Many of his peers did their best to eliminate the dark. They would use their lanterns or torches to light any source of fire that had long sputtered out in the dungeons to illuminate their passages and guide them back to the surface. Others used their pets to cast a gleam and glow to chase away the shadows as they pushed deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. Ingimar could care less about chasing away the dark. There wasn't anything for him in the light, at least not anymore.

His nostrils crinkled as he sneered away the intrustive thoughts threatening to run rampent in his mind. A complete absence of light helped shoo away any reminders of years passed. Oftentimes he found himself staring at a particular frond in the Overgrown Caverns and he was sent back to times with his wife Pura. He'd see them stand there, either bickering over which way to go or simply enjoying their time in the depths of the dungeon. When he can't see the ferns, can't see the familiar archways or rooms, then the recollections aren't as prevalent. Embracing the darkness bathed him in a balm. It was numbing in a way nothing else was.