At the centre of a sprawling jungle, a great pillar of jale rock thrusts upwards to scrape the clouds of heaven. Atop the pillar lies Greyhook Monastery. It is a hallowed spot where for centuries pious monks have sung psalms in worship of gods ancient. The tolling of Greyhook’s famed bell sends the savage Winged Monkeys that call the jungle canopy their home into frenzied flocks that wheel about the sky. At the base of the pillar, the ramshackle hamlet of Middenhell services the virtues and vices of a steady stream of greasy pilgrims.
Now, the grand bell has fallen silent and snatches of psalms are no longer borne down on the wind. Such holy sounds have been replaced by the thundering crash of bodies raining down from the firmament. ’tis the splintered flesh and bone of monks… aye, and pennies amassed from centuries of pilgrimage. A fortune in gold and glory awaits those who would tread the six-thousand steps to Greyhook.