A perfectly respectable PC wakes up and finds herself in a cell. A shaft of light trisected by the bars of the gaol door is her only respite from the blackness of the cell. All that will answer a groping exploration of the cell floor are clammy, fleshy lumps of something putrid-smelling and tattered shreds of cloth. If the PC could see, she would notice that the walls were blood-streaked, as though the canvass for some horrendous abstract painting in red. The only other object in the room is a small wooden crucifix on a chain, which has fallen (or been placed?) directly where the shaft of light strikes the slabs of the floor.

When she tries the door it is locked, but when she tries banging and battering it and hollering for guards it falls off its hinges. They must have been rusted through, she thinks. And when she examines the door it looks like a sturdy oak design with strong (and yet mangled, twisted) metal hinges.

Free to explore her dungeon, she may find other people in cells who she wishes to rescue, though most people she finds are either deformed and diseased, dangerously insane or too terrified to accompany her.

Behind her she hears the tread of feet and the voices of guards. She starts to run. Someone behind cries “There it is!” and the tread becomes a charge. She looks back and catches a glimpse of steel glimmering in the wan torchlight of the dungeon. Pounding onwards she soon outdistances the guards, leaps into a side-chamber and slams the door behind her, waiting, panting, sweating in the darkness. From the feel of the objects around her and what she saw before she closed the door, she knows this is an armoury for the prison guards: full of bristling weapons racks and plate armour.

She holds her breath: she heard something outside. The door slowly starts to open and she crouches lower behind a suit of armour. But the inexorable shaft of light from the doorway finds her, and she can see her reflection in the armour. She gasps, repulsed, disgusted. The hideous lycanthrope stares back in her reflection. She turns around to see the frightened faces of the guards, accompanied by the sad faces of her former party of PCs. Branthlad walks forwards with a silver mace and a grave expression on his face.

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