Of all the company to keep, Illene supposed this particular set of Coursers could have rounded up worse. The ranger was competent and virtually silent. The latter trait Illene almost preferred in a companion. He reminded her of Marshal. The hound at her hocks looked up at her, as if he could hear the direction of her thoughts. A younger Marshal, perhaps, not quite so grizzled by age, although the Courser’s hide seemed to hint just on the edge of grey. Not quite old enough yet, perhaps, but Illene could almost envision how it would dull his creamy buckskin hide. Take out the colour, desaturate him, until his appearance matched his personality.

Not a comparison she likely should say aloud. Not in present company anyway. The Courser himself, Monaco, was not all that important. The rest of their crew? They were well-connected in the upper circles and therefore not enemies she desired to make. If word got back to her father… well it wouldn’t. Illene didn’t have to prove herself to Smudge and Kerameikos, she simply would by the virtue of her being.

The first click of the party’s hooves on the floor in the next room was overloud. Illene peered at the metal grates on the floor as they stepped in.

“Beware-” the ranger started before cutting off with a muffled sound, and Illene, a heartbeat later than the more experienced dungeon delver, saw what he spoke of.

A noxious odour, tinged green and rotten, drifted up from beneath them. It was not a scent she could have compared to naught else. In the dungeon she had smelled the scent of rot and decay. Fresh and old. Death and decomposition. It could not be said that the dungeon was a safe place for all… With a loud clack of her hooves, Illene nosed to the fine material that swung from her pack, draping it over her nose and mouth, holding her breath.

Now without hesitation, she blinked, and moved heavily toward the door.

It was not often that Monaco chose to travel willingly with others. Ranging the dungeon to his typical haunts, to seek and harvest, did not require the company of Coursers. He did not crave it. Did not feel a burning need to fill silences with speech. He rather preferred the emptiness anyway.

Proceeding into the room, Monaco examined the walls and doorway carefully, searching for the telltale signs of tripwires or pressure plates. The physical giveaways for what the dungeon sought to do. Often the magical kinds were only a scent on the wind, a change of pressure, a taste of iron in the back of his mouth. This was the latter, and too late to do anything but bark out a warning to the others, although he watched the appaloosa come to the same realisation, perhaps even before Monaco himself.

Smudge too, was experienced in the dungeon. One to be watched.

Monaco’s warning, however, had cost him. He lurched a little bit, shaking his head roughly from side to side, stumbling hazily toward the exit.

Kerameikos was neither concerned nor unconcerned for the party that he had joined by happenstance. If they faltered, the dungeon would return him back to the cavern he called home, Saqarra would be there or she would not, and his life would go on. 

Or it would end where they stood.

This was simply the way of the Dungeon.

As the gas began to seep from the grates he hummed a macabre lilting tune, stepping lightly towards the next room with no real hurry. 

There were far worse ways to go. 

Smudge snorted at the lackadaisical meanderings of his companion, shoving against him to urge him forward on his way towards Monaco. 

Illecene was the only one with smarts amongst them, he thought to himself, as the gas rose and the all too familiar sensation struck at his lungs and nostrils causing him to cough with the effort. He should have taken her lead, it would have been the smart thing to do, continuing on with only half the party but ensuring it was the stronger half. 

It’s what his mother would have done.

He snorted again, ensuring the ranger was upright as they made their way to safety.

He would not become her.