Petrichor had been walking a while after the last encounter with the skull. Not a moment of it was boring, but it certainly lacked a certain burst of excitement. Maybe that was what was to be expected of the upper layers of the dungeons. Ever faithful now, his Wisp lit the path ahead and kept him from tripping over grooves in the rocks several times.

He wondered what plants he could collect from this strange place. Would they grow strong in the sunlit meadows of his surface home? Or were they forced to flourish only in the light of magic and the unknown innate passive energy that moved through the corridors? It would be an experiment he'd have to try after his days of adventuring were over... if they ever did.

An aura overtakes the dungeon of melancholy and reminiscing. There would be a certain point at which there would be no turning back, and he'd have to persevere and be brave. When he got to that point, would he turn back and head home or stay and see what the depths had to offer him?

Home... what a funny concept.

There had been a time when he thought the surface would be his forever home. The scene in his head had been fantastical and alight with things that never quite aligned with his true soul. A bright shop with a lit fire, warmth permeating as the smell of cinnamon wafts from the small kitchenette in the back. A mare's voice that had soothed him and her skin that kissed his head when nightmares ravaged him. A stallion's gruff stoicism as he regals his days of golden years and the camaraderie he'd shared with a herd he once called his.

Days spent at their side would've been empty but comforting in all the same breath. No more screaming or yelling from the tradesmen who scammed them and then soon made them disappear. Only bliss and numbness. It felt easier, then.

But surrounded in vegetation, Petrichor's soul sang out to the puppeteer that plucked his strings with love like that of a harp. It did not carry her voice, but it was an Ancient thing itself as it spared him no second glance. It did not pick favorites and simply saw through him and to what he needed. He couldn't comprehend why, but it wasn't really his to debate.

Home began to shift from days of light and bright cheer into a damp, dark abyss. It was a mare who shone like the sun but at night glowed like the rising moon. Her voice that called to him his whole life that had sought him out personally and still dragged him ever closer.

'Follow me,' she wouldn't let him forget.

Home was no longer the surface. He knew that the moment he stepped foot down here. When he goes back, nobody will be waiting but an empty shop. His days of adventuring would soon be forgotten in the nothingness that remained. Nobody would tell his tales. But here? A Wisp accompanied him, as frightful as it was, and listened politely as he told it stories of the legends that came before him. It flickered when he gave it jokes as if it were laughing along. In here, she was waiting for him.

What did she want with him? He hadn't the slightest clue. In the silence, he almost didn't mind the whispers she gave occasionally. It was only ever that one phrase... he was following... he promised her he would.

Perhaps, when he figured out what she called to him for, he would be able to go back up to the surface and rest his weary head. Maybe she'd be there with her voice like wind chimes and bells. Would she be the palomino he saw disguised or could she let her walls down in front of him and light his fur up in delicate light?

Riot, what he named the Wisp after it smacked a wall and caused an upheaval of chuckles to pour from his chest, floated around him in elegant loops.

"Yes, my friend," he spoke to his companion with more than a deadpan voice, "You can come with me. See what it is like in the open air. I bet you'll fly around beautifully."

The two travel further, still. Melancholy breaks and he's released from the aura.