They had had to slosh up several more corridors before they had found a winding staircase cutting upward from the waters.  

Frisk hauled herself up across the stone steps, hooves clicking wetly, shaking herself out in a spray of water; she had clamped in her teeth a heavy crown which she had fished off of a rotting skull, lips peeling back at the taste of metal but triumphant all the same. 

“Not too bad,” she said approvingly.  The effort of walking through moving water had left her more energized than before — bright-eyed, muscles warm, tail fluttering like a banner behind her as they headed up along the staircase, spilled out into a new corridor, dryer, with a faint smell that Frisk could not place. 

Vex made a small, discontent sound.  It nestled into her damp mane, shivered irritably about the chill, and crawled further up towards the dry patch of her forelock instead. 

“That water had to come from somewhere,” Frisk continued.  “Might be more treasure there, eh?” 

They would need to return to the surface again to sell it, but for once, the idea didn’t trouble her.  She picked up the pace across the next threshold—

She noticed the smell almost before the hiss of gas; certainly before the cloud of green that plumed upward from vents along the threshold of the cavern. 

“Eugh—” 

Frisk jerked back reflexively, and then forward.  There wasn’t any point in turning around — there was never any point in turning around, not really — but the threshold to the next corridor was just there.  They could make it.  They could. 

~~~ 

Faithful had not made out as well as Smoke had, but he hadn’t come away empty-handed either. 

Looking more like wet rat than canine as he followed Frisk up onto the staircase, shaking out his golden coat to splatter Smudge who had been following an unwise distance behind, clutched between in his jaws was a shiny trinket made of glass and metal. The strange contraption did not whir mechanically, it was far too waterlogged for that, but it was smooth and intricately filigreed on one side, while the other held a different world of numeric runes organized in a circle. As Smudge debated whether it was sanitary or sacrilegious to wear a crown stolen right off another’s skull, the hound placed muddied paws on him barking for his attention.

“Good work,” he told Faithful, accepting the trinket as much reverence as he would anything Faithful had given him whether it be great treasure of a wayward sock, and stashing it away in his sodden saddlebags for later inspection.

“What’s Lakeweed doing down here,” he asked the group, finally having enough mind to slot Spot’s observations with what he knew of the dungeon’s layout, “I’ve never seen it beneath the Overgrown Caverns.” Maybe an outlet, of some kind, funneling the water down from the upper levels to feed the inferno of the Earthen Furnace. His mind tilted over the puzzle, happy to have something to do for the question of where the water had come from. 

It was enough of a distraction he hardly noticed the way Faithful had begun to lag behind, suddenly woozy for reasons unknown. It wasn’t until that all too familiar dreadful hiss that Smudge pieced together where they had found themselves.

“Here?” He sounded startled, “It should have been, three, no four rooms back.” His voice was more like a child tattling to the schoolmaster over something their classmate has done incorrectly, but the gas continued to hiss up from its vents. 

Faithful wobbled on his feet, before collapsing into a soft heap. If he just slept here, yes. Then they could go on playing after. 

Just… five more minutes…. A little nap, then he’d be good to go. 

—-

Tamsin’s haul, that Musca was now picking through, tiny hands peeling back wet covers, pulling apart waterlogged pages, had in the end been an almost watertight chest. They had snagged the ornate handle between their teeth, sure they would find something good inside… the books floating in a shallow hoof length of water hadn’t exactly been what they had intended. 

But Musca was having fun picking the tomes apart. And perhaps parts of them were not so water damaged to be entirely beyond repair. They could sell them on the surface, or they could dump them, when Frisk inevitably led them to a room of treasure. Inevitable only because Tamsin had no doubt Frisk could and would succeed in whatever she chose. 

Faithful played too often by their hooves it had become habit for Tamsin to keep an eye on the little hound. They would rather die than accidentally catch Faithful’s fluffy tail under an errant hoof. As such, they fell behind when Faithful did, keeping in step with him… frowning… 

Their head snapped up at Frisk’s sound of disgust, Smudge’s words, what were they-? Not the gas again.

Rolling their lips inward, wrinkling their muzzle to try and keep their nostrils as shut as possible, Tamsin hesitated, for the first time in a while. Gaze darting between Smudge, Faithful… Spot… Frisk. Too many choices. 

And yet there was only one. Lurching forward, unsteady on their own feet, Musca suddenly too still on his their, Tamsin took the ruff of Faithful’s neck gently between his teeth, gas seeping through the cracks of mouth and lips. 

They cast a worried glance towards the others - before stumbling toward the exit. 

—

Of all the things Smoke could have grabbed, it had to be a bone. Spot watched with mild horror as the hound dragged his treasure up the stairs, his soaking wet frame suddenly looking much smaller without the sheer volume of fluff. He looked half the size he usually did, and the chestnut was amused for a moment, his lips twitching as he chuckled.

His mirth did not last long. The chestnut was trying to pull the string open of the purse he’d managed to catch as the water receded when he heard Frisk’s snort of disgust. A moment later, he heard the hissing. Ice cold fear flooded the courser’s veins as Tamsin suddenly trotted by, and for once, Spot did not think. He abandoned the purse he had been fiddling with, his head darting forward as he outstretched his head, nipping Smoke sharply in the rump.

The dog yelped, but it served its purpose; Smoke shot him a dirty look as he scampered further up the the stairs, away from the creeping, nasty smell – and then, a nip for Smudge, still speaking, though his words sounded strange and far away to Spot’s ear. He didn’t think the hissing was that loud, but that scent was putrid, and–

He stumbled and pressed onwards.

“C’mon Smudge,” he said, like maybe he just needed a little encouragement