<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">A tight stalk through the narrow passage wends for about thirty feet of crushing darkness.  Guttering light from the torch does little more than salt the air with a moist stink.  The shadows still flock at every edge of vision; still thrash and make a game of distance and shape.<br/><br/>The passage emerges into a wider chamber - one that is clotted with an awful, animal reek.  The air itself seems to spurt over with the stink: A stink of offal, in generous, bubbling quantities.  <br/><br/>Its source is a trench in the room's center, running its entire fifteen foot length, and filling three feet of its ten foot width.  In it, a blackish cluster of greasy coils winds together:  The dung of whatever colossal beasts live here, piled into mountains that loom over lakes of piss.<br/><br/>Two passages lead from the chamber.  One is a continuation of the cave's narrow crook, leading to deeper darkness.  The other is where the feminine panting is coming from, and now a wet slapping noise can be heard.  It is the rhythm of rutting, huge and hard.  It comes from mere feet within the dim of that side passage.<br/><br/>On the wall, weird patches of stone show through.  Unlike the igneous sluice of the hill's rock, this stone is planed smooth.  It seems like it was buried by the hill's stone.  Its stark, ancient planes are carved with faint hieroglyphs.<br/><br/>Depicted there are slender, frolicking forms:  A ring of dancers under a blazing eye.  A family of angelic figures reclining in a garden.  Piles of coins being counted by grinning figures, their exquisite bodis dressed in nothing but silk bands.  All of these symbols are surrounded by a hash of markings that look vaguely familiar - an ancient Elven, perhaps - but that fascinate the mind with their faded artistry, sweeping the concentration on a lilting voyage along their unknown sentences.</span>