It's a charnel house down here: a sort of structure built half of blood and bone and viscera and half of black metal veins and wires and flashing red lights. There's something about it that calls a grand cathedral to mind, if you've ever been in one -- though that impression's mostly from the scale of it, the sense of echoing space. All the shapes are twisted, however; shifting, alien, and very, very wrong.

You are assailed not physically here, but with wholly sensory and emotional things: you want to sink your teeth into fresh meat; you want to feel something shudder itself apart under your claws, you want to you want to you want to tear and kill and eat and kill and eat and tear there is not enough there is never enough you are starved and enclosed and so you will grow and grow and grow and grow --

There's a black, wrong joy in it all.