Beneath you, you see a shining city, tacky and gaudy, yet one that seems to thrum with wealth.

With the desert far behind you, you can see that this is an epicenter of industry and

what passes for culture in these forgotten, ugly, distant lands that you find yourselves in. What was once

the city of Brisbane has become the city of Briss Vegas, a single casino that has sprawled

across the land to encompass this bloated compound town.

Is that a compound town? Compound. This bloated compound.

Contown. Con town. You're not helping.

As your new found guard friend helps you down an inward staircase and then escapes, presumably

to the end of her shift and a delightful binge watching of the adventures of that precocious

Nanny Fine, you make your way through streets that proclaim in every avenue that fortunes

are here to be made. Money is here to be found.

Prostitutes, quite reasonable here to be obtained.

And in the distance you hear the familiar cry of

Peace for sale.

Chars of peace for sale.

As you find yourselves in the streets of

Paris Vegas, ahead of you, one huge monolith with neon

cracking facade stands with an impeccably tailored doorman allowing this motley procession

of Nouveau-Rish scum into its doors. I'm getting very judgmental.

You are getting a bit uppity, but I think we'll allow it.

And as you ponder, your next move.

So this guy at a velvet rope?

...