Choking. Gasping. Staggering.

Acrid green fills the air, creeping like a ghost through cracks. Stealing breath from lungs, thick as poison.

Their hooves stumble. Weak. Unsteady.

The scent, vile and unfamiliar, claws its way down their their throats. Worse than rot. Worse than death.

Eyes sting. Vision blurs.
They blink, but there is no clarity, nothing beyond the creeping haze.

Every breath is a struggle. Aching. Burning. Each step is heavier. Swaying. Falling.

The room spins. The walls tilt.
The floor feels distant beneath their hooves. Yet it greets them quickly. Dizzyingly. The dungeon itself reels, calling them down. Down. Down.

The door is close. Close enough to touch. Closer than the air. Closer than the darkness pressing in. Pressing on your mind.

But it's all so far. So far when their legs tremble beneath them and their vision dissipates to oblivion.

Move. Run. Breathe.