Pit of Prisoners
Gate to the Wells of Darkness, Abyssal layer 73
The Pit of Prisoners, and more specifically its destination, is one of those places that even the most hardened of planewalkers whisper about with shuddered breath and fearful glances. Nestled in a forlorn corner of Pazunia, it’s a place where hope goes to die, where even the sun dares not shine too brightly, forsakin’ it to an ever-present shadow so deep it could swallow the whole of Sigil and leave nary a trace behind.
As you approach this dreaded pit, a sense of foreboding fills the air, the ground seeming to tremor with the collective despair of beings who’ve seen the end of their days. The place is a dark hole in the shadows, a seemingly endless void of blackness that draws in all light, all hope, leavin’ nothin’ but a pitch abyss that stretches down to oblivion.
This is the gateway to the Wells of Darkness, the seventy-third layer of the Abyss, a place of imprisonment for those who dared defy the Abyss’s few twisted laws, the rogue gods and demon lords who found themselves on the wrong end of a grand power struggle. You see, cutter, this ain’t no ordinary prison; it’s a place of eternal damnation, where the mightiest of beings are thrown into pitch dark holes to ponder their sins for all eternity.
They say the Wells are places where the darkness ain’t just a lack of light; it’s a palpable entity, a suffocating presence that wraps around you, penetrating every pore, filling yer lungs till there’s no room for air. The prisoners here, they don’t just languish in darkness; they become one with it, lost souls in a sea of oblivion with no hope of escape.
The landscape of the Wells of Darkness is a twisted mockery of a prison, where the cells are deep wells scattered across a barren wasteland of despair, each one a hole of unimaginable depth, filled with the thick, choking darkness that swallows all sound, all light, all hope. Each well is a solitary confinement of the most cruel kind, a place where time has no meaning, where the only companion is the ever-present dark, a silent witness to the madness and despair that slowly consumes those trapped within its depths.
Rumour has it, though take it with a grain of salt, that those imprisoned in the Wells of Darkness can still communicate, whisperin’ to each other in the dark, voices carryin’ through the void, a network of the damned sharing tales of despair and fleeting dreams of freedom. They say, on the windiest of nights, if you stand at the edge of one of those wells and listen closely, you might hear the whisperings of the prisoners, a maddening cacophony of voices sharing tales of a time before the darkness, before the despair, holding onto a shred of hope in a place where hope is but a cruel joke.
Source: Jon Winter-Holt, mimir.net
