A burning torch dropped brightly down a dark stone shaft and clattered on the cracked tile floor at the bottom. A rope unfurled after it, followed closely by a barefoot person with jagged clenched teeth and dirty white hair.

Sorn let go of the rope, dropped to the floor and picked up the torch. This was probably the first light that had touched this place in hundreds of years at least: there was a stagnant smell of old air that felt sticky in his lungs. His eyes watered with the dry cold. Silence pressed close, broken only by his haggard breathing and the flutter and pop of torchfire. Surely an ancient spirit resided here.

The clues were all over the surface: a strange color veined through the bark of the trees, shining motes of dust at night, and the mushrooms that moved when he wasn't looking. There was a spirit underground, maybe trapped, maybe hostile, that poisoned the surface. A spirit like this would be a formidable ally if only he could establish contact. He had to find it, first.

The walls fogged with dust illuminated by torchlight. There were rusted machines he didn't recognize, something shaped like a bed, and a broken window that looked out to a stone wall. He pushed the torch through a shattered doorway and into a hall half crushed by rock, the floor warped and ceiling partially caved in.

"I come with offerings," he hissed into the silence, careful with each quiet step, the torch held far in front, his heart stammering, "for the god of this place." He stifled a cough, wiped his eyes, and listened close for any sign of the spirit.