67 Rolling Stone

The Collector batted its wings and tucked in its arms and arakka legs, becoming an aerodynamic, serpentine missile of carapace and flesh as it rode the winds it shot out behind it.

The carapace on its face slotted over in one smooth layer reminiscent of a pilot's helmet, and its purple and yellow eyes shone brightly as they homed in on the ever-nearing dungeon entrance.

No discernable form of defensive force around the pit itself, merely a throng of insectoids that provided no challenge to the Collector. No defensive fortifications either that barred entry.

Yet, as the Collector hovered over the dungeon with Sapian force, it sensed the invisible psionic threads of manipulated space around the dungeon.

The pit itself was shaped almost like a maw, lined with teeth comprised of mundane stone protruding from its circumference while within the pit, the blue light glowing within formed an even and unbroken layer.