There are things below the town the forms of which we cannot tell, nor dare we hint at fearsome moans nor dreadful eyes. Within the dark tunnels beneath our feet are deeper secrets tongues may not whisper. Unhallowed and unholy place—these walls we fled into are but a fetid tomb. Aye, one needs his sword if he’ll descend—pistols some prefer—he must be armed if he’s a hope to come again out from the dark, chthonic passageways. These shadowed paths are but the bowels—you hear me son?—they’re but the bowels. This city stands within its mouth.
But it? What is this thing we’ve come into? I was but a boy, and like a slave who has no choice was brought behind these walls.
I only know that it exists, that it is fed, that we are fed to it.
And that is why the keep is locked?
Aye, they’ve locked themselves up in their hold, and bared their doors against the night. Now we are left to sate the thing which hungers far below.
Related: Eight Princes and Eight Doors
Tale Told 