The darkness ever deepens. As you stumble your way through the shadows of the earth and stone, you enter an especailly cold room full of stone fixtures. Upon closer inspection, you find them to be furnaces, all empty and cold, abandoned for many a year. Ash stills stains the insides, scorches burning the stone where the flames once licked. Anvils line one wall, smithing tools scattered across the floor. The weapons rack is empty, and the armor stand holds up only cobwebs. The forge here has been empty for a long time.

As you pass from one end to the other, one hallway to the next, you seem to hear something echoing in the distance. It sounds the fall of a hammer striking iron, an avnil reverberating through the distant halls, reaching you only as a murmur. You cannot shake the feeling that even if this forge is abandoned, somewhere there is one that is warm, and live. A lone blacksmith crafting his life away in the depths of a purgatory structure. What a pitiful existance must that be, to create for others and yet be seen by no one. You didn't notice when you started crying, but you wipes your eyes as you continue on your journey.