explore the labyrinth, keeping close to the wall, and trying to make a mental note of which the path I've taken. But my mind is as fatigued as my body, and within minutes I'm hopelessly lost. Worse yet, I'm beginning to hear things, out in the cold darkness of the tunnels. It's also beginning to smell like death.

I make my way farther into the bowels of the Prison, my anxiety growing with every cautious step. The smell of death is all around me, and the walls are festooned with hideous implements of torture. I cannot imagine the terrible suffering inflicted on the occupants of this vile dungeon over the centuries, but the rusted racks, gibbets and hanging cages serve as mute witness. There is even crusted blood on the floor in many places, the long-dried remains of some poor doomed soul.

Finally, after what has been an age of anxious anticipation, I encounter the source of the stench. A mass of shambling, decaying men turn towards me as one, their attentions likely roused by the smell of warm blood. These things bear a resemblance to the walking dead from the beach, but they look far stronger and tougher. It takes all of my courage and will to stand my ground as they come down the hallway for me, the reek of them filling my nose and mouth. Then they are upon me, and the rage of battle drives out all other thought and feeling.

Somehow, despite the ache in my arms, despite the resilience of my foes, and despite their overwhelming numbers, I emerge from the fray alive. My armor has protected me from the worst of their assault, but my arm bears a jagged gash, the work of one of the zombie's rotted teeth. The wound throbs and aches, already beginning to fester. Small black tendrils radiate outward from it, causing the flesh nearby to prickle and squirm. I sense I need to get attention for this malady quickly, but where shall I find that?

I continue my wanderings through the catacombs, and soon encounter a roving pack of skeletons. The tissue that bound them together has long since dried and withered away, but that does not stop them from pursuing me relentlessly through the corridors. I move from passage to passage to evade them, but eventually have to turn and fight when I'm surrounded. Will I ever have a moment's respite?

At long last, I find the stairs leading upward, though I do not expect that any solace lies at a higher level of the Prison. Nevertheless, I must ascend if I'm to ever escape. At the top of the winding flight I find another maze nearly identical to the first, and spend another few hours fighting my way through. When I finally reach the stairs to the top level of the fortress, my heart sinks. My way is barred by a makeshift barricade, a haphazard pile of debris and twisted metal. I study this new obstacle for a time, pondering its purpose, and then it dawns on me. It's not meant to keep invaders out of the top level, it's meant to keep something in. That something must be "Brutus", the demon I was warned about at the beach encampment.

But I have come too far and fought too hard to quaver at this final hurdle. I search my belongings for the proper tool. Finding a gigantic two-handed maul, I set to work on the barricade. For an age the stone walls echo with the clanging and pounding of my labors, but at last I have done it. The way up lies open to me, and whatever nightmares contained therein. Up I go to face my destiny.