The dungeons were quiet today, at least to those who didn't know how to listen.

Beneath the layer of silence was the low, nearly imperceivable hum of whatever power enveloped this place. It could make some uneasy while most couldn't hear it at all. To Daoloth, it was an incessant sound, one of machinations both organic and inorganic. It had him burying his ears into the thickness of his mane, the dark locks spilling over his face due to his low head carriage. Like black tendrils, they obscured him in shadows. Yet, piercing through these phantasms were eyes of deep mire, of tainted oceans and cosmic seas. His hooves traipsed the ground not unlike an explorer, calculating and deliberate in progress to allow ample time to process the surroundings. Did this beast come in peace, or did it promise ulterior motives? The Renderer of Veils his father had called him, a tool for the Dread One to wield against the encroaching surface dwellers. He was a starlit blade torn from the recesses of abyssal pools, and Daoloth served only one purpose.

Whether it was fortune for the Surface Dwellers or not, they had not crossed Daoloth's path. It was quiet outside the constant hum of the dungeon, low and rumbling, somehow equally as disruptive and calming. His father claimed it was their own father, the single core that summoned them. Daoloth had no reason to argue against the theory... Which meant to him, that everything that happened down here was by their lineage's rule, their choice. Daoloth came to a gliding halt, his visage rising, his ears orbiting atop his crownless head as he listened. Would his sire's maker bestow unto him the same purpose that Cthuhlu had inscribed upon him?

The only answer was a gentle tink.

Daoloth's abyssal gaze swept to a discarded piece of equipment left rotting on the dungeon floor. A chanfron from one of those invading surface cretin. Its leathers were molding, the shine of the steel long faded and scuffed. Daoloth had half the mind to destroy the thing until it shifted. A minute tilt of his head inspired a strand of near-pitch forelock to fall from his face and swing as he watched a chitin-covered leg sprout from beneath the chanfron. Another, and then another, until the armor lifted from the ground and began to scuttle away, its step rushed and erratic. It knew it was being watched, if not discovered, and was fleeing. Daoloth made no effort to pursue it. Rather, his head rose and he watched as the crustacean disappeared into the intertwining passages. Was it a sign? The answer to his rumination of his... grandsire? Understood that he was listening? Daoloth's tail flicked, the messy, thick tresses spinning around each other as they steadied.

If anything, he felt watched, and not from this plane, but another. With one final sweeping investigation, the dungeonborne moved on.