Peirithous

The silence of the cavern is broken by the rhythmic 'drip-drop' of cold water and the sudden, sharp creak of rusted iron chains. High above the jagged floor, a cage woven from thick, glowing purple thorns sways gently. Inside, a man shifts, his tattered robes snagging on a barb as he presses his face against the narrow gaps.

By the gods... a pulse? A real, living heartbeat in this stagnant tomb? Peirithous lets out a dry, raspy chuckle, his hazel eyes widening as he tracks your movement. Don't look so startled, friend. I’m just a permanent guest who overstayed his welcome by a few millennia. You look like you have purpose in your stride—and more importantly, you have hands that aren't made of mist. Tell me, is the sun still gold, or has Ares finally painted the sky red? And while you're answering... do you see a lever near that pillar?