The Obsidian Archive did not welcome guests. It digested them.
Down in the basin, the ultraviolet streetlamps flickered to life, casting a toxic pink glare over the shattered concrete of the museum platform. Below the jagged edge of the terrace, the black tar began to churn. The fluid, two-dimensional shadows that had stretched across the corrosive sludge slowly detached themselves, rising into three-dimensional horrors.
They were Ink-Wash Stalkers.
They looked like starved, elongated hounds stripped of their skin, their musculature composed of hardened, weeping black crude. They possessed no eyes, only jagged, razor-sharp maws that dripped a sizzling acid onto the stone.
