The tunnels beneath the field had grown ancient. The white-toothed doors gnawed their interlocking teeth down to smooth white stones, barely tesselating like they used to at impressive precision. The sad eyes of the doorways cried tears of rainwater seeping through the split stone roof, ripped open by great tree roots snaking through the seams of this mighty system beneath the ground. The bodies of the poor bug-men who were abandoned in this place at the day of the “Constructification” carried out by a great witch were hollowed, turned into suits of armor for the shapeshifting metallic constructs that took over both these underground rooms and the great field above. The few moles that hunted in these tunnels were often swarmed by these husks while hunting for the blubbery earthworms who seek refuge from the downpours that frequent the lands above. At the core of this complex lay a great bell, nearly as wide as the great sequoia tree growing directly above, slammed every morning by a giant stone column let down by a chain of platinum, powered by an enormous water wheel harvesting the movement of all of the rainwater flowing down into an underground river beneath the field. The ring of the bell rattles the field, greeting every dawn with a colossal wake-up call to the giant constructs roaming the field, once tending to the many tall crops growing seeds and berries now crushing homesteads and hamlets and robbing travelers of their lives and their blades, welding them to their formless metal bodies. These tunnels were intended to be the grounds to worship the God of Ivy, Flahaigonoar. Ever since the day Flahaigonoar was hunted and killed by a man who believed she was upsetting the balance between order and chaos, the great tree above has grown wild, slowly constricting this profaned ground with its massive, snaking roots.
