Harlow stood at the mouth of the Dungeon- a giant, gaping entrance, with dozens of coursers coming in and out. It wasn’t her first time seeing it; she’d been in the little makeshift village around the entrance for about a week now, eavesdropping and courser-watching to get a sense of what she was meant to do, without outright asking anyone for help. She’d kept herself busy while eyeing various adventuring parties, trying to figure out what gear was most necessary and what she could do without. Luckily for her, she realized many a young courser were going in with next to nothing but the absolute basics; waterskins and an empty bag, maybe some rations if they intended a longer journey. She had managed to bring enough coin to afford as much, but was sporting an empty purse after even that little. So, with determination and quite a bit of cussing, she struggled to get her side bags on. It wasn’t the slipping it on she struggled with the most, it was the tightening of the belt. Craning her neck awkwardly to adjust and tighten the strap, she felt herself wishing she had literally anyone to travel with, if only to have a second set of teeth assist her in getting the damned thing on. Anselm would be laughing his stupid ass off if he saw this, she thought with a pissed off and exaggerated huff. Finally, the bags were on, and she slipped the waterskin strap over her head and onto her neck with far more ease. She shook out her mane, long, thin strands of white hair escaping the leather straps and laying flat against one side of her neck. Once she felt as equipped as she could, she slowly mosied over to the entrance. She was attempting to look as though she was confident, had been in the Dungeons before. She tried to look like she wasn’t nervous about going in by herself, the doubts of her family pinging around in her skull. She hung out by the entrance, trying to keep her face looking bored and disinterested, standing behind a larger adventuring party so as to avoid any potential run-ins with her brother. Harlow stared into the mouth of the Dungeon. Her father had always mentioned a Pull coursers like him had to the Dungeons. She was certain she had always felt it, a tugging at her heart to be somewhere else, to be doing greater things, to be discovering. Standing now, feet from the entrance, she felt that same sensation in her chest. It wracked her ribs, making her legs and chest tremble. She couldn’t, in that moment, tell if it was fear or excitement. Maybe both. Regardless, it made her even warier of being alone. It was embarrassing to admit that she was that nervous. She’d been so determined to be independent of anyone when she’d first arrived, too proud to ask for any help. But now she scanned the coursers teetering at the mouth, seeing if perhaps another inexperienced courser looked about as nervous as she felt. 

—

Neméos had come up from his second delve tired, defeated, and with half the hair burned off his face in ugly patches. The hair has mostly all grown back- the rest still festers. Coursers push past him, voices raised to be heard above the crowd. Companies in twos and threes, calling out greetings across the backs of other horses, joking, shoving- an easy, playful mood about the air. It reminds Neméos of the herd of yearlings he had run with, before he'd followed the Pull. Now, as then, he stands a little on the outside of them, watching, amoung them, without quite being a part. A fine, bright autumn day. Sky that clear, fall, crystal blue, unbroken by clouds. Neméos's breath steams, as he watches the other coursers. The party- who he has come to think of as Hadena's crew- had helped outfit him with the basics. A pack sits, heavy over his shoulders, and makes him think of the old paintings of coursers bearing men. Gently, Hadena had suggested that he not try to delve alone, again- she had meant, Neméos thinks, that he should delve with her. But she was like that- looking out for him, like that. He didn't want to bring the group down, trailing behind them with no experience. And the Pull- the pull. That feeling like something is missing. Stronger every day, since his failed first delve. Stronger, as he watches the other coursers stream past, in easy company with their friends. He gathers his courage a little quicker, this time, and crosses through the crowd, that unaccustomed weight shifting on his back- maybe he hadn't put it on right? And then, there- by the dungeon's mouth- another horse, around his age. Pale golden coat, one foreleg rich brown, like she'd dipped it into paint. And she looks-- she looks, maybe, a little like Neméos always feels. Is hiding it better than he does, he thinks, with a sour twist. Looks determined- looks brave, mostly. But her weight is shifting, and shifting back, hooves unsettled. Staring down into the mouth of the dungeons-- but not moving towards it. She- well. She probably doesn't want him intruding. Neméos puts his head down, and thinks about sidling past. Pauses, front hooves noisy on the first, stone step. A hard squeeze around his heart, as if a Man of old has reached into his chest, and taken hold. He swallows, hard. Looks back to the stranger. "Uh- excuse me. Sorry. Are you... waiting for someone?"

—

It had been the better part of half an hour, and Harlow was beginning to feel a bit stupid for just hanging around the entrance. She’d been eyeing every courser that had been going in and out of the Dungeon, praying for the courage to approach someone, or praying at least that they might approach her. But now she was impatient. Just go in, coward, she thought to herself. Her eyes hardened at the Dungeon, trying to build the courage, her pacing in place picking up a little in speed. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, her hind legs locking up when she went to propel forward. She huffed a little in frustration, before another courser caught her eye, from her peripheral. He looked… Well he looked fucking weird, if Harlow was being honest. His coat didn’t seem like the type to have that odd shedding look to it that thicker coated coursers got, and it was entirely the wrong season to be having loose hairs falling away from the body. Beyond that, she recognized him as a Heraldic courser; she hadn’t met many in her small lakeside town, but her father had recounted a few of his past partymates being different variants of courser. His golden, brindled coat, admittedly, would probably be rather beautiful if he hadn’t been covered in those strange patches. Her pale golden green eyes darted over him, keeping her expression flat. He seemed nervous, fluttering one the edge of speaking to her. She felt herself ease up a little; something about his lack of confidence made her feel just that much less defensive. Perhaps he’d do as a companion, someone who wasn’t looking to one up her or teach her much of anything. The last thing she wanted was someone who thought she needed guidance. “Not anyone in particular,” she responds after a moment of consideration. She kept her voice cool and aloof, trying not to sound dismissive but remaining disinterested to veil her excitement at finally being approached. She takes a moment to raise her head and puff out her chest just a little, trying to look more experienced than she was. “I’m waiting for someone who looks worth my time to adventure with. Have you been in the Dungeons before?” She eyes him down, studying his body for a response as much as she was waiting for a verbal one. 

