Murdermachines: We have treasures of the ages piled around the fort in heaps of rotting garbage and flesh. We've created a home for a malevolent deity of ill fortune who seems predisposed to strike at us, the players, directly, in a way not seen since the days of the Virtual Boy. Our riches are guarded, not by traps or dwarven steel, but by the fact that the surface around us is so full of the murderous, the insane, and the murderously insane that one group of looters merely gets massacred by a group of marauders, and that's before the horrible abominations against nature trundle through and decapitate and/or assimilate the survivors. We have seen kobolds become conquerors, seen the very walls fracture and crumble before unnatural misfortune and poor forethought, and placed all our hopes in a batch of tortured, soulless children and the literal avatar of annihilation itself, because every other God worth mentioning turned away from us in horror a long, long time ago. Our home is no more and no less than a beacon of slaughter, a living, breathing organism that eats life, drinks hope, and shits misery as every sentient race in the known world gathers here to offer their best and bravest at the altar of Terry.
Nietzsche wrote, "He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you." Friends, we are not he who fights monsters. We are not he who gazes into the abyss.
We're the thing in the abyss that's gazing back.
I am so god damn proud of you people.