Myadestes pinches the thick leather of his armor straps between his teeth, the bared white like a flash of bright white sunlight in the flickering flame light, and his odd colored eyes squint tightly to his cheek with the effort. Bone clatters on bone, leather squeaks, and it rattles before settling heavy and comfortable onto his large frame, a suit of armor that has served him well in the years that he had donned it's weight; long scraps, scratches, teeth marks, and singes buffed and polished away in his efforts to keep the kit weather proof and serviceable.

Gaurhoth, the loyal wolf companion that has been at his side near from the moment of the canid's birth and for a long fulfilling 5 years thereafter, trots alongside him; pick tongue hanging out of his panting maw and long black claws tapping against the course stone flooring. Myadestes would both have to watch Gaurhoth's back, as well as the heat levels and potential hazards of hot stone on his paw pads. They may be toughened to a considerable degree with the sheer amount of terrain and hours spent on them, they will be still that much more vulnerable to the environment as if the mercenary had lay his hind onto the floor.

A considering hum falling from lips, many things more occupying space there than it would normally. It would be some years since he had gone on a solo mission himself, well as solo as having another renown mercenary guiding and watching his back, that is... Nevermind that it was Kynaeos' Sire. The Heraldic shudders, his neck and shoulders fluttering with twitching muscle and flesh, his faint waves of dark silver mane jostling dramatically with the unconscious movement.

The Courser in question quirks both a brow and a lip at the nervous gesture, like the Captain was as new as the fresh blood that he had been breaking in not a fortnight beforehand, "Never thought I'd see the day that 'The Conqueror' hired me for a escort service AND got to see his knees knock at the thought of being 'alone'." Terrence's voice is haughty and amused, a teasing that Myadestes expected from the rising star of the Dungeon Mercenaries.

Yes, he a mercenary had hired this young spry mercenary to travel the length of the Furnace and back, easing him back into secrets of the Dungeon.

"Har Har, Laugh it up, I would have thought you'd love to teach an old dog tricks. Eh, 'Ace'?" His answering smirk grew into a predatory and suave baring of his teeth, it was earned wisdom versus the luck of youth and... nevermind the fact that his own husband was the son of this youngster... Dungeon magic was odd, some stayed youth for nearly forever, some were born into a wisdom and body that are aged, some progressed slower than others. And this was the such case before him, Terrence is young and yet his son is one of the ancient Heraldics. Interesting, interesting indeed.

The two of them trade snarky comments and blows of each other's character like any old friend could, a true mercenary rag, the phantom tang of blood on one's teeth bared to the dungeon light. It was perhaps this enjoyment of each other's company and the ease that they knew the halls of the dank dark that caught them off guard and unaware. It was a simple thing and wasn't that the most common cause and source of death to an adventurer? When one loses that sense, that edge of danger and allows themselves to relax whilst walking a straight path through the maw, down the throat of the Predator?

Clank.

Rock skitters across rock, dislodged by his hoof, and then in the silence that stilled their frames... came a click.

In the second, a long second to the mind of those that know death is nipping at their fetlocks, their eyes clash and they side jump away from each other; shoulders packed with muscle, flesh marred by mistakes smaller and bigger than this surprise, thud dully on the walls of the corridor. Then the click becomes a hiss, and blooms into a spark and flash of light and heat, it becomes intense flame.

Fire gushes from the ceiling, the edges of tiles, and even from a port further down the hall. Its glowing deep heat and stinking gasses choke their eyes with wavering air and the sting of tears. It would have been one painful lesson, if either of them had gotten caught in the blast radius or blown back by the sheer weight of the explusion. They had to remember, this was not the surface where the environment was harsh, but forgiving. They fight to survive in a world that will not sleep. The Dungeon lives, and it breathes.

It hungers.