—

Neméos tries not to droop, at the nonplussed reaction; the critical eye, the someone who looks worth my time. His long tail sags, only a little. He fidgets, shifting on his front hooves. It felt like being examined by one of Delphyné's friends; slightly older mares, who'd always looked at him like a sort of pet their real friend had dragged along. Like he was maybe going to pee on the rug. "I have," he says, hedging. Not wanting to say, once. "And— my family delved! But. I'm still new." He clears his throat. "Uh! Neméos, by the way. You don't have a party?" 

—

Something about the Heraldic’s trembling, uncertain body language eased Harlow’s stance, especially as he spoke. He had been in the Dungeons before... This was already a promising start, and it helped that he didn’t look too cocky about it. She felt an ear twitch at the mention of his family, and she allowed herself to cock her head slightly in a more sociable way, curiosity piqued. He- Neméos, he said, which she found to be a rather uncommon name- looked at her again when he was done with his introduction. “Your family delved? Mine did, too.” Her voice surprised her with the lack of hesitance at which she shared this. “Or, does, I guess.” Her tail flicked, and she shook out her mane, glancing around the entrance again in the hopes Anselm wouldn’t catch her off guard. “I’m Harlow. And, yeah, I don’t have a party. Currently, at least. I’d like to build one.” She eyed him over one more time, thinking- he had delved before, she noted again, but he was… Well he was like this. But he had survived, so surely… “D’you want to… Go in together? I guess?” You guess? Harlow chided herself mentally. Could you sound any less serious about this? “I haven’t really spotted anyone else I thought I’d get along with, but you seem. Fine.” Yeah. Fine. Exactly what any aspiring hero wants to be called, you don’t exactly sound convincing.

—

Nemo perks up, surprised. His green eyes glitter, his long, flexible tail rising off the ground to sway, at ease; more like a cat's tail, than a horse's. Too caught up in the offer to really even note the hesitations and half-measures. "Really? Sure!" He trots the last few steps to the dungeon's mouth, and stops, waiting for the paler horse to join him. "There are some other coursers- older- who have been helping me delve, if you want to meet them after?" Her twitchiness, at the mention of her family, stifles what would have been Neméos's next question. He studies her, a moment. "My family do delve, too, I mean." Why had he said it, like that? Did? He shifts, uneasy with himself. Flicks his tail, the motion travelling up towards his body as a ripple, and settles. Allows the thought of them to fill him, as it always does, with warmth. Courage. His heroic family— they do delve. So will he. "The Golden Pride— that's their party. Maybe you've heard of them?" After a moment, a little hesitantly, he says, "does— your family's party have a name? I might know them." Both of them standing here, alone, with legacies like that... well. Neméos doesn't want to assume anything. He doesn't know her, yet. "You can— just call me Némo, by the way. I know the whole thing is a mouthful." 

—

“Yeah, of course,” Harlow reassures Némeos. She finally relaxes completely, the thought of having seemingly genuine, friendly company easing her mind. She trots up alongside him, only barely hesitating before taking the first step in as Némeos continues to speak to her. The mention of older coursers makes her ears flatten. “Um, maybe. Let’s get through our delve first and maybe you can tell me about them before I decide.” She tries to keep the bite of suspicion and defensiveness out of her voice, but she’s sure some of it comes through. She might not trust any of the older coursers she met so far, and she’s certain she won’t trust Némeos’s older friends either, but she doesn’t want to take that out on him. And here's to hoping Anselm isn't one of them, she thinks to herself with a twinge of anxiety. Thankfully, he’s asking plenty of questions for her to move on quickly from her curt response. Something about his awkward cadence talking about his family makes the corner of her mouth twitch, but she’s never quite been an easy smiler. He's so... Enthusiastic, she muses. She thinks for a moment, hunting through memories of her father’s stories for a Golden Pride. “I can’t say I have. But my father only ever really spoke of his party for the most part, and I don’t think anyone else in my town ever spoke much about the Dungeons.” And then, a momentary twinge of past rejection aches in her chest. “At least, not to me.” She tosses her head again in an attempt to shake the feeling from her. “My father’s party was the Shining Rangers, though. He said they were pretty well known, but I haven’t met anyone who’s known them yet.” Technically, this wasn’t a lie. Némeos didn’t need to know that she’d maybe spoken to two other horses since arriving. She considered, briefly, bringing up Anselm’s party’s name. But the risk of Némeos- Nemo, now, she supposed- wanting to talk to him seemed a bit too likely for right now. Instead, she turns her attention back to the Dungeon, that Pull strongest now at her hooves. “Némo sounds good, by the way. Easier to shout if we get separated, I think.” She takes a couple more steps into the Dungeon, the cool, earth scented air making her pelt quiver a little bit. She glances back over her shoulder at Némo. “Let’s get going, I’m starting to get restless.”

