Long, twisting hallways, cursed stone walls, damned souls, rancid slime of things that died eons ago; the tunnels of Orak were nothing short of hellish and corrupting. The sanest minds, strongest bodies and quickest wits turns to dust when faced with the many trials the tunnels posed. With good reason, as the Orak made an altar that granted wishes, with their own first wish being that of divinity. However, the altar granted this wish in a repulsive way, granting that very power to the caves itself, killing the civilisation and hiding the altar from sunlight. Legends and myths details the horrors the cave since spawned in an attempt to be granted another wish, only to be another guardian of its entrails.
Of course, many corpses litter the first few floors; the bodies of ambitious, but ill prepared adventurers, mercenaries and wayward travellers. Then again, who could truly prepare for a series of tunnels that was granted powers divine? Some made it into a game, to see who went the furthest, while the richer classes hired hapless mercenaries to gather the best loot. The tunnels of hell, sometimes mocked, but often feared. One thing is always agreed on, by everyone, almost like a motto: The tunnels spare the lucky, not the strong.
One can confirm this fact, as the only one who supposedly survived the tunnels and reached the statue, was a lucky paladin. The tunnels revered this single soul, whose body lay in pieces on the foot of the statue at the top of the altar. He groaned, couching up another chunk of soot from his lungs, bathing in the dimmest light that remained flickering. It was a tiny golden rod, blessed to glow forever, now emitted just enough light for the heroic and lucky adventurer to see the feet of the statue he would soon call his grave. Surround him, the many decaying corpses of unimaginable creatures, some gruesome, others merely frightening. Slime and blood coated the floor and walls, all the weapons and armour left in shambles.
He smiled weakly, knowing that, even if he perished, he’d have proven this was not an impossible quest or goal, and that he might one day be recovered and honoured as the first to discover the lost shrine of wishes. The thought made him smile, his mind too dim to realise he could simply wish himself out of the situation. Luckily, the chatty paladin lamented himself.
“Alas... I spend my final minutes bleeding out... all the others blessed with a quick, merciful death... and yet I lie here. My sword dulled by blood, my magic drained by exhausting. I guess it’s just me and death... and this statue. Well, I can take solace that I will die at this... most wonderful craftsmanship.” The paladin rested his rusted and cursed gauntlets on the statue’s footing, smiling faintly. “I wonder what blessing allowed this single statue to survive in these barren, rotten tunnels.” He chuckled, coughing up black dust and soot. “Well... all I could wish for is a place to regenerate and rest until my final hour. A harbour where a man can forever rest without a worry in the world, tended to his needs. Aha! All you wish is to be polished and dusted...” The paladin looks around and stroked the statue’s foot, removing some dust and gravel. “Here... let me give you a little start.” His eye noticed the faint shimmer of the shining marble. “Ah... these tunnels ruined your glory. Be happy you’ll have company of another forgotten soul.” The paladin gave another look around, smelling the rotting flesh and food, his ears hearing his own echoes and the settling of the many rocks. His body was heavy, his mind weightless. “You hold on, statue...my time has come. May you be recovered and restored to glory, unlike... myself....” His final breath escaped as he rested his head on the dusty base, being yet another corpse amongst countless others, yet being the only normal one.
