Beryl marches dutifully through the moss-lined cave she’s found herself in, stubbornly tuning out the otherworldly whispers echoing all around her. The green-eyed Courser trained herself long ago to always be listening to every little thing happening around her, so she’s ruled out any possibility that these voices might just be a figment of their imagination; as convenient as it would be if she could believe that they were, Beryl can tell the difference between reality and her mind playing tricks on them. Her deliberately loud hoofsteps easily drown out the persistent voices; but there’s still a gap between each step she takes, and the eerie whispering seems all too eager to fill those quieter moments.

The whispers unnerve her. The champagne horse can’t make any sense of them whatsoever, and that never bodes well. Beryl can work with just about any circumstances if she knows how they work, but as far they can tell, there is no rhyme or reason when it comes to disembodied voices; not to mention the fact that she can’t even tell what they’re saying. Every time the pale Courser thinks she can pick out one ghostly voice from the pack, it immediately enmeshes itself with the rest of its chorus, and returns to being completely and utterly incomprehensible. 

She hates every minute in this cavern of whispers. Are the voices trying to warn Beryl of something? If so, where is the threat? In this room, behind her, ahead of her? Are they trying to threaten her? Or are they simply minding their own business, barely even paying attention to her at all? She’ll never know, and she hates it. Bad things happen when she has no way of knowing what’s going on, if it affects her, if she’ll be caught in the crossfire. The best thing Beryl can do is exactly what she’s already doing; keep her eyes trained on the exit, and pray that nothing happens.