—

Neméos nods, easily, falling into step beside Harlow. Their hooves echo on the stone, footfalls a little out of sync, as they descend. The slight- the very slight- hitch in Harlow's step is comforting, somehow. She seems brave- strong. And she comes from an adventuring family, like him. But she isn't huge, and powerfully-built, like Vit. She isn't clever like Hadena, or an old, experienced hero, like Vairn. She's-- she seems... like him. New. Young. Kind of pretty, now he thinks about it. But- apart from that, wherever that had come from- it's easy, walking beside her. "Sure! We can just delve like this, with the two of us. But-- we should stick to the first floor, maybe? If it's just us. Not that- I'm sure you're good! It's just a little..." He trails off, awkwardly, not wanting to say, I don't think we're good enough for deeper levels. But keen in his mind, the stories the others told about The Forge; stone so hot it boiled like water. Monsters that ate coursers alive. Bridges that crumbled away under foot. Treacherous, narrow paths, running over lakes of fire. "But anyway! There's enough up here to be interesting. Are you after treasure? Monsters?" He checks a corner, ears straining for any sound, before leading them on. Where that slime had gotten him, his hide is prickling- itching, like a sunburn starting to peel. Great herds, he hopes they don't run into something like that; it's a fight not to start fidgeting. Bad habit, how obviously he dances on his hooves, when he gets nervous. It's loud, when the ground is stone; will be even worse, if he ever springs for horseshoes. His tail twitches, instead, like an irritated cat; brushes Harlow, accidentally, and he yanks it away as if scalded. He curls it over his back, out of the way, wincing. "Sorry! Uh- your- the Rangers are treasure hunters, right? So-- is that what you're after? They're pretty good, I've heard! Took that dragon hoard, in The Forge, didn't they?"  

—

Harlow’s ears prick toward Némo as he speaks, keeping her eyes ahead of her. The slow descent into the Dungeon almost makes it hard for her to register what he says; the smell of moss and lichen and groundwater… Something about it felt exciting, felt almost… Right. She felt like she was about to jolt out of her skin at all of the possible routes they could take, even on the first floor, and- Némo mentions sticking to only the first level, and for a split second, her entire body locks as she prepares to fight the doubt against her. She turns, half of a fiery glare already forming on her face. But she registers again who this is; a courser her age, nervous and seemingly lonely and out of place. A young courser who believes in her enough to accompany her, and do so alone. She tries not to correct her expression, though, and waits for him to stop speaking. “Hey,” she says, firmly but swallowing her venom. “I know how to pace myself.” She turns her head back forward. And then, in a softer tone to maintain the friendlier energy. “Good heroes know their limits.” God. Did that sound lame? That sounded lame didn’t it. Harlow shakes the thought from her head, not wanting to start doubting herself now that she was below the earth with a stranger. Thankfully, her cringing at her own words is interrupted by the sudden feeling of his tail on her back, and she whips her head around to him. Harlow has no clue what emotion her face is portraying, eyebrows lifted as she stares at him blankly. He immediately pulls it away, verbally stumbling over his words as if he’s forgotten how to use his tongue. And then of course he’s asking about her family. I shouldn’t have fucking said anything, she thinks, her brow immediately setting into an annoyed furrow. This is why she hadn’t spoken to any coursers on the surface, wanting to avoid any connection to her father or brother. She snorted through her nose, setting her gaze ahead, her body language immediately getting cold and stony. “Yeah, they took the dragon hoard. I’m not really interested in making, like, the Rangers 2 or whatever, though. I’m in the Dungeons for myself, I just know I’ve got what it takes.” She can’t stop this venom, but she tries to keep it from starting a fight. “I want to make a name for myself. I want my own party. I don’t want to be remembered for what my father did.” Maybe a bit much, Harlow now thinks to herself. Am I going to share my whole life story with the first courser dumb enough to take a chance on me? Make him pity me before I get a chance to prove myself? She snorts through her nose, feeling her pelt prickle with frustration at herself now. Némo, for all of his enthusiasm, had asked about the one thing she didn't want to discuss, but had too much pride to lie about. She didn’t want to start this journey pissed off, and she certainly didn’t want to be pissed off at him. She knew better, at least, than to start going off on him, but she began to feel a pit of self loathing in her stomach as she found herself unable to just… Let the question go. Harlow opts to just allow a silence to grow after her response, not certain she could properly come up with some conversational bandage this time. She hopes only that he doesn’t decide to turn around and leave her there because of her sudden switch in mood.  

—

"Oh." Neméos shrinks away, under this deluge, ears twisting back. "No— sure. I just— I got in over my head, the first time, but. I'm sure you're not like— that you know what you're doing." He walks in silence, for a moment, head ducked to avoid her glare. His tail, of its own accord, tucks itself tight around him, in anxious coils. This is why you don't have any friends. First courser you meet here your age, you put your hoof in your mouth, right away. She had seemed a little tense, when she'd mentioned her family. Neméos should've known better than to ask. Too enthusiastic. Too awkward. Too clumsy. Too much to say, and none of it right, there Neméos goes, again. Having said the wrong thing, straight away, it's hard to know what to try, next. Neméos walks, instead, in that tense silence, for a long time, staring at his hooves as they descend. The air is starting to get humid; the stone overtaken by moss, soft underfoot. As their tunnel opens up, into a cave, he lifts his head at last, to peer around. That slime had been in a cave, just like this. Neméos almost says something along those lines, in warning, glancing over at Harlow, and then shuts his mouth. Good heroes know their limits. So cool. Why couldn't he ever come up with lines like that? He sighs, a little, looking the pale mare over. Tension stark, along her back, jaw, ears— and he had put it there. He looks away, poking cautiously around the cave, instead; easier to say something, when his back is turned. He paws at a mushroom, gingerly, and it lets off a cloud of pinkish spores; glowing, lovely, in the darkness of the caves. Watches it, for a while, light dancing in his eyes. This is where he's supposed to be. Even if he keeps putting his feet wrong. "I'm— sorry," he says, finally. Quietly. "I guess it's... different, for me. With the Pride. I shouldn't have— I didn't mean to bring anything up." A swallow, and he shakes the melancholy from him, with a will, like a dog shaking off water. Looks back at Harlow, finally, to meet her eyes, forcing his ears forward, friendly. "What will you name your party, then, when you get there? I'm sure— I know it'll be a good one."

