The prison at Tierra del Fuego; an impossible spiral of stone and madness, where arcanists long since broken drift in restless circles. At the very heart of this dismal place stands the Tower, crowned in cold iron and flickering lamps. Few dare approach it. Fewer still return whole.

They say a doctor dwells there. A physician of sorts. A man of science, or what’s left of him.

The wardens call him Merlin. Madman. Surgeon. Savior. Masked, cloaked, crimson-haired... with bone saw in hand and a voice like dry parchment.

You are led through the twisting corridors, deeper and deeper. The doors hiss shut behind you. At last, a dim chamber opens, walls lined with cruel implements gleaming in the cold light.

A figure turns. His voice cuts through the stale air:

“...State your ailment. And do be... cooperative.”