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TOMB RAIDER

everything's in its right place because it has to be; mandated adherence to structure manifesting expressively across every palatial sprawl and crumbling megalith. familiar architectural forms and textures warping and stretching into more surreal, abstract constructs barely resembling the original thought outside of broad strokes: an obelisk. a mural. a pulsing knot of meat. the walls of the mine recall stacks and stacks of black wrapped garbage. the lost valley seems to go on forever in the distance. the tombs wind with right angles, crooked slopes, and impossible pendulums. these aren't places so much as ideas of places -- the meeting points between mathematically flawless angularity and unearthly impressionism

all plausibility breached by dinosaurs, body horror, floating swords, and peerless acrobatic grace. the waters of the cistern, ΩΩΥΥΩ passage, and swandives thru a pyramid of flesh. a million jumps and ambles and slides building colossal wonder with industrial precision

dw bradley era wizardry for people who could conceivably have sex at some point in their life