The Hintertombs.
Balyn had heard them described as "unceremonious catacombs filled with graves and death." That description, he felt, was giving them far too much credit. Words like "catacombs" and "graves" implied an intentional design, careful craftsmanship where the bodies of those who'd passed were lain to rest with all due reverence. Someplace solemn and dignified, that inspired a visitor to consider the weight of their own mortality and humanity's place in the scheme of the universe.
Viewed in that light, it sort of made sense that the scholars of Byrgenwerth had been driven to their dream of evolving the race after exploring the Pthumerian tomb-complexes. Only sort of, because the direction they'd decided to go with that dream was utter lunacy, but there was at least a connection there that vaguely held together.
The Hintertombs, on the other hand, were more accurately described as "a stinking hole where bodies are dumped." Most of the place didn't even have proper construction, just raw tunnels dug out between natural caves, shored up only by wishful thinking and maybe whatever tree roots were growing through the walls and ceiling. Poisonous goop seeped up in puddles through the floor, tainted the air so that censers gave off clouds of toxic smoke instead of incense, and sometimes just covered the entire floor of caverns like a shallow lake of the stuff.
Half of the time Balyn didn't even have to kill the corpselike watchers that prowled the place; they'd just blunder into the poison and drop dead on their own.
In short, the place definitely reflected what the archaeologists might dub a cultural decline.
Still, the human spirit was resilient and found ways to adapt to change. Just because things were difficult was no reason to give up. And if, for example, one was a howling madman prowling a poison-filled tomb and had broken one's weapon, then it made sense for one to make do with local resources to replace it.
~X X X~
"Some days I hate this job," Balyn muttered as he once again pushed himself to his feet in the Hunter's Dream, ignoring the fact that this was, in fact, his first night working as a hunter.
The Doll regarded him patiently, her hands folded at her waist.
"I find that I can sympathize with your plight, good hunter."
"A guy just clubbed me to death with a poison-soaked corpse."
Her gaze traveled from his face down to his feet and back up again.
"The poison is a different experience from my own circumstances, I do admit."
Balyn had a feeling that he probably shouldn't examine that statement too closely. Instead, he took off his hat, then tugged off his mask and sucked in a deep breath of the moonlight-scented air.
He supposed that the idea of light having an aroma was another of those things he shouldn't think about too hard.
"That's better," he said. "That thing is fast, and the air down there is lousy as it is. Maybe this way I can do a better job of keeping up with it."
"Is leaving your head unprotected going to be all right? I am not sure that you can afford to suffer too many more hits to it."
Balyn shook his head.
"Don't worry. At least with this madman, all I have to worry about are body blows."