The pit stinks. Like rotting gargabe (which one could agrue it's full of) and over-applied, poorly mixed perfumes (which also, in some ways, wasn't wrong). You gag slightly as you approach, but, well, it's your job. Nothing to be done about it. Can't just leave the things lying around.

The things disposed of here are shaped like humans, much of the time. The one you bring with you this time, its thorns scraping against your sturdy coveralls, is shaped like someone hunched over in the fetal position. Why that might be is frankly not your problem. You can't imagine how any of them would get to the area in the first place or why they would ignore the warnings.

You throw the thing into the pit, it's wilting red petals shedding from it and fluttering in the air as they slowly fall. That done, you turn back the way you came.

The cieling of the hall is coated in vines and thorn branches, all of them blood red and pulsing with their collective heartbeat. They trail down the walls at some points, and in these places the white of the walls is discolored a pale, sick green. You keep to the middle of the hall, away from them.

You run a hand through your hair, which has gotten greasy from not being washed. You don't know how long it's been. Too long, clearly.

You don't like the taste of things anymore. Don't like the smells, either. Don't like the overly sour, or overly bitter fruits that the branches grow all throughout the halls. It's a wonder that such a thing happens at all.

Don't like that the branches look like veins. Or that they bleed what looks like human blood, even knowing that it isn't. It tastes... savory, usually. Not bad, but...

At least it's been keeping you hydrated so far. So far you're not dead. You haven't been turned into a mass of twisted briars.