Demure shied as a book flew straight at her head. 

“They were wrong, words can hurt me.” Remington quipped as a hardcover tome collided with his bay flank.

Mere minutes ago, the party had been plodding down a stone corridor, talking quietly amongst themselves. They had been walking for close to an hour, and were itching for some action. Well, they sure had found it. Doors on the side of the corridor had opened into a massive library, which Cash led the party through. Despite the many shelves, books were few and far between-- which was good, as the ones that were left immediately started flying at the three coursers, attacking them with leather binding and paper pages. Some books had runes carved into leather covers, some were made of brittle paper with fraying edges, some looked as if they had been preserved in a glass case, with crisp pages and pristine covers. Cash unsheathed his Harvester’s Scythe, and the books scattered, retreating far shelves and tucking themselves away. A few stray pages floated around the coursers, who exchanged a look. The glowing orange blade scared off the books… but why? Suddenly the hair on Cash’s back went up. Something was behind him. Watching. Waiting. Ears pinned, Cash turned around. So did Demure and Remington, they could sense it too. Before them was the Harvester, the grim reaper of the dungeons. 

“I thought he was a myth.” Cash whispered, voice hoarse. He looked up, green eyes meeting the Harvester’s glowing triangle ones. The Harvester’s wide jack-o-lantern grin cracked open.

“Do not mind me, coursers. I am not here to harm you. Not today, at least. Come along, Stu.” They motioned to their scarecrow companion, who moved forward, scanning the shelves. The scarecrow’s stick hands clasped around a thick book, one with a pumpkin engraved on the cover. The book looked like it had been through hell and back, with a charred cover and hoof prints all over. It almost looked like someone had tried to destroy it. Tried-- and failed. As the scarecrow passed the coursers on his way back to his master, he looked up at them.  His burlap mouth curved into a soft smile, he pulled three seed pouches from his overalls, and handed one to each courser. With that, the two beings turned, and walked off down the dungeon corridor. Cash felt his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.. Most who met the Harvester -- and lived to tell the tale -- did not speak kindly of the usher of the afterlife. The three coursers were lucky to be alive.