With a sense of eerie desolation you retrace your steps to the demon hound's lair. Following the jagged rift in the ground, you notice it growing ever wider, its edges crumbling ominously into darkness. The air grows colder, and the ground feels unstable beneath their feet as they approach the area of the ominous heart of the black pool. Before you lies a breathtaking chasm, its far wall looming 250 feet away to the west. The abyss drops 80 feet below your current vantage point into a subterranean vault shrouded in shadow. Emerging from the oppressive darkness is a fortress—its silhouette jagged and haunting. The citadel's architecture, though once grand, bears the unmistakable scars of time and neglect. Lightless windows gape like hollow eyes, their panes long shattered. Cracked crenelations stand as fractured teeth, and towers lean precariously, as if succumbing to the weight of centuries. A deathly quiet envelops the area, broken only by the faint moan of a cold breeze rising from the depths. It carries with it a dry, acrid scent—a mixture of ancient dust and the faint, sickly sweetness of rot. The oppressive silence and the fortress’s looming presence evoke a palpable sense of foreboding, as if the air itself carries a warning to turn back. Yet, the citadel beckons, its secrets buried in the shadowed vault below.
Kingsholm...Why has fate brought you to this place? Will the Demon Hound return? Can it truly be stopped and at what cost?