Time ceases to exist in the catacombs, they say.

Realistically, Francisco had only been underground for a few hours but in the still darkness, those hours felt as if they'd been stretched out into eternity. There'd been nothing of significant interest on his way inside except for some crumbling stone effigies depicting strange creatures on courser-back, their mouths yawning in agony as their mounted masters fight off a vengeful drake hissing at their feet, illuminated by odd braziers flickering with a cold blue fire fueled by the kingdom's innate magic. There is another statue across from it, nearly mirrored in pose and anguish, only the head of the serpent has been rotted away by either time or by rapier, Francisco couldn't place.

He admires the sculptures regardless of their lack of riches. Who he is and who he will be are told in these idols; he may not see himself fighting sinister serpents any time soon but this expectation has been ingrained in his blood long before he opened his eyes for the first time. As fate would allow him to forge his own path in this life, he finds it hard to believe she has anything other than this in store for him: destined for greatness and fueled by ancient coursers' past, he was designed to return to the place they once ruled on their own. They wanted him here. He belonged here.

Frankie takes a steadying breath and looks away from the captivating eyes of the courser towering over him, feeling as if it expects something from him that he cannot yet provide. With nothing more to gain from the chamber of the catacombs, a renewed sense of urgency surges through him and he steps away from the guardians until he's no longer guided by their blue light.

Beneath his feet rushes a blur of amber fur and again ahead of him to signal the discovery of a sarcophagus.

The sides are decorated still with the likeness of the chamber guardians at the entryway, only here their backs are bare and they're prancing around each other in an eternal dance. The top has since been pried open and lays crumbled at the foot of the grave, the heraldic lion engraving atop it staring up at him with dangerous eyes and even more dangerous teeth, bared in a warning to anyone idiotic enough to disturb the knight's slumber. Unable to resist, he takes a few shaky steps up the stairs to investigate what lay inside.

There is no body to speak of, no bones or gilded armor or twinkling pieces of gold. There's a substantial amount of murky liquid lying lush inside the tomb, a gruesome display of half-rotted derma and decay marring the top of it like scarwork, and it smells nothing shy of death itself, but there is no logical way the congealed mass of whatever this is is the remains of who lay inside. This tomb and its decorated sarcophagus far predate him - the only thing that should be inside this tomb is a knight in eternal slumber, carried into the afterlife bearing the heraldry of his house and with his riches laid down next to him - a fact reminded of him when the tiny fox opposite him yips in alarm.

"Ew, gross! Look at this," Joaquin points out, bringing Frankie's attention toward a small stone spout at the foot of the pedestal.

"Oh, that's disgusting," Frankie agrees, twisting his expression up. His stomach feels queasy. "I'm going to be sick."

The congealed liquid is draining from the sarcophagus yet it does little to empty it, as if the tomb is being fed by an alternate source. It spills into a network of intricate grooves carved into the stone beneath them and fans out on either side of them until it fills a large circular depiction of the serpents the chamber guardians were fending off. In the center of this braided image is the sarcophagus, meant to be a representative of the serpent's theoretical heart, which pulses to life when the slop starts to gurgle and boil. The sight fills both fox and courser with dread.

They are so engrossed in the disgusting sight in front of them that they've failed to notice they have company.

"It knows you're here," the voice explains without explaining. When Francisco whirls around to face the source of the voice, he thinks his knees may give out underneath him. First, he has to deal with a mysterious blood-liquid and now a ghost?

This specter stands unmoving at the entrance of the chamber, between the two warring guardians, and in the middle of a small reservoir, Frankie failed to notice on his way in, and to his horror the basin is filled up to the brim with the disgusting liquid. It clings to the specter's ankles, grows up its legs like vines reaching for the sky, and looks as if it is going to envelop the pale ghost completely. The goop leaves its head uncovered--a head that never moves or gives any indication that it knows what's happening to it--but forms a living cask around the creature until no part of it remains.

Is he supposed to do something? He turns back towards the sarcophagus, looking into the soup of decay and at his expression that stares back. It doesn't match the horror on his own face and the reflection's eyes are a ghastly milky white. He leans forward.

"Francisco!" Joaquin barks in alarm.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the ghost warns. He pulls back at the last second with a gasp and the liquid goes still.