As hooves come into contact with the verdant depths of the mossy caverns, a horse stares out into an unfamiliar yet promising land.

Coursers. Legends speak of how, in an age before, they were created to traverse this very dungeon. There was an intrinsic bond between the locale and the beast — a bond many took on with open arms. To traverse the dungeon was to live up to your own history.

But what if history differed from most? For as long as there have been legends of coursers and humans, there have been legends of creatures far beyond them. Fae, wyrms, mer; each one bringing with it inspiration and caution in equal measure.

What then of the unicorn? A beast born with the image of a courser, but with power far beyond them. Crowned by a singular horn, and trailed by a legacy.

Growing up, Banagher had been taught that a unicorn was the foulest of beasts. That their horns brought naught but war, staining the path before them crimson. They goaded themselves as gods amongst coursers, when they were nothing more than devils dressed in the visage of false purity.

To carry any visual traits of such a creature cast a shadow of scorn to the poor unfortunate soul who held them. His family, the Leonis of The Valley, had lived for generations following that creed. No heraldic courser was to be born of their blood, and certainly no courser with the mark of the beast itself: a roaring blaze of white upon the forehead.

It was a trait Banagher found himself foisted with, and it had brought him nothing but grief. For years, he had been lauded around as a bad omen amongst his peers, all too content to place the blame on him for any unwanted happenstance. And his father? Well, he was the worst of them all.

The history of their people was paramount, and he would not claim a devil as his own. At every turn and bend, Banagher would be reminded of this fact. Year after year, the weight of his apparent “sin” grew, until it was only fitting for the back to break.

Exiled, he set his sights on the one thing that could turn his fate around.

The courser makes his way towards a towering structure of bark — a plant that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be a tree or an imposing fortress. He investigates the grooves imposed upon the natural armor silently. How many have passed this point? How many meandered past with their spirits high, following the footsteps of their forebears? How many simply weren't him?

Banagher's hoof raises to gouge a singular line in the bark: the first tally of what would eventually be many. For every dive, he would make his progress known. It was a physical proof of his resolve.

To enter the dungeon is to be changed. For better or for worse. Banagher hopes it's both. No other place could bring upon the change he seeks.

Where else but here would he be able to become the devil his family truly feared? If he was to be paraded as an omen, then so be it. When he returns with his horn held high and fire in his wake, then the truth of the beast of possibility would be laid bare for all to see.