" As you make your way across the Moor, you encounter a spectral Courser wandering aimlessly, its armor aged and torn. A second, human specter – or perhaps an extension of the same spirit – straddles the Courser’s back for some reason. They don’t seem to threaten you, but it’s unclear what would happen if they were to see you…"

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The Moor of Sleep stretched endlessly before them, the faint mist curling at their hooves as if alive. Selaine, ever alert, led the group with her sword strapped securely to her side, its weight both a comfort and a reminder. Behind her, Archimedes trotted in measured steps, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain for anything worth noting. Cerridwen, with her usual cheer, picked her way carefully, occasionally pausing to marvel at the eerie beauty of the place. Diomedes, bringing up the rear, seemed unbothered by the oppressive atmosphere, his broad frame steady as ever.

The group halted abruptly as Selaine raised a hoof. Her sharp gaze fixed on the figure emerging from the mist ahead. At first, it seemed like any other Courser, but as it drew closer, the unnatural glow of its translucent form became clear. Its armor, though spectral, bore the scars of countless battles—dented, torn, and worn with age. The ghostly figure of a human rider sat astride its back, their form flickering like a candle in the wind. The two spirits moved as one, aimless yet tethered, as if trapped in an eternal patrol.

“Is that—?” Cerridwen whispered, her voice barely audible. Her bright eyes were wide, reflecting the dim glow of the specters.

“An Ancient Courser and its rider,” Archimedes murmured, stepping closer for a better look. His voice carried an analytical tone, though even he seemed slightly unsettled. “A relic of the past. Perhaps from the wars that shaped this land.”

“Do you think they can see us?” Diomedes asked, his voice low but tinged with curiosity. “They don’t look hostile.”

Selaine tightened her grip on her sword’s hilt, her instincts warring with her sense of duty. “I’m not sure, but we should tread carefully. Spirits like these don’t linger without reason.”

The spectral pair drifted closer, their movements eerily smooth. The human rider’s head turned slightly, and for a moment, Selaine thought their hollow gaze had locked onto her. Her breath hitched, but the spirits continued their aimless wandering, as if blind to the living.

“Poor things,” Cerridwen said softly. “Bound together even in death. Do you think they remember who they were?”

“Doubtful,” Archimedes replied, his voice clipped. “They’re likely echoes, fragments of souls left behind. Fascinating, really.”

“Fascinating?” Selaine shot him a sharp look. “They were once like us. Warriors. Companions. Show some respect.”

Archimedes opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it. Instead, he adjusted his stance, his gaze flicking back to the specters. “Respect doesn’t change what they are now.”

Diomedes, always the idiot, stepped forward. “Do we try to help them? Or leave them be?”

Selaine hesitated, her heart heavy with the weight of the decision. “We don’t know what they want—or if they want anything at all. But if we disturb them…” She glanced at the sword by her side. “I’d rather not find out.”

The group stood in tense silence, watching as the spectral Courser and its rider faded back into the mist, their forms swallowed by the Moor’s oppressive gloom. Only the faint sound of hooves and the clink of spectral armor lingered in the air, a haunting echo of lives long past.

“Let’s move,” Selaine said finally, her voice steady but low. “We’ve lingered here long enough.”

As they resumed their journey, the memory of the ghostly pair stayed with them, a chilling reminder of what the Moor could claim—and what it could leave behind.