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[center]The first to fall was poor Lielle, our cleric… our only light. I still remember the moment her magic went silent, as though a cursed frost had closed around her throat. Then, from the darkness, spectral hands reached out for her: pale, ravenous, moaning like unseen lovers. They wrapped around her, caressing her skin, dragging her away with cruel slowness, as if savoring every trembling shiver of her body.

We didn’t even have time to react. Lielle was swallowed by the abyss, her cry fading into an echo that sounded like a mix of pain… and stifled pleasure.

Since then, the dungeon mocks us. In the blackest hours, when the torchlight falters and our breath grows heavy, we think we hear her voice. Sometimes she weeps, sometimes she moans, sometimes she whispers broken words—like prayers, or sinful invitations. We do not know if it is truly her, begging for salvation… or only the dungeon seducing us, wearing her desperate cries as its mask.[/center]