The doors to the spire were rusted and open, the left door having long since fallen off, succumbing to the ravages of time. Skeletons of various monsterous races lay scattered and forgotten, their weapons rusting beside them. A skeleton of a human lay near the enterance, its jaw open, screaming silently into eternity, a broken spear head lodged between its ribs. The midday sun's light was strong, not a cloud in the sky, and it was directly over the Valley of Broken Songs, which lived up to its name, the wind howling between the fallen rocks, singing fragmented snatches of songs long forgotten to time.<br/><br/>Beyond the door, the darkness ruled, with the light seeming hesitant to enter, and what few stray beams that did bravely spear into the darkness seemed to wax, and wane as if the strength of the light faltered and failed here, where so much evil once resided. Somewhere under the cold, forsaken earth, there lay the bones of a fallen hero of the light, who, after such a long exile from the light, would finally be returned to her home, and given the glory that all heroes who die in service to the Maimed God are blessed with.<br/><br/>But first the darkness before her needed to be parted, before the holy martyr could found and recovered. The darkness that seemed to be gathering its strength, waiting for something, as it move, twisted and coiled.<br/><br/>The darkness lived, breathed, and pulsed, waiting for its master to return, perhaps, or the next victim to enter.<br/><br/>Or maybe for the indigestion from its last set of tacos to disappear.