Mephisto's Jungle

Kurast is a dying city.

The capital is in arrested cataclysm. The jungle has invaded, overcoming the works of Men more quickly and efficiently than any mortal army. Courtyards have become cavities. Great stone buildings now stand as mausoleums. So little light comes through the forest canopy, and so little light is kindled here, in the dark. Those who preach the word of the Light have long succumbed to hatred. And weak is mankind's fire, down here in the gloom.

How many people lived here? This, the capital of the Eastern Empire? This, the bastion of art and culture, gateway into Kehjistan? If Kurast, the jewel of the empire's crown, can fall, what hope is there for the other cities of Man?

The people offer nothing. No hope, no rage, no sorrow. Their eyes have the stars of the dead. Their bodies are wasted, and their spirits long begone of this realm. They wait for oblivion, uncaring that damnation surrounds them. I cannot count on their aid. So my companions and I enter the jungle.

The pitter-patter of feet greet us. Spears and darts come our way – demons of the jungle, here to greet us, intent on watering the ground with our blood. These, the new custodians of this land. A land that already feels like something of another world. The roots dig deep, and inject corruption into the soil. Trees have sealed themselves into their new abode, and their trunks reach high to the Heavens. Yet no salvation shall come from that realm.

We are left below. In the dark. In the jungle. Hatred's miasma surrounds us.

And Travincal awaits.