The shadowy masonry of the depths of the laboratory rattle with the sounds of bone and steel, the creaking of worn joints and the bubbling of ragged, unliving breath.  Some of the waxy-fleshed corpses stare on with shriveled eyes, some with swollen and bulging tongues lolling from jawless faces.  Jagged, half-toothed mouths work nervously over what they cannot know, and the gibbering voicelessly of murderous rage bubbles up from the bloated throat of a swollen ghoul as its rotting-sausage fingers work the haft of its halbered.<br/><br/>Among this tension and fear and hatred, a woman's voice bounces softly from the green-gray masonry and mouldering grout.  "Pana Lords and I have made agreement, Marshall."  The drow's voice is distant, muted, but strong enough to be heard.  Her accent is recognizable, but the mind-link is not there.  "Withdraw, go now.  Soon, the gate is closed."