You stand in the entrance of a ruined arena, the crumbled stumps of stone arches towering around you. Walking slowly forward you look up at the empty galleries, thinking on the huge noisy crowds that must have once filled those seats, jeering and screaming at the competitors that fought where you now stand. Those seats are quiet now, and yet a chill whisper on the wind makes you shiver.

"...blood, blood, glorious blood!..."

As you trepidly move forwards you see on the far side a huge throne wreathed in shadow. In the dim light you can barely make out the reflection of rusted iron and tarnished gold. The lure of treasure brings you forward, overcoming the mounting fear rising in the back of your mind. The closer you come the darker the throne seems to get, and around you the shadows rise...

"...You will not find reward here, you won't even find fame..."


The throne now seems to tower before you, and your legs feel weak and unwilling to step forward. On the ground in front of you lies a huge horned helmet, snapped in half and weathered by time. You try to peer into the gloom surrounding the monstrous throne, but the failing light of day can do nothing to reveal it further. Your fingers tremble as you nervously reach into your pack for a torch.

"...the weakest links shall be torn from the chain..."

As the sun sinks away, leaving you shivering in dark isolation, you finally manage to get your torch lit. It sputters and at the edge of vision shadows seem to arise, flickering in time with the waving flame. For a moment you think it looks like crowds of waving spectators, screaming out at you to fight. You shudder and mutter to yourself, annoyed at your own over-active imagination. You turn back to the throne...

"...we will laugh at the sight of your blood and guts spilled in those lonely and desolate places..."

On the tremendous throne sits a gigantic suit of dark armour, big enough to fit a creature over twice the size of a troll. All over the chest and back you see it has been pierced and punctured by some terrible weapons, but the thick steel is still intact otherwise. Horned shoulder plates rest atop a huge rigid chest piece, and metallic arms stretch down to great gauntleted fists. As you stare in awe at the mighty suit it suddenly rocks gently, and a dark voice calls on the wind...

"The show.... the show...must...go on..."

The armour seems to move slighty, chest heaving up and down like a breathing animal, the arms and legs flexing slowly. A shadowy face seems to appear where the head should be, and its dark mouth calls out to the empty arena behind you.

"We need to see the suffering... we live by the pain, we live by the fear... Only through witnessing the hells and horrors of our prey can we find true joy. We need to feast on that exquisite anguish, that delicious torment! WE NEED BLOOD!!"

Behind you a roar goes up and as you turn around you see the galleries and the stands filled with whooping and braying spectators of every race. "Blood, blood, blood!" they chant in unison, hungry looks on their leering faces. The arena is now brightly lit and in the centre you see an entrance to a cavern of unknown depth.

"The Weakest Link... is REBORN!" booms a terrifying voice, and turning back to the great throne you see an enormous, demonic man standing in front of the throne wearing the thick steel armour. The left half of his face has been burnt off and where was once his left eye is just a dark recess. Underneath his armour you see a network of scars and barely healed wounds. But his right eye burns brightly with an evil cunning, and a giant grin beneath his torn lips shows no sign of suffering.

"Miserable, pathetic, wretched mortal... You who have so dumbly stumbled on an ancient place of sacrifice, where countless gallons of blood have been spilled to sate our desires... Now it is your turn to perish for our pleasure. Go forth now into the dungeons of death, waste your life away in the darkest chasms of infinity. We shall watch, and we shall laugh at your every scream, and bathe joyfully in your terrified tears. For this show shall never end, and this blood shall never stop spilling. Now die yourself a good death and gratify our sadistic needs!"

At his command you step towards the dark entrance in the middle of the arena, the crowds shouting and jeering at you loudly from all sides. "Blood!" they all scream for, "Blood!" they all demand. And as your heart races, pumping precious blood to every tense muscle, you stare down at the terrible fate that awaits you in the dungeons of infinity...