Herr was walking down the odd, winding roads in the dungeon again. This time he was on his own and excited to adventure alone. The Overgrown Caverns were the best of the bunch, he decided, as he trotted forward. Best, because he could search for his own glory here all on his own.

But let it not be said Herr was not foolish. Case and point, him stopping in his tracks. What drew his eyes were the blackened Soul Vines crawling up the wall. Twisted and gnarled, the vines clung to the rough-hewn stone walls of the caverns like they always had belonged there. The dark tendrils pulsated with an unnatural energy that seemed to suck what little light there was, right out of the dungeon. Small wisps of smoke curled up from where they touched the cold surface, yet they seemed unbothered by the intense cold that the mossy stones often held. Even the cavern ceiling was covered in vines, when Herr looked. It was a cavern ceiling and they were just here, covered in veins/

“I feel like the dungeon has always been covered in veins to me because I am created by the dungeon. And to the dungeon this season belongs to it.” Herr Mused. “Perhaps I am more of the dungeon than I am of flesh.” He continued, talking to the vines, and nodded at a whisper. “I do not understand it, but you all know more than I do. It’s my first harvest festival, after all.” 

Here, said by a thousand voices. Turn left, turn right. Faint whispers drifted through the cavern, the voices of ancient spirits trapped within the for Herr, clearly cursed tendrils. The vines shifted as he followed the most undulating strands. From time to time the vines seemed to shift when he made a turn and the whispers grew louder and louder as he closed in on what they wanted him to see. One word, Herr realized, often said as one in tandem. Galatea. As though these vines were alive, he shared a look with the plant when an abandoned camp appeared. On the cavern wall the same word was carved. Galatea. The camp he stumbled upon seemed to prove that the spirits could only say that word and they were pretty invested in it. Herr looked back at the vines but they had quieted again. Now that he had seen the camp they felt content. He pulled out an old sketchbook he stole from his dad and began to draw.

“Oops.” Herr said, as he scratched through the page of his notebook. A vine curled overhead to hand him the fallen pencil. He gave it a thankful nod and continued to draw. “Yes, this looks accurate. I’ll keep the word in mind- please let me know what you think?”

Happiness and a sense of wanting to rest. And yet, for some reason, that happiness suddenly mortified Herr when he realized his ears were perked at the praise. Fear shot through his veins. It was something odd to feel. Why did feeling happy about the approval of the dungeon fill him with fear? At least he was with something who did not care- if not, actually understood him. Or a bit of him at least.

"I’ve been here for too long," Herr replied grimly. "These souls don’t know peace. And the sketch could be using them for something." His eyes narrowed at impatient rustling. "Looks like we're not keen to stay here, eh? Reminds you of bad times. Let’s not try to find out what they are, I know another route back." 

The vines bobbed in agreement and caressed his name as they retreated back to the cavern ceiling. The Courser breathed out a deep sigh of relief. There were a lot of things one should not mess with and spirits were one of them. As one, they went back to docile and Herr decided that fame and infamy could wait. He was not going to bother figuring out his own limited connection to the vines. After all, that was what an adventure was for. He wishes to belong to Bob Moss’s world- not the one below. If he could cut that tie…the better.