Garden of Achlys

The moment the team crossed the threshold of the swirling violet gate, a sharp, ringing chime echoed in their minds, followed by an ethereal screen materializing before each of them, hovering in the air with a soft, ominous glow.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION

You have entered the dungeon: The Garden of Achlys.

Domain of Achlys, the Goddess of the Mist of Death, Misery, Sadness, and Poisons.

The words hung in the air, their meaning sinking in as the team took in the message. The name "Achlys" struck a note of dread within each of them—a name from ancient lore, whispered in myths and tales of sorrow and suffering. Achlys, the goddess who personified death's sorrowful mist, the essence of poison, and the despair that seeped into the soul. To enter her domain was to walk into a place that fed on pain, darkness, and ruin.

The miasma around them seemed to thicken in response to the notification, swirling with renewed intensity, as if acknowledging their presence. The mist took on an almost sentient quality, curling around their ankles, winding up their legs, pressing close as if to taste the energy of the living intruders within its grasp.

Elias adjusted his glasses and cast a wary glance around the miasma-filled landscape. His normally calm demeanor was taut with tension. "Achlys," he murmured. "A name not even the oldest myths take lightly. She's a deity of sorrow and corruption. This garden… it won't just attack us physically." His voice was tight with unease. "It's going to get inside our heads."

Just ahead of him, Dabria tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with a strange excitement. She grinned, her voice a low, almost reverent whisper. "The Garden of Achlys… we're in the presence of the goddess's essence herself." She gazed around at the swirling miasma with a gleeful smile, breathing it in like a perfumed fog. "Do you feel it? Her touch is everywhere. Sorrow, decay… it's perfect."

Visha's expression, however, was one of calm intensity, her gaze fixed on the mist as if deciphering its secrets. Her pale-green eyes gleamed as she took in the pulsing miasma, her voice a low murmur. "The goddess of poison and death… fitting."

Ox, the towering Berserker, grunted, his fingers tightening around the handle of his massive ax. His eyes darted from one strange statue to another, each angelic figure frozen in expressions of torment. "Perfect?" he muttered, his voice a deep rumble. "If by 'perfect,' you mean the whole place reeks of death." His tone was gruff, but even he seemed unsettled, his usual confidence dulled by the oppressive aura pressing down on them.

The statue was that of a colossal angel, wings spread wide but decayed, with feathers chipped and cracked, revealing sharp, skeletal protrusions underneath. The angel's face was twisted in an expression of pure agony, mouth open in a silent scream, as if caught in an endless moment of despair. Deep cracks ran through the statue's face and body, and vines and thorned tendrils wove in and out of the fissures, winding around its limbs like bindings, as if to prevent it from moving or fleeing.

In its hands, the angel held a scroll of polished marble, its surface inscribed with dark, eerie text that glowed faintly in the purple light from the miasma. The words looked as if they were etched in pain, each letter carved with a precision that suggested both reverence and fear. The scroll itself seemed to pulse with a sickly light, the marble surface stained as though it had absorbed the very essence of the poison and despair that filled the air.

As the group approached, the faint glow from the marble intensified, illuminating the words carved upon it, written in a language as old as the dungeon itself. Yet, the words seemed to translate in their minds, revealing the dungeon's rules in cold, precise language, echoing inside their heads with a tone of dark finality.

WELCOME TO THE GARDEN OF ACHLYS

Dungeon Rules:

All who enter must face the Veil of Sorrows.

Poison seeps from the very air; your vitality will drain slowly over time.

Hope, joy, and strength will wither as you proceed. Only despair and misery thrive within these walls.

You may encounter "Seeds of Achlys"—relics imbued with the goddess's despair. Use them wisely, or suffer their curse.

Objective: Reach the heart of the Garden and claim the Core of Achlys to stop the corruption from spreading.

As the words sank in, the entire statue seemed to emanate a low, haunting hum, a vibration that rattled through the ground and seeped into their bones. The angel's face, frozen in eternal torment, seemed to shift under the dim light, the shadows playing tricks on their eyes, making it appear as though the statue's expression was changing, as if it was silently warning them of the misery that awaited.

