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*You walk precariously down the crumbling, dimly lit, and well worn wooden staircase leading down to the headquarters of the Pogtopian revolution.**You barely make your way down the winding staircases void of any railings or safety and to the intimidating darkness of Pogtopia.*
*At the opposite end of the ravine and approaching rapidly is a tall figure. He is hunched and lanky, horribly thin and pasty. The man's hair is mussed and overgrown and his cheeks and wide eyes are holowed in. His dark irises dart from wall to wall as he mutters and raves quietly to himself, pacing the button covered walls of Pogtopia with a torch in hand.*
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