Baldwin's hooves move soundlessly across ancient cobblestone as he navigates the grand tunnels near his home, deep in the layers of the sprawling, labyrinthine dungeon. The air is heavy with the smell of damp stone and the tantalizing fragrance of warm flesh, barely missed and still close by. Dungeoneers rarely journey this far into the underlayers. Baldwin has crossed paths with only one other in all his years, an encounter with a badly-wounded scout that ended in a rather… abrupt manner for the other Courser.

Baldwin pauses, intrigued, and seamlessly switches to tracking the bright stink of the surface-dweller from place to place.

Whoever it was came through recently, their movements methodical and sure. Baldwin is not surprised the dungeoneer chose this path. Ahead, the flickering glow of an enchanted brazier casts a pool of eerie light, its pool of cold blue-tinged light a bizarre and out-of-place marker in this subterranean world. The flames dance blue and hot, angry white. Strange shadows writhe on the walls.

Baldwin avoids looking directly at it for long, his multi-hued scarlet eyes far better suited to seeing in near- and total- darkness. He approaches cautiously, nostrils flaring at the paradoxical chill that emanates from the iron base. The brazier’s flames burn steadily over a pool of oil, dark liquid untouched by the spectral blue flames twisting above them. Baldwin knows better than to disturb such a phenomenon; these are not mere flames. With a respectful nod, he moves on, mentally sketching out this area in his internal map. Time and place are notoriously tricky things in the underlayers; but Baldwin is himself a creature of this dark world, able to traverse its many secret places with relative ease. Far more easily than the poor hapless dungeoneers.

It is a scant few precious seconds before the silence of the deep is pierced by the symphony of a nearby scuffle. Echoes of a violent conflict reverberate through the tunnels, pulling Baldwin towards them with the scent of the dungeoneer growing ever-stronger in his nostrils, alongside the tantalizing smell of spilled blood and another, older aroma that brings with it a mixture of intrigue and fear. It is not often Baldwin feels threatened.

The tunnel intersects with a few others. Baldwin emerges into a larger cavern, the ring of steel meeting claws and infernal shrieking reaching his sensitive ears.

Finally, he has sighted his quarry. The dungeoneer is a handsome pale brown striped with darker lines, finely muscled, with the minute form of a small and irritated bat flying in loops around his head. He is, also, locked in deadly combat with a spectral creature.

Baldwin watches from the shadows, content to observe… for now. He is a predator of opportunity, like many down here, and will not be the only one to have been drawn in by the noise. In the land of unending dark, a meal this large is a rare prize. He may yet need his strength to challenge a rival for the ‘winner’ of this encounter. His dark coat blends in seamlessly with the mouth of the dark tunnel, his mane barely stirring in the pale air. The winner matters not to Baldwin.

Yet, as Baldwin watches, a second figure enters from the mouth of another tunnel. This creature is known to him, the spirit Harvester. A capable fighter, and a worthy guide to a brave, select few.

Baldwin’s focus returns to the dungeoneer, red eyes gleaming with interest. He does not often tune into the thoughts of those around him, and with some difficulty (and alarm) struggles for several moments to remember how to do so. But, eventually, the thoughts of others come into focus with a snap. Step, parry… Follow through, Logue, or he’ll have your guts for garters… Upswing, twist, lunge—

Baldwin cuts the connection with a quiet exhale of relief. It is never pleasant to go rifling through someone’s head when you have not been given permission to belong there.

He knows the dungeoneer’s name now, at least. Logue and his companion, the bat Cocoa, running a fool's errand for the Harvester - capturing the spectral creature. Logue's movements are fluid and precise despite the mortal danger he faces, never once faltering. Something about him is… captivating. Baldwin finds himself reluctantly charmed.

The air around the cavern grows heavy with the spectral stench of decay as the fight moves closer, a scent that would turn a mortal Courser's stomach—but to Baldwin, a wellspring of information. The hateful specter rears, hooves slicing through the air where Logue was standing moments prior. The creature’s skull, visible beneath its translucent flesh, is twisted and gaunt, a mockery of the majestic steeds known to traverse the dungeon.