Dabria tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming as she stared at the statue's face, a twisted smile curling at her lips. "What a lovely touch," she murmured, almost to herself. "The goddess Achlys certainly has a flair for theatrics." She reached out, tracing a finger along the edge of the marble scroll, almost reverently. "A rotting angel of sorrow, bearing a message of despair. How… poetic."

Kalum swallowed hard, his gaze locked on the angel's tortured face, unable to shake the feeling that the statue was watching him, that the eyes held some awareness of his presence. "I don't like this," he whispered, his voice laced with unease. "It feels… alive. Like it's waiting for us to make a mistake."

Elias adjusted his glasses, his expression a mixture of intrigue and trepidation. "Achlys was known to relish in the misery of mortals. This statue… it's not just a warning. It's a symbol, a reminder of what this place will do to us if we're not careful."

Talia narrowed her eyes at the scroll, her fingers itching at her daggers, as if ready to strike at something unseen. "So, basically, everything here wants to suck the life out of us—our strength, our hope, even our sanity. Charming."

Visha's gaze was fixed on the statue's hands, her pale-green eyes calculating as she observed the thin tendrils of miasma seeping from the scroll and winding around the angel's cracked fingers. "It's a test," she murmured, almost as if speaking to herself. "Achlys wants us to break before we even reach the heart of her garden. This 'Veil of Sorrows'… it's likely some kind of barrier, one that will prey on our minds."

One by one, they moved past the statue, their footsteps echoing against the cold, stone walkway. As each of them passed the rotting angel, the miasma seemed to thicken, wrapping around them, testing their resolve, pressing against their minds with a quiet, insidious force. The weight of despair clung to them, seeping into their bones, whispering doubts, fears, and regrets with every step.

The statue watched them go, its expression frozen in eternal agony, its marble hands clutching the scroll tightly, as though guarding the words with a fierce, desperate grip. The whispers faded, but the oppressive weight of Achlys's sorrow lingered, an invisible presence that promised torment and suffering the deeper they ventured into her garden.

The landscape stretched before them like an unearthly paradise, lush and thriving, yet laced with the unmistakable aura of death and decay. Underneath the enchanting beauty, the entire garden radiated an ancient malevolence, a sense that each leaf, each petal, each ripple of acid held a sinister intent.

The garden was filled with sprawling bushes of dark, iridescent flowers that glistened with an otherworldly light. Each petal seemed to shift in color—from deep purples to midnight blues to haunting shades of emerald green—as though it were alive, breathing with the rhythm of the miasma thick in the air. The flowers were mesmerizing, their soft glow illuminating the foggy darkness, yet they emitted a subtle, almost undetectable poison that filled the air around them, mixing with the miasma, creating an intoxicating but deadly perfume.

Ox eyed the flowers warily, keeping his distance. "Those flowers look nice enough," he grunted, "but something about them just screams 'don't touch.'" His grip tightened on his ax. "Probably coated in poison, knowing this place."

Winding pathways paved with polished black stones led deeper into the garden, their edges lined with thick patches of thorn-laden vines that pulsed faintly, as though feeding off the miasma itself. Every few feet, towering statues adorned the path, each one depicting rotting angels, fallen archangels, or weeping maidens draped in tattered veils, their faces twisted in expressions of eternal sorrow. Their stone eyes seemed to follow the group, unseeing yet disturbingly aware, and more than one of the Crimson Lions found themselves shivering under their hollow, mournful gaze.

Between the pathways were wide, manicured lawns that seemed to stretch out endlessly, the grass a vibrant but unnatural shade of green. Occasionally, small, delicate flowers bloomed among the grass, their petals a shade of blood-red, as if nourished by something more sinister than soil. At the center of each lawn stood grand, marble fountains, their beauty marred by the decay that had set into them over the ages.

