Nightwing did not expect that taking the stairs into the depths would land himself in this situation, but here he was. A layer down, riding the steep stone steps of a staircase that never seemed to want to end, the temperature rising with each turn, and the moss that had once littered the cold wet cavern walls dried and disappeared. 

He knew, intellectually, that the second floor of the Dungeon was full of fire, ash, and molten rock. Yet, facing the reality head on, his Coarser frame growing wet from the dry heat and the lathering sweat barely cooling him... It was honestly a little uncomfortable. Well, he was scared in the sense that he hadn't prepared himself enough, once again, a symptom of his nature no doubt.

As he lands upon the last step, the stone shifts beneath his weight and a click echoes into the red glistening corridor. He backs away, flank and hindquarters squished against steps, just in time to dodge a roaring blast of flame. The stream crossing more than a third across the width of the hallway, thusly followed by a seemingly random series of other gouts further down the length of the corridor.

Oh moons.

Nightwing steadies himself with a dry gulp, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and he tosses his long curling dark locs; an attempt to unstick the heavy sweat laden strands from his face, neck, and shoulders.

He needed to focus, to see the emissions and decipher the pattern, the voice of his Mentor rung in his ears.... That's not quite what he does, rather he gives into another attribute of his nature and widens his stance. Dark hooves scrapping and his legs bulging with tensed, coiled muscles.

Nightwing, told himself as smart, intelligent, a great thinker that had patience. But, sadly, it was not the case for reality. He loved to search, seek the truth and the forgotten knowledges.. he just also tended to rush head long into it all. The same that he found himself doing here, amidst an ancient trap, mind whirling as it calculated the patterns, spacing of each spout, and then the timing.

This needed to be perfect, to both not burn himself or damage any other part like his second hoof saddle bags or his well groomed mane and tail. It had taken him a considerable length of time to grow the curls out, and if one had them they would divulge the secret that curls took even longer to grow; length barely noticeable with time.

Taking a deep breath, chest rising and inflating to the max, he focuses his eyes and thoughts forward to the prize; the end of the trap and hallway. 

And he launches himself through, legs bounding and heart racing like that of a fleet footed rabbit. It felt similar to flying, his blood coursing hot and heavy in his throat and behind his bulging eyes. Not that the Courser would know what flying was, he had no wings to call his own after all.