For Marta's birthday over at HASA.
Blackness and stench nearly overwhelm me. Screams further off, closer only dying whimpers, and disguise forbids I ease their passing. Yet one chained in this corner can still speak, though he raves.
"Ring, my Ring... stolen from me - curse them! - last of the Seven..."
He breaks off coughing, broken lungs straining; little time left. I risk the faintest glimmer to look closer at his face, and for a moment sanity gleams desperate in his clouded eyes. He gropes feebly inside the rags of his tunic.
"Map... key..." He presses them into my hands, eyes pleading with me. "For my son."