This is no lost spirit of a fallen Courser; it is something far more sinister, a corruption that wears a Courser’s form like a costume.

The Harvester swings his scythe in wide arcs, each strike finding purchase on the specter’s glowing form. The specter shrieks.

Baldwin's ears pin back as the specter shifts toward him, presenting its unguarded flank.

"Come, ghostly imitation! Is that all the fight you have?" Logue calls out victoriously, feinting first left and then right, scoring a deep hit across the creature's chest.

Baldwin has seen enough. Carefully, he waits for an opportunity. Water drips from the ceiling as he positions himself along the specter’s flank. His attack is a mere blur, his timing impeccable. Baldwin slams into the creature’s side as Logue attacks from the front, teeth sinking into incorporeal flesh that sends a shock of cold through his system. The taste is vile, tainted with decay, and it claws at Baldwin’s throat, demanding expulsion.

The creature's unearthly wail pierces the still air as Logue, Baldwin, and the Harvester all press their advantage. It is Logue who finally severs the specter’s mortal coil. With a desperate shriek that echoes off the ancient stones, the spirit unravels, tendrils of darkness spiraling into nothingness.

Silence settled heavily, broken only by Logue’s ragged breaths and the distant drip of water. The Harvester and Baldwin are… less affected. Baldwin eyes the spirit warily, uncertain if it will reveal his true nature to the dungeoneer. But the Harvester stays quiet, dark eyes shining. It seems he will keep Baldwin’s secret, at least for the moment.

Logue sheathes his sword, casting a wary eye over the spot where the spirit had vanished.

"I hope that's the last we'll see of that one," he says, voice tinged with relieved fatigue. The small and irritated brown bat lands on Logue’s shoulder with a coo, clearly some sort of pet. Baldwin’s lip curls in poorly disguised distaste.

The Harvester turns his hooded gaze upon them both. "Do not be so certain," he intones, in a voice like a rumble from the earth beneath their hooves. "Not all spirits depart this realm with such ease. Some cling to anger and hatred, fueled by rage."

Baldwin snorts, a plume of vapor hanging in the humid air. His multi-hued eyes glint knowingly. "Yes," he murmurs in sycophantic agreement, the melodic cadence of his voice betraying no hint of surprise. "I have walked these halls for many years as well. I have seen souls twisted by forces beyond his… meager comprehension. Their fury is knowable."

The Harvester and Baldwin inclines his head, dark eyes glinting. Baldwin chooses to interpret this as acknowledging the wisdom in his words.

Logue tosses his sweaty mane. “Couldn't have sent that wretched spirit packing without your help,” Logue says earnestly. "You ever find yourself topside, you make sure to visit our outpost. It's a few days' journey upward through the winding tunnels, but it's a haven for folks like us."

The offer hangs in the air, generous but sullied by Logue’s ignorance of who Baldwin truly is. In the ambiguous darkness, trust is as rare a currency as sunlight in these depths. Baldwin answers smoothly, his crimson eyes narrowing as they meet Logue's grateful green gaze.

"Your hospitality honors me," Baldwin intones. A standing invitation to a nearby guild is of vital importance to someone with his gifts. "I shall... consider your invitation." The words appear in the air, carefully sculpted. Baldwin inclines his head, the silvery strands of his mane catching what little light there is, down here in the dark.

With a grace that belies his monstrous strength, the undead horse turns away, the edges of his ebony coat blending seamlessly with the obsidian walls of the dark tunnels. He gives no further acknowledgment to Logue, the bat, or the Harvester as he moves into the deeper dark.

The dungeon's whispers reach out to him, its many voices reaching lovingly for his mind. Baldwin considers the dungeon his mother, of sorts; he was born anew down here a century ago, in a much deeper layer of the dungeon… a layer far buried, now. The dungeon whispers in a soothing voice. Far away and to the east, the dungeon whispers of another fight, this one soaking the hungry earth with blood. The distant clash of steel and pained whinnies snakes its way to Baldwin's keen ears. His gait quickens, senses sharpening with predatory anticipation. Another struggle unfolds somewhere beyond the next turn.

This time, he will not be denied his quarry.

_

END.