When they stumble in, someone calls out that Arsenic is already busy with an emergency - that's fine. That's fine. Corrode mostly needs to be off his hooves. Fetch steps inside the Gray wings' nest to help Rake keep Corrode upright, but then makes a slow retreat back out - something about the place sits ill in their chest. The stranger, Foxglove, follows after Rake, and does not depart after Fetch. "There's something to eat in there, Foxglove-" Rake murmurs, and the wiry thing s...

There was something new, when they passed through the gaping mouth door - though it was nothing to do with the doorway or it's design in itself. An odd assortment of shiny items were scattered around the passage, and a pile of overly-picked clean rat bones spilled out of one corner. Rake scanned his eyes around the space, and his head went for his satchel, to fish out some kind of weapon. This had all the makings of a mimic chest nest, with any number of them. "Did you leave...

They stumbled free of the Moor a while later, and wound their way up through the furnace. They had traded off, and Rake was at the front, while Fetch walked with Corrode leaning his weight on them. Foxglove, who had recovered quicker and far better than Corrode had, walked to one side of them, with only a vague limp to their step. They weren't particularly at full strength, but they could walk. There was the matter of the amnesia, but... physically, they were far better off than Corrod...

There was a twisted, aged battlefield over the next hill - but the spectre had not lied, no. There was a ruin ahead, a partially crumbled but largely still intact thing across the way, say atop another hill. Rake paused to peer at banners and half rusted through shields, squinting when an image in common was engraved or otherwise depicted. Those were coursers, sure enough, but what was the purpose, of constantly depicting them in some sort of very personal clash? "...What do you...

He was here. He couldn't quite remember what or where here was anymore, but he was here. He couldn't leave. The room was cold, and the moor wind blew through missing brickwork. It was easy, when you couldn't quite move, to urge one's thoughts elsewhere, away. Into memory. He fought it for a moment, fought for awareness - but then he felt his head slip under the water, felt himself sink, away. ------------------ "This is Mister Crispin, Core. Say hello." His father's voice...