—

Némo’s apology makes that burning pit hurt worse in Harlow’s stomach. The growing silence makes her skin crawl and she gnaws back tears from already fucking this one thing up. Don’t fucking cry now, she thinks, hoping that she can criticize her welling embarrassment and frustration away. First time in the Dungeon and you’re going to start crying? In front of a stranger? Come on. It doesn’t make her feel better, but it certainly helps her keep the emotion from welling out of her face. The air gets thick with moisture, and Harlow finally finds enough of an excuse to raise her head, ears twitching as they adjust to this new experience. It had been humid before, where she lived, in the summer around the lake. But not like this. This humidity was encapsulating, almost suffocating, with damp moss surrounding them on every surface. She took a deep breath, adjusting to the wet air, looking around. The small tunnel opens into a cave, mossy stalactites hanging overhead. Harlow’s mouth parts slightly as she takes this in, her frustration and unease almost completely washing away with wonder. She could truly say she hadn’t seen anything like this, and for a brief moment she thinks Dad was right… Harlow can feel Némo’s eyes on her for a moment, but she waits till he’s looked away to glance at him. This is the first time she’s done so since her rant, and she feels herself getting worked up again, seeing him so obviously deflated. And then, a movement of his hoof, and a puff of dimly lit glowing pink is in the air. The excitement and wonder sparks again, and she begins to trot over, eyes bright and ears pricked. She goes to say something as she approaches from behind him, but Némo starts first. He apologizes, for the second time to her now, and she swallows back guilt. Known him for maybe half an hour and you’ve already got him feeling bad about himself. Harlow dips her head in acknowledgement to his apology. “I um… Yeah, you wouldn’t have known, I guess. Sorry about… That.” Ok well that’s a shit apology. Harlow shakes her head, trying to find the words. “I’m sorry about going off on you. Bad habit.” She avoids looking at his face entirely now. “I um… I don’t know, though,” she says, looking back up at the dissipating spores, trying to find that spark of hope and wonder again. “I think I want to get to know my party first, whoever they end up being. I want it to be something we decide on together.” She keeps her tone soft, and stares almost too hard at the specks of spores left dancing in the nearly still air. She is trying so hard not to wither under the weight of guilt, embarrassment, and the anxiety that she has, somehow, already fucked all of this up. “What about you?” Harlow asks, finally finding the courage to look Némo again in the face.

—

Neméos nods easily, accepting this apology without dragging things out, further, by belabouring the point. Harlow looks so tied up, about it, creeping up behind him— staring, fixedly, at the mushrooms, as she speaks, rather than at him; he must have looked pretty pathetic. All the wind had gone right out of her. "No big deal." Neméos tries to smile, when Harlow finally meets his eyes; to let her know he means it. "I like that, though! Brainstorming. I hadn't really— I mean, I figured I'd just join the Pride, myself. If I—" He stops, here, nose wrinkling. If I find them. He almost— it feels embarrassing, now, to admit he hasn't met his legendary family, yet. That they might not like him, or accept him, might not let him join. If they were like Suda, Like Delphyné... A shadow of insecurity crosses his face; he glances away. He would find them. Would make himself a courser, a delver, worthy of the Pride. He was born for it— he would. "I— anyway. Who knows, but. I guess I hope I'll take that over from my dad, one day. But it doesn't— as long as I'm down here, you know? If it's with them, or— not. It's good with my group, too. Or you!" This last added, too-hastily; he doesn't want to seem like he isn't enjoying delving with her, or would prefer Hadena, Vitium, and the rest. Although— he isn't, really. Enjoying the delve yet. It had been really pretty awkward, so far. But it could get there! "I just mean— I'm like— I'm meant, to be here, I think. That's why. As long as I get to come, I'm happy." He shrugs, a little embarrassed by this speech. Taps at the mushrooms again; another drift of glowing spores, which settle on his nose, as he bends down to examine them, and make him sneeze. Neméos glances up at Harlow— embarrassed, again, but eyes sparkling, face dusted pink. Laughs at himself, a little." Sorry. It's just all— it's pretty cool, isn't it? I heard there were flowers- maybe mushrooms?- down here that grow gemstones instead of fruit. All kinds of stuff! You wanna look for those?"  

