The death gurgle of the final cultist resounded in our ears hauntingly, and brought forth another quake, which shook the ground with renewed vigour. And then... silence. We dared hardly breathe as we stood there, as mute as the mountain itself.

At last we turned our backs on that room, now devoid of life, and yearned for the clean air and dazzling snow outside. We wished for purification, but the horrors, still so vivid, gave us no respite. Like some dreadful after-image, they had become a permanent part of our vision, unable to be blinked away.

We did not speak to one another. There were no feelings of greatness, discovery, or even relief. We wandered through the corridors empty-eyed and trancelike. We were expressionless figures, moving step by slow step, trying to arrive at an undefined destination.