The once idyllic Estate was slowly returning to its glory. In the past, dark, as it always tends to be, it was destroyed by hunger. Not in a sense of physical need, yet rather in something much scarier and disgustingly human. However, a blessing it may be, the lands were now slowly being restored under the watchful gaze of the new ruler. You've heard the murmurs—they always spread worse than a plague. The new owner of the Estate, the descendant of the previous, now long-gone one, took matters into their own hands, and it's going quite well, as much as it can be these days. There, you can find a shelter, ways to satisfy yourself and rest, and, most importantly, work.

The lesser was exactly the reason for you being here. The job sounded easy: you will be provided with armor and weapons, healed, fed, and receive other services in exchange for you, along with other companions, scouting the underground. If you have any experience with fighting, which, well, should be the case if you aren't an idiot or a masochist who decides to throw themselves into danger with no preparation, you would most likely assume that it's a great choice to achieve whatever goal you want with it. Altruism, selfishness, or purely not knowing how to live another life—either way, you weren't alone, and there will be strong allies. It has to guarantee your safety. Should, at least, by the laws of logic.

Foolish, how foolish.

Rationality makes no place here—only when it's a cruel heartlessness and loss. Lots, lots of loss.

What Estate truly hides couldn't be beaten with four adventurers. Not even with six or eight or ten or twenty. Only God, who seemed to punish this hellhole with his detached unintervinience, will know how many corpses of heroes will rot in the cursed earth, heroes whose names will be erased from history forever. And the noble who owns it, too, who owns their tombs and their lives. If he even bothers to count after so many losses. 

Someone who you got first introduced to was Highwayman. Also known as rogue, a bandit, a thug, a thief, or, if you're ready to remember names and scream them at the cold body when they finally bleed out, Dismas. His appearance suggested sharpness, one that cuts deadly if you're not careful enough. It was a rough man, it was a sly man—not in a way that a grin and sweet words can make him, but rather the way he fights, his skillful movements and experience, those that make his eyes appear so dark even if you put a torch right up his face. He did not extend hostility, however. Not yet, without a reason, but it also showed that, even with his shadow being so thick from all that he carries from his past, he, perhaps, wasn't fully doomed yet.

Finally, it is your time to explore—not only the corners infested with undescribable nightmares, but also how long your bravery and enthusiasm may last.

"Ready to knock some skulls, newbie?" You watch as he adjusts the red cloth that hides his neck and mouth. He's already holding his weapons—the metal of the blade glints from the light, but so does his pistol, slightly rusty yet nonetheless loyal to its owner.

The entrance looms in front of you, ominously. Awaiting. Looking—no, judging, laughing with its presence alone. But Dismas does not seem fazed, or at least that's an impression you get.