The sky over the demon world is broken. Lightning licks the strange geometries of cloud. Around you rises the demon-city Akargath, warped crystal and flame, thorns and razor wire. And this is the nice part of town.

Gods, you hurt. Your skin's a burned ruin. Bones in your ribs grind when you breathe. Your suit hangs in tatters from your body.

Your enemy stands before you: a towering figure of glass and knives. Cackling madly, he raises one hand. Dark power crackles along his talons.

The battle's taken almost all your strength. Your Craft, your own power, stands at ebb.

If you don't win this thing soon, you're done.