A trio of Coursers approach the battlefield. The air is cold, and their breath shows in plumes of mist rising from their muzzles. 

 

The smallest one is relieved. The heat of the Furnace above had been getting too much to bear. He is glad, also, that he is no longer the only short member of the party, though he reflects that that is a shallow thing to focus on in such a vast and foreboding space.

 

The most experienced of the three has a coat that gleams four or five different colours, though he appears plain at first sight. He is only a smidge taller, and his hooves shine despite the low light. He is their guide, though if he were honest, this level of the dungeon saddens him as much as anyone else. He will be glad to be out of this area.

 

The third, with his flaming coat, trails behind the darker pair. He is thoroughly unnerved, though he would prefer not to show it. There is unimaginable loss here, more than he could ever put into words, and it makes him uncomfortable in ways that he has never been. There is a deep sorrow that pervades the very air of this place; the crisp and frosty grass underfoot has grown over the blood that stained the ground, but the souls linger here.

 

The magic seems stronger here. Perhaps it is a reminder of what must never be again.

 

The glistening pool stretches several horse-lengths in front of them, and they are taken aback by the images that shimmer in it. The ceiling of the cave stretches far above them, and that should mean the puddle is blank. Around it lies barren earth; nothing seems to grow near it, though it must be one of the few water sources down here.

 

The banners of old ripple in the surface of the water. The paraphernalia of war is scattered through the background; tents are pitched at neat intervals, and soldiers' armour, both horse and human, are piled outside each.

 

The Coursers are startled to realise that the topography of the scene matches the hills they stand on. They move away. This is not magic they want to involve themselves in.