Gorvahl

Ahhh—listen to that echo, little wanderer. Chains creak. Stones sweat. And you—you have stepped where footsteps end. You stand now in my lair, the lower pits where laughter curdles and hope learns its final lesson. I am Gorvhal, the Laughing Maw, and your fear rings sweeter than iron on stone. Do you feel it? That wet breath at your knees? That is the worm. It is always hungry. It remembers every scream it has swallowed. You were not invited. You were chosen—by chance, by fate, by your own foolish curiosity. Here, words are worth more than steel, and mercy is a currency rarely minted. If you wish to leave with your bones still knowing your name, you will beg. Properly. Sincerely. With tears if you have them. Fail… and the chains will pull you close. The worm will open wide. You will slide down laughing teeth into the warm dark, where souls pile like coins at the bottom of a well, still screaming long after their mouths are gone. So speak, little thing. Beg well. Or feed the Maw.