—

Harlow feels her chest deflate with relief when Némo accepts her apology. Or rather, seems to brush the awkward moment away from the two of them. It feels enough like acceptance for her. But he seems… Well he seems patient, at least. And patience for her antics is something that Harlow wishes she knew better. She notes the hesitation when he mentions the Pride, but in the light of her own outburst, decides to try to forget about it. He turns away in an expression Harlow can not name, for certain- not on another courser, at least- but one that feels familiar to her somehow, tugging at the empathetic part of her heart. “If it… If it means anything,” she says, carefully, trying not to sound patronizing or sarcastic. “I think you’re meant to be down here, too. Whether that’s with your family or your own group, I mean.” She feels another pang of cringing anxiety. It felt like she was saying something out of some daydream of hers rather than speaking to Némo directly, and she prayed it at least sounded genuine to him. But he is not looking at her, does not see her wince slightly when she realizes what she’s said. He paws again at the mushrooms, and Harlow finally does manage to smile, genuinely, when Némo sneezes from the second puff of spores. And then Némo is looking at her, eyes sparkling and face pink now, and she feels that smile growing wider, that anxiety in her muscles fading into a ghost. It doesn’t leave fully, but she, at least for now, feels comforted by this courser’s seemingly quick forgiveness. “It is really cool,” Harlow responds in a heavy exhale of excitement. “I’ve never seen… I mean, I’d always imagined all the little quirks of the Dungeons. And yet there’s still more I hadn’t ever dreamt of.” For a moment, she feels another vague sense of cringe as she realizes she’s talking like she used to as a kid. There was something about the pure awe in her voice, the unadulterated happiness with no hint of bitter resentment or determination that made her feel somehow… Stupid for enjoying where she was. She twitches her pelt to rid herself of that feeling, but makes her face and voice a little more stoic, heroic, at least she hopes it appears that way. “I’d love to find those gem things,” Harlow takes a step in a new direction, trying to use what Surface logic she has to figure out where something like that might grow. “D’you know if they’re worth anything? The gem fruits?”

—

Neméos shakes himself off, and straightens up. Beams at Harlow, as they start to move again, pleased to see her relaxing, a little; his misstep seemingly forgiven. He falls into step beside her, happy enough to follow where she's leading. The compliment, though, is a surprise; catches him as a blow, a force— a stranger, saying so casually something he's been desperate to hear so long. It's a good thing the tunnels are so interesting— they give him an excuse to look away, and hide whatever look that's brought out on his face. The skin is hot, pink where patches are still showing on his face; a warm, pleased flush. "Thank you," he says, after a moment. His voice doesn't crack, thank the great herds, though it's a near thing. "That's— I hope so. And— you too! You seem like you belong down here, already. Really." He clears his throat, relieved she's given him an excuse to change the subject; something too naked, about it, talking like this. All the ugly, pink, raw parts of him served up for display, all his ungainly hopes. The tunnels bloom, prettily, as they move on. Thick, strange roots, creeping up through the bare stone. Vines, swarming with yellow flowers. In a still, shallow, pond, lily-pads as big as wagon wheels, and white, delicate lotus. A pleasant scene, to walk through, and listen to Harlow talk. Her enthusiasm is nice— mirrors Neméos's own, and he nods, smiling, as she speaks. "No— I'm with you. I knew there would be— danger, and adventure, and stuff-" a pair of yellow eyes appear, amoung the flowers as he says this, and Neméos skips back a step, before realizing it's just a frog. "-Uh, that it would be dangerous. But I didn't realise it'd be... I don't know. pretty. I just want to— to be here. All the time. To— to see it all." He shrugs, at her question. "Kind of. They're like— expensive candy. Um, really expensive! I guess they're pretty rare? They're supposed to be really sweet. It's not like, treasure valuable, just." He laughs a little, sheepish, and noses at his battered, hand-me-down gear. Of course, he should be thinking about that sort of thing. "Um, I just kind of wanted to see them. But— we can maybe take some back, to sell."  

—

Harlow just barely leads ahead of Némo, his head about to her shoulder, and keeps her eyes focused on the growing vegetation around them. For all of the stories of the Dungeons she’d been told, she had not been told how beautiful they were. She was trying to follow where the moss seemed to be getting thicker and more damp; finding a humid cavern seemed like the best option for what they were looking for. When he does thank her for her reassurance, she slows her step just a bit. She gives him a glancing smile, something softer than the one she had when the spores bloomed into the air. She bumps her shoulder against his lightly, and takes her step back ahead of him without a word. Harlow focuses on the thickening moss ahead, feeling more than content now with the company she has chosen. And then the tunnels are blooming, with tangling vines of yellow flowers amidst the moss of the walls, ceilings, and floors. The pond ahead of them seems so tranquil, with the massive plantlife blooming on top. She hears Némo’s voice, agreeing with something she’d said, but she was barely listening as she hesitantly approached the edge of the pond. She stands tall again, though, hearing him shuffle quickly, only seeing the flash of a frog scrambling from where Némo had scared it- seemingly as much as it had him. He continues on regardless of this, and she turns to him. “Right,” she says softly, reverently of the chamber the two had found. She turns again to the pond, ears pricked toward it for a sign of danger. But a drink from this… Well, she could only hope it would taste as refreshing as it looked. She had the waterskin, of course, but… Surely a Dungeon spring had its own appeal… Némo continued to answer her question about the gems, and she hummed in response. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them,” she says as she tiptoes up to the water. “Maybe taste one, if they’re candy. I’m as happy for a new experience as I am some worthwhile treasure,” she adds, taking another step forward. Krnch. Harlow’s weight sinks into a section of moss, and a crying bay escapes her throat in shock. Below her, a black, water rotten rib cage has crumbled under her weight, a puff of decaying air blowing up into her face, making her sneeze and groan with disgust. She scrambles out of the hole that she’s made, backing up quickly and nearly ramming her hind into Némo’s chest. “Gah!” Harlow says, chest heaving. “I-I didn’t know-” Harlow’s stammering shock trails off, a bluish haze arising from the rib cage, like moonlight filtering through a window in a hay-dusty room. It begins to take an odd, bipedal form, one Harlow had only heard described before. A freezing ball of dread weighed in her gut as her mouth went dry from fear. The flickering visage of a human hung weightlessly before them, lifted it’s head with a slow and aching movement, before raising a decaying, gnarled finger out at the two young coursers. “Gaaalateeeaa…”  

