Placing his bags down onto the cavern floor Thunderstepper pawed at the ground, kicking up a few pebbles before he studied the pool. The cave felt like a hidden sanctuary with a pool reflecting the light, casting shimmering shapes on the rocky walls. He let out a deep, contented sigh, his ears flicking lazily as he listened to the rhythmic sound of water droplets striking the water. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue to catch a few drops too.

It had been a trying few days at home. This respite was just the thing he needed to recover. If he had more time he would stay here a little longer- but unfortunately, he had some work to do.

Taking the opportunity for what it was, he let his body sag as he bent down so he could sit on the smooth stone floor beside the pool. He gazed down at his reflection rippling across the surface. The water distorted his reliable, guard horse shape into something softer. Kinder. He blinked slowly like a cat, feeling the weight of his exhaustion sink into his limbs. The cool stone below his limbs was a relief, and he closed his eyes. Just a moment…

The click startled Thunderstepper awake. He was on all four hooves in a moment. Fear short through his spine in the dark. A small salamander walked into the cavern for a drink. It dipped near the water only to be snatched by a bigger thing in the pool.

Thunderstepper blinked. Right. He was still in a dungeon. So, as his calm evaporated like water on a hot summer day, he started to pack his bags, trying to repress his tears. Not even the dungeon was safe or a home. A real home. So why did it feel that way?

Luckily for him, burying his fears and feelings has grown to be second nature over the course of his life. It could be because his father often tries to beat those feelings out of him when he shows them. Or it could be the years he has worked in the guard. They do not have any weaknesses. He should not have any. And he should ignore the grief that is slowly but surely consuming him whole. Denial and stubbornness are not healthy at all- he often explodes or shatters quite easily- but it works.

‘You shouldn’t have to feel that way.’ He thinks, blanches when he remembers that was his sister’s voice. Her admonishment was always there to his standard response to the times he has been beaten down by life. Only she and Roule cared about him, admonished him for bottling his feelings up, but it’s something he needs. It would only serve to distract him down here on his own.

Halfway through packing, he stops. Upstairs, outside of the dungeon lies his father in a torn bed, sleeping after he drank himself into a stupor. Maybe he lies near the drink alone in their house. That little shack has always been his home, but right now he cannot think of it or his sister without hurting so badly he wants to tear his heart out and toss it into a crevice. A void so deep he never needs to feel again. But Roule would be disappointed in him if he did, would be alone with his books and the mystery of the murders-

So Thunderstepper takes a breath and after a long second he forces himself to stand. The lantern he ignited was clipped to his belt. One last look back at the open cavern, his lips closed around the map and dipping a hoof in ink to cross out this spot. No sense in not coming back here, after all. A quiet place of respite is worth its weight, nowadays.