A flickering image appears, hovering in the air in front of the barricaded catacomb exit – an armed elfen woman, clutching her arm to stanch the flow of blood from a savage wound. Her otherwise stately face twists as she spits out words like burning acid, her voice husky with rage. In the background are the sounds of harsh orders being shouted over agonised wailing, of furious combat and hurried construction, but her words wind on in a low stream of unquenchable invective.
“I don’t know who you are, you miserable fucking filth, but I hope you fucking die. I hope they tear your guts. I hope they make you watch while they eat your fucking liver. I hope you choke on your own blood while they claw your treacherous face to meat. When we found the gate open we came in to find you, in case you were just lost and stupid, but all we found were the things you’d managed to attract with your poking around for treasure. I’ve lost three men tonight because of you, you greedy whoreson. Three men whose wives and children will be alone now, three men who won’t even be able to find their families in the underworld because we can’t get to their fucking bodies to say the rites. Just know this though: if the ghouls eat your gizzards you can think yourself lucky, because if I ever find you I won’t be so fucking kind. We’ve blocked your passage out, and I hope you last long enough that you really get to hurt. I hope the god who crawls swallows you whole. I hope th…”
A massive body smashes into the barricade, splintering wood and sending dust and stones pelting down from the roof. The image flickers one last time, the illusion’s anchoring glyph disrupted by the impact, then it stretches crazily and fades.