A golden courser picked its way across tufted grass and crumbling stone, following in the steps of another, darker beast. Despite being deep underground, impossibly, wind whistled through the high-ceilinged dungeon, whipping the moor-grass into its perpetually bent state,

For Oriole, finding Moritz had been a happenstance. Finding routes out of the burning Earthen Furnace and to the Sleepless Moor were not new to the golden horse, and it’d spent years risking following the pull of its soul toward the depths (it wasn’t sure it had a soul, but something had to be drawing it deeper so often). 

Despite this, Moritz hadn’t wanted it to come along. Maybe they hadn’t believed it, or maybe they preferred to go alone; regardless of the reason, Oriole had unintentionally proved its mettle to the flaxen horse by quickly escaping the pack of hellhounds that had discovered them. 

After that, it had kind of just…stuck around. Though far from their first steps into the moors, Oriole followed behind Moritz, watching and learning their tactics. 

As they wandered, with Moritz’s keen ears keeping watch for danger and their floating eyeball occasionally drifting into sight to assure them the coast was clear, Oriole’s eyes wandered. 

Old bleached bones and scattered equipment dotted what must have been an old battlefield. Attached to some were tattered cloth, occasionally fluttering in the intermittent wind. Oriole wandered closer to one, leaning down to brush the old fabric with its nose. Just ahead, Moritz glanced back and stopped, hesitated as they considered leaving their impromptu companion behind, but turned and came back toward the younger courser. 

“The Ancient Crest,” Moritz said, just loudly enough to be heard over the wind and never louder. 

Oriole cocked its head, considering the crest Moritz had put a name to. Despite its age, the banner showed the coat of arms clearly; the emblazoned heads of two courses lay atop each other in a never-ending circle, each with their blunt teeth against the neck of the other.

”Who were they?” Oriole asked, looking up at Moritz. At some point, their floating eye companion had drifted to their shoulder, and peered down at the banner, as if wondering why they had stopped. 

“No one living knows,” Moritz replied, “Only the dead here could tell you.” 

Though Moritz had meant it to mean Oriole could never know, the young courser didn’t take it that way. It looked back at the banner curiously, then leaned down and, with a soft tearing sound, pulled it free from the spear on which it had once flown proudly. It twisted to toss the cloth over its back, the loose corners draping over its shoulders. Mina the eye, as if sensing this somehow meant something to the strange young horse, drifted close and helped Oriole to fasten its impromptu cape with a brooch the group had collected earlier. 

Moritz studied their strange companion for a moment longer before they shrugged it off with a flick of their mane. “C’mon, let’s keep moving.” They said, turning back toward the trail. 

Oriole took a step to follow them as Mina floated off ahead before pausing, glancing back at the rusted old spear wedged in the moor grass. It dipped its head quickly and pulled it loose, ignoring the rust and sod that covered it, and tucked the thing into its belt before bounding off after Moritz to continue their journey deep into the Sleepless Moor.