—

Neméos's reply- whatever it would have been- falls straight out of his skull. Jumpy at the best of times, he snorts at the crunch of Harlow's hoof, going through... Neméos trods ahead again, lowering his head to see-- Herds! He hops back, ungainly, stumbling out of Harlow's way just in time. Some animal-- it was only some animal, that had died here. Not a courser. All the wrong size. Even so-- his tail flicks, uneasy. "Maybe we should-" he says, and stops. Only Harlow's presence, with him, stops Neméos from bolting outright. A human... that's his first, dumb thought; a bleat of useless information, in the swamp of fear. They always looked so incomplete. Only two legs; no fur, no hooves; naked, fragile thing- and this one dead, horrible, eyes shadowed, teeth showing in a grimace, head rolling on its spindly neck. It lifts its hand to point at them, bubbles out some sputtering, gutteral words. This is too much to bear. Neméos dances up onto his rear legs, front hooves flashing, his long tail lashing out for balance. What should he do? What can he do? He should charge it- no, maybe that would set it off? Would Harlow even want him protecting her? Surely not- not that he even could! How do you kill something that's dead? How do you-- He dances back, a pace, two, before coming down on all-fours again, indecisive. He's drenched in fear as if in sweat, after a hard run; ears plastered flat, eyes white-rimmed, neck arched back. "Harlow!" He calls- his voice does crack, now. "We should run?" The suggestion comes out more a question- he needs to be away from it. This ghastly thing. No- he needs to be brave! Needs to be brave, as it begins walking closer; stumbling, limping, miserable gait. Something sad, and tired, in its strange, enormous eyes; on its flat, decaying face. Its whole body shimmers; as smoke, that might be blown away. The emblem of two coursers, biting one another, is emblazoned on its chest; their expressions ferocious, pained. What might that mean, for them? Trembling, Neméos treads forwards, again, to stand with his shoulder pressed against Harlow's-- whatever came, they'd come down here together. He wouldn't leave her, now. A real hero wouldn't. "Galatea..." the spirit says, again, looking between them; mournful, thin voice. Neméos raises his own voice, shaking. "What-- are you? What do you want?"

—

Harlow had not ever felt fear like she did now. Her pelt trembled and shook, sweat making her coat shine slightly, though she felt cold. The ghost’s eyes held hers, despite the lack of focus in them at all. Harlow’s breath came, heaving and trembling through her nose, and she could feel Némo dancing beside her. She felt small, again, small in the way that her family had always made her feel small. She was a foal again, folded up in her bed back home, her father standing over her as he told her yet another story. She was wide eyed and shaking then as she was now, but safe and warm still amidst the hay and wood. The notable chill of the Dungeon as the specter limped toward her and Némo pulled her out of the shaky memory. In the back of her mind, she ran through every story her father had told her, desperate to think of something to do. He spoke so rarely of ghosts, and what little she could remember, they had had weapons or magic or some great scythe swinging beast to take them. Her father’s stories were too great, too heroic, his party in them too prepared to help her now. Run, run, run, run, “Run?” Némo’s voice came through her ears, echoing every instinct in her locked legs. Harlow snapped out of her trance of fear, looking wide eyed at Némo. “Yes,” she choked out, turning herself quickly in the direction they had come. “Yes, run!” She felt her hooves kick up as she started down the mossy tunnel the two had come from. Harlow felt the movement of hundreds of coursers before her, the tensing of muscle and thundering of hooves on the uneven Dungeon floor around and within her. For a moment of cowardice, she still yet managed to find some connection, some sense of belonging in her fleeing. Tactical retreat, she thought to herself, playfully if a bit sarcastic. An excited grin playing over her mouth as adrenaline finally began to pump, hot and thick, through her, almost sweet. A bubbling laugh begins to pour out of her as she looks back at Némo, her pale green-yellow eyes alight.

—

Neméos turns the instant Harlow does, gasping with relief, and bolts. He's always been fast- even if, sometimes, a little clumsy. Running just... makes sense of him, somehow, all the parts of him that don't quite fit. His gawky, long legs suddenly graceful, eating up the ground. His nervous energy channeled, a fuel, now, burning hot in him, powering him on; thunder of hooves, a drumming. He runs. Shoulder-to shoulder with Harlow, flat-out, his head down, tail streaming out behind him; a banner, catching wind that does not blow, here. He could run like this forever, he thinks, and never tire. If he goes quick enough, maybe he can outrun the terror, nipping at his heels- the image of the ghastly, undead thing; its hollow eyes, its sad and creaking voice. That finger, singling them out-- for what? For what? Galatea... When Harlow starts to laugh, it's like a switch, flipping. The fear still there, but... but Neméos meets her eyes; her mane blowing behind her, her face alight; a strong, brave, quick young horse, here running by his side. Neméos finds himself smiling, too, laughing- a little hysterical, maybe, heart hammering in his ears. Their steps are falling in time, perfect time, thundering across the stone. He shakes his mane out, and lifts his head, trumpeting a wild, bugling cry- terrified, exhilarated. Challenging. He bumps Harlow's shoulder with his own- not self-concious, for once. No room to be self-conscious, now. "Race you!" He says, edge of a wild laugh still in his voice. "First one back to the mushrooms!"  

