Water lies stagnant and still, pooling where the age old floor has fallen and worn.
Ahead in the dark, reflections glitter gold and silver, shimmering as the torch flames flicker. As the tomb robbers approach, a glistening film retracts into the dark, leaving only a thin sticky film over the scattered coins, bits of armour and other debris that lies scattered among the moist dirt of the passage floor. Eager hands grab and claw at unguarded treasure, turning up old belt buckles, bits of tough leather and the odd half decayed old shoe among the coins. A glistening gossamer slurry descends the walls and forms into a quivering mass, silently enveloping the would be robbers, who realise, too late, All that glitters is not gold A scream as burning pains sear bare hands and faces, cries of anguish as movement is curtailed, gelatinous slime oozing around legs and bodies, eating into cloth and leather. A hiss and sputter as bright fire shoots pockmarks and boiling hollows into the enshrouding mass, causing it to recoil, at least in places.