Links to other sites on the Web9. THE DUNGEON MASTER: "Let's go!" suggests Ice the Necromancer, his voice filled with alacrity. The Wizard of Death feels rather at home in this dead place.
"Yeah," agrees the man in black, "let's see how far this Hell-hole goes."
"Perhaps we should only send in a few men or womyn to search the room and then report back to the rest of the party on their findings." suggests the Samurai Manji. "Since we don't know much about this realm, we should not risk losing ourselves in case there is an unknown force or being that is against us. I would be willing to...."
By this point a goodly portion of the party has already entered the tower.
"Very well...." finishes Manji, following from the rear.
The small illumination provided by the stars outside has almost no effect on the tower's interior, even at the very entrance. As the blackness of the complex's colossal confines consumes you, you receive the sensation that you are entering the midnight womb of creation. All is as the void: velvet infinite ebon.
"It sure is dark." comments Tim. He steps on something that makes a slight click against the hard floor. As the light of the frost blade draws near him, the Mana Mage sees that he is standing on a black leather glove, the fingers of which end in long mythril claws. The Wizard works his right hand into it and finds that it fits him like.... ahem, it fits him rather well.
{Tim, dost thou recall the request thee made in the early Spring of 1997 when thou didst first create thy character? I remember that you did desire one or more gloves akin to the primary weapon of Rika from Phantasy Star IV: The End of the Millennium, and I must apologize for waiting until after the end of the millennium to fulfill your desire.
Never underestimate the seemingly-forgotten Stygian coelacanths which swim around the atolls of my memory! - The Dungeon Master (TDM).}
"I find all this technology rather uncomfortable." states Ice the Necromancer. "The only use for technology is the making of golems and other magickal constructs....damn it!"
The tube the Wizard now gazes into contains an Elf.
Indeed, every one of these giant green canisters that contains anything contains an elf of some kind. All are suspended silent and motionless within their containers, some of which are too dusty to see into without you wiping said dust away. The other canisters which Wolverine saw when he first entered the complex must have had their layers of dust wiped away by someone -or something- that passed through here relatively recently.
"In this Hell where Despair itself dies...." utters the Ranger Farian Shadowstorm. "Are these soulless dolls all that remains of the Elven race?"
Silence follows this question for some time. Finally Anuril the Mage lays her hand on the Wood Elf's shoulder and says reassuringly, "No. *We* are what remains of the elven race."
"If you want to re-populate the elven race, I'm your man." contributes Ice. "But first....I want to see if the magick of death is stronger in this dead land." The Necromancer reaches into his pouch and produces the eye he retrieved from the corpse of the Larval Soul. It is a vile little ball of evil, covered in and shedding tears of Abyssal black bile and Infernal red blood. "Dag...." speaks the DeathWizard, and pale blue power arcs from his outstretched fingers and surrounds the sphere.
Tim the Enchanter rubs the dust off of the tube nearest him, which contains an immature elf. "Any idea what these could be for?" he asks, tapping on the surface of the canister.
Suddenly a bright jet of flame erupts from the Sub-Fiendish eyeball held by the Necromancer Ice. For an instant it illuminates the entire technological catacomb.
The walls, floor, and ceiling all around you are smothered in a carpet of giant, decayed cockroaches.
Which start to move en masse.
A battle begins....
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