—

Harlow’s fear is swallowed whole by Némo’s laugh, and then by his trumpeting. She feels her chest tighten with something that feels good, feels happy and eternally youthful. She thinks for a moment that this is what she has always deserved, this camaraderie, shoulder to shoulder with another courser, letting their legs carry them. The echoing Galatea, Galatea, Galatea… on the walls following them is the only thing reminding her of why they were ever running in the first place. And then he is challenging her, and her eyebrows turn down in a competitive and playful smirk. Harlow giggles as she answers, a snorting noise through her labored breath that she would find embarrassing in another moment. “You’re on.” Harlow’s legs are admittedly thin, but they are nimble, and she finds herself tucking against the wall a little more as she uses odd divots and curves in the mossy stone flooring to find more confident footing in the oddly shaped Dungeons. She is almost blind now to Némo beside her, only the occasional brushing of their shoulders or barrels reminding her that he is keeping up with her plenty. And then their tunnel widens, a familiar cavern opening up before them, and Harlow is suddenly losing ground, Némeos’s lank allowed to stretch more now in the less narrow space. Her eyes narrow on their finish line- the delicate collection of mushrooms just at the opposite end of this clearing. She huffs, correcting her momentum to try to hug against his path more in an attempt to overcome him. Her back legs find purchase in a divot and she pushes off, trying to leap at least back into position to tie with him. One leg slips, instinctively tucking to keep from finding the ground against it, and the rest of Harlow goes down with it, stumbling and skidding to a stop just beside and below Némo. A sharp, squeaking whinny of surprise is pushed out of her as she tumbles, the moss below only somewhat softening the fall. Already, Harlow can feel the bruises forming.  

—

Pulling ahead at the last second, Neméos stretches out his neck; pours on every reserve, his legs flying, eyes squinted against the wind of his running. He honestly hadn't expected Harlow to be so fast; it's a thrill to run beside her— she'll be a good delving partner, he thinks. If she decides to come down with him, again. He can feel her just behind him; her head at his shoulder, jostling for place. Gathers himself for a last, desperate push— And then skids to a stop just shy of the finish line, twisting on his hind legs as Harlow slips; the momentum zings through his thin legs, bone and tendon eating all the shock of his sprint, all at once. His hooves turf up a layer of moss; fragrant, green smell, as it's scraped back to bare stone. His blood thrills in his veins, electric; it's an effort, to rein himself in. "Harlow!" The switch- which flips so easy in him, terror to excitement, back again- gives a hectic jerk, and he sniffs Harlow over, trying to hide his anxiety. Stupid idea, and what if she's broken her leg? How will they get out? Neméos isn't strong enough to carry her— should he get help? What if something finds her while he's gone? What if— But she seems fine. Bruised, maybe, and a dusted a little in moss, but her legs sound, her eyes still bright, alert. Neméos straightens, snorting— laughing, only a little. "Let's— call it a draw?" He steps away, to give her room to stand; to cross the last few steps next to him, if she wants. "You were way faster in the tunnels— you have to tell me how you take the corners like that! If— uh." He catches up with himself, too late. Always too much for other people, Neméos. Dial it back, a little. "Um. If you want." A glance back, over his shoulder, his ears twitching, anxious. "But. Maybe when we're further away? I don't want that... thing to catch up, with us."

—

“I’m fine!” Harlow says quickly as Némo calls her name and approaches her. She feels the hot prickle of embarrassment, waiting for her to be scolded, to be told to be more careful. Hot indignation is already rising to her face as she prepares a litany of venom in response. Fucking idiot can’t even stay up on her legs. Why would you even agree to a race somewhere so uneven? Are you still a foal or what? Maybe you ought to learn how to run properly before you even consider being a Dungeon delver. But she looks back up at Némo, his large, green eyes filled with genuine concern. She bites her tongue, takes a deep breath, and just shakes herself out again with a huff. As she straightens back up, she gives a small, still embarrassed, chuckle with him. Moss still clings to her mane, and she attempts to blow it out before shaking it back into a more comfortable position. She glances at him with an awkward smile. “Um, sure. We’ll have a rematch another day maybe.” Harlow tests a step on each leg, moving toward Némo. Aside from a bit of discomfort on her left hip, nothing is particularly painful. She’s thankful for this, at least. She lifts her head back up to him when he begins to compliment her, and then quickly attempts to tone himself down. Her smile becomes less awkward, more reassuring, and nods. “Yeah, I don’t… Wanna linger down here too long.” She shudders a little, thinking about that shambling specter somehow managing to catch up to them, after all of that. “Let’s get out of here.” She nudges his shoulder again as she begins to walk alongside him out of the Dungeon. “And yeah- once we’re back on the Surface, maybe with a meal,” Harlow adds under her breath, her stomach rolling over in hunger now, after everything. “I can tell you about it. But hey, you were still pretty quick, too. Especially at the end there.” Something is tugging at Harlow’s smile, as she speaks. Something nagging at her mind. Her smile falters, and she glances back at Némo with a concerned look. “So, um. By the way… What’s the whole… Galateathing?” Harlow whispers the word, not wanting it to summon the thing back to them. “I haven’t heard that down here before, does that mean something?”  

