The stench overpowers you—rotting meat, spoiled cheese, old blood, dried scat and viscera. Half-finished meals sit in maggot-ridden heaps, buzzing with flies, their forms indiscernible as all but decaying flesh. A warm, humid wind blows from deeper within the lair, and it carries with it the wet, rattling groans of some slumbering beast—along with the sickly-sweet stench of sweat and moldering furs. You fight the urge to run, to vomit, and instead resign yourself to slaying this beast quickly to be rid of the stench, if nothing else.

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