The dungeon itself was a foreboding place. Its walls were not just draped in decay and peices of flesh... They held something much more then that. Trapped inside their bricks and mortor where the screams of countless souls being rended asunder. Those who died in that place never truly left, instead they were condemned to the walls that had held them prisoners for most of their lives. Their hatred tainted the very foundations of the monastary.
Violent sounds of cracking bone and twisting sinew filled the air and reverberated off the walls. The room itself was nothing more then a large cell with no windows. Five cloaked figures stood silently over a table in the middle of the room. Their cloaks were torn and moth eaten, the black silks they had once been made of were now tinged a sickening red. Blood flowed down their sleeves and dripped in dissonance onto the hard stone floor. Their apperance was an outward reflection of the fall from glory they once had.