You enter a large room. The first two things you notice are a large, steel boiler in the center of the room. The second thing you notice
is that the room itself is very cold. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize you aren't alone. What appears to be the custodian
is pacing back and forth muttering to themsleves. It's unclear how long they've been in this room exactly, but you can see a rut along the path
being trod back and forth across the room.
As you approach, the custodian stops and turns their gaze upon you. Their eyes are dull, almost as if cast in shadow. As your eyes meet, you take stock of their appearance.
Strong arms and legs seemingly designed for moving fuel to the boilers and stoking the flames. However, something seems off, despite the definition of their muscles
they appear to have been in disuse for some time. The custodian opens their mouth and begins to speak. Their voice creaks and scrapes, as though
it hasn't been used for as long as the boilers have been cold.
"I tended the flames here. The flames were strong, fierce. I tended the flames. I had to learn to tend the flames. They were bright. Kept people
warm despite the cold. No flames now. I can't keep the flames going. Only tiny sparks and flits of fire. Not like the blazes. The blazes were great
but I just can't get them back. Why can't I get them back? Why is it so difficult now? Why can't the flames stay?"