What great fun the upper levels were, where gaiety and merriment may be had without fuss or fret. A clatter, nay, a rhythm of hoof falls prattled in the darkness. One, two, three, staccato, one, two, three, staccato. Hastur's golden form danced through the overgrown ferns and greenery as a tune all his own hummed from his throat. He would leap with a flourish towards an arching leaf, bow his crimson head, before spinning again and returning to his waltz. No one was there to witness, at least none that we can see, but the dungeonborne seemed determined to provide a show. From the meticulous over extension of his limbs to the way in which he swayed so that his yellow tresses may sweep about him, it was all a work of art for whatever audience he believed to be.

          Unbothered by the idea of being found, nor by the idea that the Dread One may be near, the King in Yellow simply indulged in his own ball. What a wonder it may be to see the world from a vision such as his...

          Everything dripping in gold, the world painted a bright citrine that radiated with an ethereal essence. Such a world held miraculous beauty, gleamed even in the darkness of the dungeon's mire, and was his.

          Well, not today, but perhaps someday.

          Hastur spun and spun again, bounced into a pose, and bowed his chiseled face down to the ground with dramatic flurry. With a guffaw he bounced back up, finally opening his bright eyes to the reality around him. He'd managed to waltz his way into long abandoned passages in the Overgrown Caverns, and well, curious it was! An old, decrepit camp nestled itself into the ruins of some old building. The wood long rotted, most of it had caved in or fallen to splinters. Rusted armor, barely thicker than a strand of his golden hair, lay betwixt the mess of lichen covered planks. Old utensils from the humans who'd long ago died lay in a debris field, most dull and broken by age rather than pilfering. Dark, frail skeletons lay half consumed by the vegetational growth. Curiously, they all seemed to be clamoring to a single area, a single spot. Hastur's vision followed them, his hooves carefully stepping amongst their graves - a sneer on his lips as he came too close to a molded piece of fabric.

          Upon the stone wall, perhaps imperceivable to the untrained eye, were carved letters. Thankfully, Hastur was in his own realm, his own kingdom, and had no problem reading the inscription upon the stone despite the dimness.

          GALATEA

          The courser tilted his head once to the left, paused, then again to the right.

          "I have no idea what that means." He declared with a distinguished, elevated carriage. With a snap of his muzzle into the air, the King in Yellow pivoted, again stepping over the filthy debris, and turned away from the old campsite. The faster he could get himself away from such a disgusting place, the better.