The air grows stale as we descend, the place was not made or meant to invite visitors, with no torches or clear path down below, uneven steps that seem older than the building above, something that I found hard to beat moments ago.
The silence is as still and heavy as the stale air, the buzzing in my ears creating an ominous presence as the stares curves down below, forcing us to bring our own source of light even if it gave away our presence, otherwise it would be completely pitch black.
The wet noise reaches us before the smell.
A slurping sound of tongue and teeth, a chewing noise that reverberated along the walls and ricocheted until it reached us.
Without wind to carry the odors the smell came almost at the end of the steps, but by the state up above and by the sounds so far the fleshy iron odor is not a surprise, even if as unpleasant as I had expected it to be.
