If there is anything to know about the particular group of dungeonborne that Istasha hails from, it is that this place is theirs. Any dispute of ownership is met by their own type of indifference. Hers? A laugh in the face, one that is somehow sultry, luring, and mocking. And this belief isn't a hidden one, no. Istasha's very gait through the dungeons showcases her familiarity and fully believed command over them. Each stride is regal, for a creature whose never seen the sun. Every articulation fluid so that each step rolls into the next. There is almost a sixth sense when it comes to the placement of her steps. Her hooves will find the right position upon sagging root to avoid a slip or step over a jagged stone despite looking in an opposing direction.

Even now, she swaggers through the Overgrown Caverns with a superiority; head held high, eyes hooded as she surveys, an elevated air to her carriage. Pixies and mice scurry away as the Appaloosa femme enters the chambers, her dark gaze turning the smaller pests to turn and run the moment it crosses over them. Nothing within (despite the uncanny Dungeon's conscious itself) challenges her.

It has always been this way, from the moment she opened her eyes amidst the roots and dirt of this place, emerging fully formed from the phantasms and dusty sod like the fungus that grows upon these upper levels. There was never a calling to bring Istasha here to her kingdom, to bid her believe she is the undeniable Queen of this realm, nay... She blossomed here like so many other flora before her that at times she wondered if she even was Courser to begin with... could it be she simply wears the skin of one? To keep the others from fearing her presence? The answer is unclear. All she does know, however - she thinks with a smile - is that it is good to be home.