From the lip of the tunnel you look into the vast chamber beyond. In the flickering light of a dozen or more torches fifty battle-hardened Iron Wolves stand about the Black Alter in a tense silence. Not a voice can be heard but the desperate pleading and hideous screams of the monk who is suffering under the ministrations of Bishop Tarduk.
Even from this distance you can see the flush of Tarduk’s face and the fevered look in his eyes. Sweat drips from his thin, oily hair and splashes off the blood-soaked dagger in his hand. A shudder of ecstasy ripples through him as he once more slices into the monk’s naked flesh, eliciting from him a fresh cry of agony.
Below the dark stone alter huddles a group of monks, transfixed by the horror that they are witnessing, unable to do more than mumble prayers and await their turn.
What’chya gonna do?