The fountains were enormous, each one towering over the team, and at the heart of each fountain was a statue of an archangel, wings spread in majestic arcs. But instead of water, the fountains poured streams of viscous, pale green acid that bubbled and hissed as it cascaded down the marble basins, sending up faint clouds of toxic mist. The acid had eaten away at the statues over the centuries, leaving cracks and holes in the stone, making the once-proud figures look as if they were weeping, their features eroded, distorted by the relentless flow of corrosive liquid.

Talia wrinkled her nose, glancing nervously at the acid-filled fountains. "Fountains of acid, really?" she muttered. "As if this place wasn't creepy enough. Who even thinks of this stuff?"

Kade remained calm, his eyes sharp as he surveyed the area. "Achlys crafted this place to repel intruders. Every fountain, every statue… it's meant to make us question every step, to keep us on edge."

Around the fountains, intricate flower beds were arranged with haunting precision, each one filled with exotic, carnivorous plants. Some of the plants had long, slender leaves that twisted like tendrils, reaching out into the air as if searching for prey, while others had bulbous, gaping mouths lined with razor-sharp teeth, dripping a thick, sticky substance that gleamed under the dim light. These plants moved ever so slightly, reacting to the presence of the group, their silent hunger palpable.

The air itself was thick with miasma, a dense, swirling fog that clung to everything it touched, dulling colors, sapping energy, and casting a shadow over the garden's beauty. Breathing was difficult, each inhalation bringing with it the bitter, metallic taste of decay, of sorrow, and of poison. The miasma hung low, rolling through the pathways, coiling around the flower bushes, and drifting over the acidic fountains in slow, deliberate waves, as though it were a sentient force, observing the intruders with dark curiosity.

And yet, despite the deadly atmosphere, the garden was undeniably beautiful. Every plant, every statue, every fountain had been crafted or cultivated with an eye for dark elegance, a morbid splendor that was both alluring and menacing. It was a garden of contradictions—of life intertwined with death, beauty tainted by decay, and nature sculpted to reflect misery and despair.

Visha paused to examine a cluster of flowers that glowed faintly under the miasma, her pale-green eyes narrowing as she took in their delicate beauty. She reached out a hand, then paused, noticing a faint shimmer on the petals—a coating of something slick and deadly, likely a contact poison that would seep into the skin with the lightest touch. She withdrew her hand, smirking slightly, a glint of amusement in her gaze.

"Lovely," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But lethal. A fitting tribute to Achlys."

Dabria was practically vibrating with delight, her dark eyes wide with wonder as she looked around at the deadly flora and corroded fountains. "Oh, this is perfect!" she whispered, an almost reverent excitement in her voice. "The goddess has made herself a garden of death and despair. It's beautiful, isn't it, Visha?"

Visha gave a faint nod, her gaze drifting to a fountain where an angel's face had eroded away, leaving only hollow eyes and a skeletal mouth open in a silent scream. "Beautiful and ruthless," she replied. "Everything here is meant to destroy those who admire it too closely."

As they moved deeper into the garden, the miasma thickened, rolling across the ground in dense, swirling clouds that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Breathing became difficult, each inhalation burning slightly, leaving a bitter aftertaste. The toxic mist wrapped around them, filling the air with an overwhelming sense of sorrow and loss, as if the very essence of despair was woven into each particle. The sorrow was pervasive, sinking into their minds, pressing against their thoughts, sapping their energy.

Through the thick haze, a faint, mournful melody drifted, like a distant lament carried by the wind. The music was hauntingly beautiful, yet laced with sadness, pulling at their memories, dredging up old wounds and heartaches. It mingled with the sound of the hissing acid in the fountains, the rustling of carnivorous plants, and the almost silent weeping from the statues, creating a symphony of sorrow that filled the garden, drawing them further into its deadly embrace.

Each of them felt the weight of the rules inscribed on the angel's marble scroll, echoing in their minds with every step:

"Hope, joy, and strength will wither as you proceed. Only despair and misery thrive within these walls."