Tamsin panted, head bowed low as they ran with the group, turning to look over his shoulder down the corridor to ensure that the pack of hellish looking dogs weren’t still following them. Tamsin far prepared Faithful and his luxuriously fluffy coat, to the creature’s whose bones shone through their translucent hide. 

“Soooo we picked the wrong door,” Tamsin said nonchalantly, shrugging and brushing off the thought. “I’m sure it happens all the time. The one face was pretty convincing,” they said, nudging Smudge with their shoulder. 

They lost time, Tamsin was pretty sure. A lot of it. But the meal they’d managed to sit down and chew through about halfway through their flight had given them all the strength they’d needed to finally outpace the hunting hounds that had been behind the second door. “You know what? I think both of them probably sucked,” they decided. Why would they put hellhound behind only one of the doors. Maybe there would have been… icecats… behind the second.

Tamsin didn’t say that particular thought allowed.

They slowed as they finally raised their head to look forward, peering down a very familiar looking corridor. Musca gave a squeaking on his back, dramatically flopping backward, letting their wings splay out in large black patches on his hide, like splashes of dark ink. The purple of his eyes disappeared behind lids squeezed shut.

“I… okay so we pick the other door this time, right?”

—

If Spot had hoped his luck would change once he had found a party to join up with, that hope had been dashed upon the floor the moment he’d heard the first snarl slip forth from the hellbeast. The chestnut had run as quickly as he could, careful only to avoid getting so close to Smudge (or one of the others) that their hooves tangled and they came crashing down together, becoming easy prey for gnashing teeth and sharp claws.

He had been grateful, so terribly grateful, when they made their way around a bend and finally lost the hunting pack. Grateful, too, for the rations the others had produced. Again, Spot thought, Maybe I don’t belong here, after all.

But he wanted to be here so badly!

He just wanted to be brave, like Smudge, or the flashy blue roan, or the cheerful bay c—

His head jerked up and Spot pinned his ears, his brown eyes going wide like saucers as the voice reverberated around them. “Did we just go in a circle?” he all but gasped.

YES, boomed one door.

NO! argued the other.

A withering sigh escaped the chestnut and he glanced at the others sheepishly. “This must be my fault… I was already lost. I just infected you all with my poor sense of direction.” He paused. “Maybe we should try the other side?”

YOU SHOULD!

NO, YOU SHOULD NOT. CIRCLES INDEED!

-

Whatever ego that Smudge had pretended to have, deflated with the sharp pinpricks of hellhound teeth. Faithful, for his part, yipped in excitement as he drove them forward, his tail wagging like a banner of pride that the appaloosa no longer had. 

He was grateful for Tamsin’s nudge, a blessing he did not deserve, but he welcomed it in favor of whatever Frisk was about to say as soon as they all caught their breath. He’d deserve it, he knew that. He’d been rash in picking the door, hoping that instinct could guide him as easily as it was supposed to. 

“Oh boy,” he said, the flicker of the courser he’d become shining through the gilded facade he’d try to paint himself with. He glanced towards Spot sudden and sharp as he tried to take the blame, “No.” He said firmly, stepping away from Tamsin at the declaration, “That was my fault. We would have gone the wrong way even if you hadn’t showed up.” 

That wasn’t exactly true, as if Smudge hadn’t suddenly decided he needed to be their leader, Frisk likely would have sent them the right direction.

He glanced towards her now, sheepish, “Which way?” 

—

Frisk hadn’t said anything only because the flat glance she threw at Smudge served well enough — sharply unimpressed, ears pinned.  She didn’t say anything to Spot either — who cared if he thought he was a bad luck charm?  Maybe he was.  He and Smudge could comfort each other about it after they got out of here, well away from the hellhounds. 

“Yeah,” she said testily, now, to Tamsin’s suggestion.  “We pick the other door.” 

What she knew of the dungeon did not necessarily imply that it would be anything good, either; wouldn’t be the first time their pick would’ve been between one death and another — but she sure wasn’t gonna walk them back to the hellhounds, either. 

“C’mon.”  Brusque, butting her way ahead, she snorted at both doors and took the other one before it could say anything else.  

She didn’t want to hear it.