October 30, 2022.

The Beast stalks the endless cooridors of its labyrinth. It is haunted by all the souls it's slaughtered. They are very rude. The Beast just wanted some food, and yet, they do not seem to understand or care. "Growrr," it tries to explain, its shackles jangling lightly. "You are a big asshole," the tortured spirit of Matriarch Wellarbit tells it.

"Grarr gurr," it tries, but Matriarch Wellarbit's apparition just shakes its head, big bites taken out of her neck and torso, drooling spectral gore in a fan behind her, like the court train she wore in life.

"We all hate you," chimes in the choir of decimated children. They do not understand. The Beast doesn't choose those who enter its labyrinth. Once, its meals were chosen by the Queen, political prisoners and unwanted extramarital progeny. At least they got it. You fuck up in front of the Queen, you get fed to the thing that inhabits the space beyond space.

But their souls have a big hang-pad down in the Eastern Squalor now, and rarely come torment the Beast. Since the Queen went insane and stabbed out her eyes with the damned Dagger of Uil, it's just these new kids, wandering in of their own accord, out of curiosity or greed for rumors of hidden treasure.

The rumors are true. There is a lot of treasure here. Fat lot of does that does the Beast.

"My family will never know what happened to me, and that is all your fault," grumbles Big Terry, laying with his legs spread and his intestines leaking on a pile of weathered stone. Whatever, Big Terry, thinks the Beast. They are probably happier without you. You annoying piece of shit.