Painted in reddish brown into the furnace floor is a massive circle with lines drawn inside it at three points. Each point shows a symbol you don’t recognize – except for one. The crude silhouette of a Courser’s head in the circle’s center. The whole area smells of sulfur and copper, and though you’ve never been here, it is the scent that strikes you as oddly familiar. What do you make of this?

---

“That did not go as planned,” the mercenary grumbled to himself. He shook out his coat, sending a small cave newt to the now-dampened floor of the furnace. He was glad the only witness to this blunder was the old mare, and she was unlikely to be taken seriously; he would never hear the end of it if word got out that the Terrence had fumbled such a rescue mission in such a slapstick manner.

“Didn’t it?” The High Priestess mused. “We’re out of danger.” Now that death was no longer an immediate concern, the dark mare’s easygoing demeanor resumed. She moved with an airy prance in her hoof, her sopping mane and tail the only proof her life had never been threatened at all.

“Out of danger for now,” Terrence corrected. “We’ve no idea how long that will last.”

“But darling, this is the direction from whence you came! Shouldn’t the way be clear?” she questioned with a curious flick of her tail.

“The dungeon is a dangerous place, ma’am. You cannot trust that a place you’ve been will be safe.” snorted the stallion. “There are monsters. And at times, other adventurers trigger traps -”

“And kick over support columns,” she added helpfully.

“...And kick over support columns,” Terrence admitted, pinning his ears in embarrassment. “Just… stay alert, and stay close to me. I’ll get you back to the surface where it’s safe and… Old Mare, where are you going?”

“Following a familiar whiff,” The High Priestess chimed, trotting off into the darkness of a tunnel on her own.

---

The tunnel wound deeper and deeper into the earth, away from the sweltering heat of the furnace and into indistinct darkness until the only light was cast by the lantern clipped to Terrence’s side. The old mare must be blind as well, he thought, to walk these dark tunnels so eagerly.

The mercenary did not recognize this as an entry to the dungeon’s third level, but he did recognize the “familiar whiff” The High Priestess spoke of. That vile rotten egg smell wasn’t uncommon in the Earthen Furnace by any means, but the closed space meant it was inescapable. He was practically gagging by the time he came upon the chamber at the end of the tunnel. The narrow hall gradually fanned out into a round room like the neck of a bottle meeting its body. The High Priestess stood at the edge of the room, her pale eyes cast towards the dark floor as if she could see it. When Terrence moved to get a better look himself, she moved to stop him.

“Wait your turn, dear. I’m not done looking,” she chimed, as if speaking to an impatient foal. She continued to tilt her head and squint, evidently able to see the murky brown sigil that Terrence would soon realize spanned the floor of the room.

“Is that blood?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Maybe a little bit is, but not all of it.” said The High Priestess. “Blood all its lonesome wouldn’t cling to the floor like this.”

“There have been reports of sigils appearing on this level, but I’ve never seen one quite like this,” Terrence admitted. There was something here that unnerved him.

“Oh. Have you not?” asked the old mare, nonchalant. Must be lost magic now, she thought to herself.

“Have you?” he scoffed back.

The High Priestess paused to consider her response. She hadn’t seen one exactly like this, no... but she had seen many much like this in a time long ago. Of course, she couldn’t outright say this without giving herself a proper introduction, and so she opted to be vague and indirect.

“It looks a little like a birthing circle. You know – the alchemic symbols for making a foal.” she tittered, throwing her eyes into doubt once more.

Terrence scoffed again. He didn’t know much about alchemic birth himself, but the basic symbols for birth were famously known and plainly absent from this sigil. “Maybe if you were making a foal out of three devils and a heap of rotting eggs,“ he muttered.

The old mare gave him a cheeky snort. “Maybe that’s what they were doing!” she offered. “Either that, or they were turning a foal into three devils.”

Terrence was fairly certain that last remark was a glib joke, as The High Priestess punctuated it with a chuckle. However he couldn’t shake the unease he felt at the idea of deconstructing a foal. The very idea of it made his hooves curl in disgust, and the mare who brought up the possibility was only so tolerable herself.

“...Come on. Let’s get you to the surface,” the mercenary urged. Thankfully, The High Priestess was amenable to this idea.

“Alright then,” she replied, casting one last glance back at the circle. Her curiosity could not be satiated with the means she had on hoof. She would have to return alone – or perhaps with less squeamish company – if she wanted to study this… innovative alchemy further.