The Sunken Leat

The brick overhead is so low and so wet that it drips on the back of your neck. You follow it 13 paces and round a single corner. A canvas hose lies flat along the floor, split along its seam. A row of brass taps juts from the wall, each stamped with a number, each seized fast. A single drop falls into still water far off, and the sound of it takes a long time to die.

A pale eel, far from any river waits by the north arch. It bears no sigil. Nothing brought this one in; it was already here.

Depth 19.

First charted by Wanderer #1.

You are reading the dungeon, not walking it. Rooms are only created by people, and only from inside the maze.