Three sisters stand in a dim cavern.

On a curving vault of sandstone, three shapes of coursers are pressed into the rock with pigmented dirt. 

The shapes have small black heads and swooping red backs. They are stacked, one in front of the other, in offset succession like ghosts, or the imprint of the sun on the sisters' retinas. They are snapshots in time. The strokes of a gallop.

Draig twists his claws in Blodwen's mane, his little green head turning to follow where the painted figures might go: across the cave wall, around fluid bends in stone so old it does not speak. Blodwen does not think the room has died, but it is content to rest. Peaceful. Resigned.

She noses her sisters deeper. Further in. Vast herds of leap static across the tunnels, and there are other beasts, too: oxen, boar. At the fringes, tucked behind stalagmites, lone wolves watch the frozen procession, waiting for a straggler that will never break off from the whole. Blodwen feels like something is missing. The artist is absent from their work, and the stone will not admit the full story. It bothers her. It is so unlike the dungeon to present this. A riddle with no clear answer.

It makes her feel stupid. Foolish.

And then it ends. The cavern abutts the noisome hum of newer rock honed into bricks and flagstones. Familiar things. Things that Blodwen can understand.