The Flooded Channel

The air is thick and tastes faintly of iron. The remains of a rope ladder hang from a hole in the ceiling, well out of reach. A boat — if it was a boat — has rotted to a rib-cage of grey wood against the far wall. The silence here has weight to it. Someone has scratched a tally into the wall — 10 marks, the last one shallow, unfinished.

Depth 10

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