The air was thick with the smell of metal. Occasional clanking sounds reverberated through the ice-cold Dungeon. Trent's rolled eyes, bleeding and stinging, skimmed the Dungeon. He could see wavering spirits shovelling and mining with pickaxes. Their tools produced the clinking sounds, while their infinite reflections against the crystals moaned despondently.
This Dungeon was one of pride, which the Presider, Accarnah, held like a trait. Its theme was the spirits of those once wealthy in life, now condemned to wander and mine their own pride, which they had carried into death. 'This hurts,' Trent whimpered, as he began to heal himself with Mana. The spikes continued to grow within him, hoisting his body into the air like a crucifixion.