The heat lets up as Petrichor descends down into the depths of the dungeon even further. An energy alive like a livewire pulses all around him like a shield. It thickens the deeper he goes as if it prepares for something it knows awaits just beyond the curve of the corridor. He finds himself oddly at peace as brimstone and fire transform into softer overgrown grass once more and a most decidedly soft muddy grove sinks his hooves a bit deeper in.

At once, the energy shifts from something desperate to something sorrowful. In the distance, a small echoing of weeps penetrates the air with no way of sensing which direction it came from. The voice is hoarse and tired as if it had been mourning for eons. Perhaps, it had been.

Riot’s light does not flicker in any show of fear or apprehension as it takes the helm of travel per usual. If anything, its light seemed to grow ever brighter the more it floated through the muddy landscape.

Personally, he wasn’t a giant fan of slogging through the marshy grounds, but he endured it anyway for the sake of a mare he barely even knew. He just had to follow…though, it became evidently clear that the weight on his soul grew ever heavier as he went. Her eyes were always on him, he knew that much, but maybe the eyes of a usurper gained you a target for interested third parties.

Scoping out the moor, not a single thing moved. From new-growth plants to slumped-over skeletons, it was as still as the dead. So why did he get the distinct feeling that something else was watching him? Nothing leaped out at him, so he continued to walk. The air of anticipation began to rise as he did.

Finally, a glimpse of movement catches his eye as another courser, alone, stands out in the grand openness of the moor. Surrounding her is nothing but a phantasmal hand and some skeletons poking up from the mud that looked to be aged from many centuries ago. When Riot gives no hesitation again, he follows ever closer.

Their ear flicks back at his not-so-quiet approach. They did not turn to greet him, but the frown on their face grew ever deeper as their closed eyes scrunched in concentration. Petrichor had seen her before on the rare instances she came up to the surface. He felt Fetch was kindred in her love of the dungeon, but it was said that they were…eccentric. Unique in their connection to the dungeon, though. Did she feel the eyes too?

“The spirits are unsettled. By something. By someone. By you?” Finally, the mare turns around and looks him up and down with a critical eye. When she catches sight of Riot, her eyes widen for a second before a wash of understanding takes over her features. Her eyelids lower in some sort of decided judgment. “Ah, your company, perhaps.”

Petrichor looks over in confusion at the wisp and back over at the mare with a firm glare pointed at it. Something dark from the pits of their chest flares up as the want to protect the small thing whelms up. They had just met and already he wanted to take his companion away from her.

“What do spirits care for a wisp that has done nothing to them?” He gets the feeling she’s not in an answering mood as her gaze never falls from it.

“It, not so much. Its master, however?” She hums dangerously. “Spirits don’t forget. Spirits don’t forgive.”

Riot does not back down nor does it flinch. Instead, the aura surrounding both of him and it seems to grow in intensity as her chuckles send his hair on his back standing. She’s not angry, no, she’s amused at Fetch’s proclamations. Still, the atmosphere was shifting to something dangerous and wild. A challenge was being presented.

‘I remember ones like them. Always heeding the call of the Harvester as his command was so tempting to fall into. What was it that he always said?’ The Lady of Reaping thought in the back of his head. Clicking her tongue, he assumes she plucked the thread of the memory correctly. ‘As yes, all spirits are not peaceful…truthfully, most are filled with malice. The reason they remain as spirits at all is because they refuse to move on until they have sought retribution and closure.’

Just the shift in pressure increased the now oppressive stare on him. It was as if they knew she was there speaking to him. It was a soul they must’ve known well as the sorrowful aura dissipated and turned to feral rage. Their mere presence was like claws raking against his flesh as they so wished to tear him asunder to get to her.

Fetch, too, felt the change and her eyes changed from firm to wide saucers of shock and fear. Where one might’ve expected some anger, maybe one could not see an attack.

Manifesting from the bones of the fallen, spirits with eyes of a red, angry hue try and attempt to take form. At first, Petrichor thinks it is just the ghosts of coursers until they warp and contort painfully out of shape into something far more predatory. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think of them as wolves.

Something was horribly wrong here. Corrupted by their rage? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he did know that their target was locked directly on him.

“There’s no time. You must run. And if you’re smart, ditch the wisp at first light.” Fetch steps out in front of him before her pet hand is shoving him into gear and he’s sent running.

In step with him is Riot racing behind him but always a step behind to guard. The thought of leaving the first company, the first friend, he’d made since his isolation? He couldn’t even fathom it as he ran. The unholy howling of the prowling creatures laps at his heels, and as he thinks they may catch him, they are gone. Everything is gone.

The moor disappears and he is standing instead in a temple with windows fully intact and stone uncracked. Thereupon a golden throne, bathed in beautiful light, was a mare he’d never seen but felt like he’d known forever.

“My champion…we’ve not long, unfortunately. They overwhelm all the energy I have remaining, but I just had to see you once like this instead of being the puppet. You’ve come so far, but you must go back until I can provide you more aid. I thought them to be far more dense than they were.”

His eyes are wide as he takes in her appearance. He’d been following her. A…goddess? Or still just a usurper? Armored in darkness and fine weaponry, coursers sat at her beck and call, staring him down intensely.

“Who are you?” It was the question he’d kept close to his chest ever since she shed her mortal flesh that night.

“I’ve many names. Not all are pleasant and some are downright offensive. Lady of Reaping. The Betrayer. Lady Luck. Queen of Treasures and Unbroken Vows. A pirate. A thief. A marauder. Sister. Goddess. It matters not to me what they call me for mortals always think they know the full truth when in reality, they know nothing.”

He contemplates what he can but it was all…so much to process. Riot was not with him, but he had a feeling Riot was the reason she could reach him at all. There were too many questions, but he knew time was almost out. “What do you want to be called?”

Her smile is wide and infectious as she leans back in her seat and laughs. The room brightens with her genuine happiness.

“You could ask me anything, but that is your concern? Oh my stars, I’m keeping you.” Her eyes, so unique to anything he has seen before, take on a possessive gleam and he is not unsettled by it. It feels safe. “Your Lady, my champion…my little storm. Or, if we are to be friends, simply call me Marauder in my company alone.”

The room warps and as her chortled laughter reverberates against his very essence, the dungeon reappears but it isn’t like he left it. The moor, the spirits, and Fetch are gone. Instead, the open entrance to the surface faces him, and awaiting him there is a cheerful Riot.

‘Take a break, Petrichor. You will need to better equip yourself before we see each other again. Find the other temples and learn the truth the others failed to read. Then, when you find all there is to find, return to me. Release me, and I will be in your eternal debt.’