Ancient

There were no walls to keep people out. Nor were there guards, or trenches, or wards. All it had were the stories. Tales of what had happened here in years long since passed and whispers of what remained to this day. Its greatest armour was its reputation. We were not the superstitious type - the kind who believe that the ruins were haunted by vengeful spirits who suffered atrocities in days gone by. If there was any truth to the legends, then our pockets would sag with gold until the day we died, simply because we ignored an age-old myth. Untold riches would soon be uncovered.

We paid no heed to their warnings, but the caves here were unmistakably eerie. Along the trail, there was no life; not even fungi or lichen dared to grow from the rocks. Our steps echoed through the desolate darkness. This road was called Skin Street for reasons as grisly as the name suggests. My wandering mind pondered how such a feat would be managed. The thought of a carpet of flesh some five miles long made me squirm. I scratched at my own skin uncomfortably and tried to dispel my morbid curiosity. Wealth as great as our promised reward was worth a little unease. Besides, it was probably just propaganda fabricated by the tyrant's enemies after his downfall. Perhaps we would even find something that revealed a different truth.

Empty air hung as silent as the grave as we reached our destination. The Ruins of Irgan loomed before us forbodingly. Besides the ravages of the war that saw this place left to rot, the Dwarven stonework had survived barely tarnished for millennia. Squat, square buildings that stacked atop one another, with countless chimneys protruding from myriad cold forges. Crumbled walls recounted the tale of an army surging through a breach, hacking down any foe they saw, fuelled by nothing but hate. If the stories were even somewhat true, then I do not blame them for their wrath. Regardless, we were not here for history. Deep inside the stronghold, treasure beckoned us in like a moth to a flame. We could not yet see it but I was certain it was just waiting to be discovered.

Loose rubble, undisturbed for centuries, scattered as we clambered through the breach. Tumbling rocks echoed around the cavern. As they settled, an ominous silence descended. We scrambled down into vacant streets where only shadows lurked. Long black corridors stretched away into darkness on all sides. No matter how much I tried to ignore the thought, the old stories of this place began to fester in my mind. They said the damned still wailed here. I did not want to stay long. As soon as we could find something valuable, I would be leaving. But for now, I kept my eyes peeled.

Deeper and deeper into the darkness we went, the light of our torches barely making a dent in the shadows. The gentle crackling of the flame was all that shielded us from a maddening quiet. Eventually, the hallway opened to a small market square, long since forgotten. Remnants of shopfronts looked over a smooth tiled floor that bore neither crack nor scratch. Standing over the centre was a grim relic of Irgan's dark history. A gruesome statue of an Elf strapped to a large cross with arms and legs outstretched. It had no face - perhaps the sculptor thought it impossible to carve such agony into stone. However, their muscles were entirely exposed and sickeningly anatomical, as if the artist themself had seen such a sight numerous times. I knew they had a reputation for flaying their prisoners, but I never knew they took such pride in the act. Here, no secret was left unmasked, not even the ones beneath a man's skin.

A shrill howl pierced the silence from our right. All thoughts of treasure vanished from my mind in an instant. I turned and ran faster than I ever had before, willing myself to go faster with every step. Behind me, I heard the rest of my crew following suit. The whole city seemed to erupt into life. In the distance, a cacophanous wail droned, cut off by anguished weeping. Much closer, a discordant scream rattled against the stonework. Their notes carried nothing but pain. Our steps began to slosh as we ran. A scarlet sludge began to bleed from the walls and floors like a dam about to burst. Still the shrieking persisted. Somewhere, in the darkness behind us, heavy footsteps thundered towards us, accompanied by the jangling of chains. The spectres began to plead as it approached, begging for mercy in vain. Our already immense terror grew even greater. It was no secret what our pursuer desired - to unearth the secrets beneath our skin.

We charged recklessly onwards through the twisting labyrinth until the exit grew near. Over shattered rubble and into the open cavern marked the key to our escape. But it would not be so simple. Where blood once seeped from the walls, a new material emerged. It was pale and dry like tanned leather, yet the sheets endlessly unravelled before us. Reams of skin began to flood the hallway. Roiling like a stormy sea, it leaped forth towards us. A foetid stench assaulted my senses as it tried to smother me beneath its wrinkled mass. Vaguely, I could hear my compatriots struggling. The footsteps stomped closer. We writhed in desperation. Through sheer chance, I slithered free of my macabre confines and ran for the exit. I may have unveiled myself as a coward for abandoning them, but if I had tried to help then I would certainly have shared their dire fate.

I staggered away onto Skin Street, strangely calmed by the eerieness of the cavern. The screaming had stopped. My stomach turned. With a heavy grunt, I fell on my back. For a few brief moments, I relished the empty air. Waves of relief washed over me, caressing my trembling limbs with nurturing draughts. Suddenly, my peace was disrupted. New shrieks began, different from the previous ones. A discomforting familiarity found its way to my ears. Wracked with guilt and sick to my stomach, I turned away. The ancient Ruins of Irgan should remain a mystery until the end of time.