—

Neméos relaxes visibly, relieved, as Harlow clambers up. Bumps her shoulder in return; it hasn't even gone that much better, but still— how different this delve feels, compared to his first. There's this warm, bright feeling in his chest— a lightness, almost, which feels too big to hold inside of him. Feels like it might push him up right off his feet. It's different, when you have a friend with you. Not even mention of the ghost can sour his good mood— although it dims it, a very little bit. Neméos can't help glancing back over his shoulder, eyes bright and worried. "I don't know. It sounded like— a place, maybe? To me. Like that's what the humans called it? Their... country, or kingdom, or something? What was here before?" He looks back to their path; the light of the surface is coming visible, ahead, hard to look at after so long in the gloom. "It seemed... sad. The ghost. Don't you think? I wonder why so many of them are ghosts, instead of just— at rest."  

—

Harlow walks alongside Némo as he thinks out loud. She mulls over what he says, humming a little with thought. Her heartbeat is slowing from the excitement of the run, and she finds herself replaying the encounter with the ghost over and over. “Maybe…” Harlow says after a moment. “I don’t know much about humans, or any of the two leggeds, honestly. Maybe someone who’s done some research on the surface has some more ideas. But I think a kingdom is a really smart guess.” She lifts her head as she sees the light of the surface again. Some odd mix of dread, hesitance, and aching relief fills her. She wants to rest, of course, but… She’s going to miss being down here. And as she looks at Némo again, she realizes that he’s the first real company she’s had since arriving. She will miss that, too, having someone to talk to. She twitches her ear a little as she tunes back into his question. “I dunno. Maybe it has something to do with the Dungeon?” Harlow suggested. “I mean, with all the bizarre stuff down here, right? Could be some weird magic thing, maybe even a result of whatever happened to them.”

—

Neméos puffs up, a little, at really smart guess. Even Suda hadn't usually told him he was smart, when she had compliments for him. "Maybe," he says, nodding at Harlow's own suggestion. "Yeah! It is... it's hard to imagine the people that built all of this just— disappearing." He scuffs a hoof against the earth, scraping back soil, and green mosses. Beneath, buried, old humanoid flagstones. "Sad, too. It must have been so incredible, back then." His voice is a little wistful, imagining it. As large as the dungeon looms in his dreams, now, it's hard to imagine it even grander, in its prime. "Maybe Galetea was a— a wizard or something, or an curse. Something magic, like you said. A bad guy they were fighting, and—" he stops, frowning a little. "And who beat them, I guess."

—

“Oh maybe. Maybe they’re stuck here then because of their hatred or whatever. Like they died so angry that they couldn’t rest.” Harlow thought for a second, glancing back deeper into the Dungeon. “I wish I could’ve seen it all, back when it was still new. I mean, well. Without whatever they were doing to horses like us at the time.” Harlow instinctively rolled her shoulders at the thought of carrying an armored human on her back with a face of discomfort. “I guess it could also be like… Their god maybe? Like scared and dying and they say a final prayer, before…” Harlow stopped. “Sorry, that one was a little grim,” she huffed, an attempt at an awkward laugh. “I think, whatever it is, it was important to them, though. That feels pretty obvious to me.” Harlow stood at the Dungeon entrance the two had come in when they reached it, pawing with one hoof at the ground as she looked at Némo. “Um, so…” She glanced back out and back to him, unsure how to go about this goodbye. Or if this even was goodbye, really.

—

Neméos tips his head. "I'd like to see it too," he says, softly. And then- belaying the somber tone- his eyes go bright, with a basic, teenage enthusiasm for things that go fast, and run into one another very hard. "I never minded the idea of the knights, though! The-- jousting, and stuff? I've seen tapestries. It's kind of-- I think it's cool! I could probably carry an elf, at least. They look light." He glances at his pack, imagining an armored knight there, instead, lance in hand, banner flying, the thundering of hooves and braying of trumpets. Caught up in this fantasy, he carries on a step or two before realising Harlow has stopped, and turns back to her. Oh-- they'd reached the entrance, again. Sunlight shines on his back, as he looks at her, catching in his golden mane. His ears droop, just a little. "Yeah," he says, "uh." There is an awkward pause. Neméos clears his throat. Don't be weird about it. "Um, thank you! For coming down with me. I." He fidgets, as Harlow does, tail flicking anxiously. "Uh! I would-- would you. Want to delve again? It's fine if not! I can-- I mean, I know... you were gonna form your own party. But. Only if you wanted!"

—

Harlow gives a smile, almost a laugh but not quite, as Némo is musing about carrying a knight. There is something about the way he looks back at himself in consideration that feels foal-like. Not in a way that Harlow would deem immature or cringey, but in a way that feels like an undiluted fascination. “No, I-” Harlow stops trying not to get too flustered or sound too embarrassed. “I mean, I’m a ways off, I think, from having anybody in mind for my party. I wanna make sure they’re people I get along with, y’know? But, um… Yeah, yeah I’d like to. Adventure again, I mean.” She looks away, staring hard at the encampment just outside of the entrance as a means to focus her eyes elsewhere. “If you ever like… Want to find me, I’ve got a spot in the stables up on the east side of camp, just on the edge. I’m usually there most mornings, so… Um, yeah.” Harlow looks at Némo again, briefly. “Anyways, I should. Go lay down, I guess. We can try to find those gem fruits next time, maybe,” She offers another flash of a smile before hurriedly walking off, trying not to look like she was running away from him but absolutely trying to escape the awkward goodbye. Even as she does though, she hopes he’ll come find her another day.