Sær and Priscilla trod through the thick forest, snapping twigs and branches that litter the forest floor. (And logs, in Priscilla's case.)

The beaten path gives way to trodden soil, which quickly gives way to a thick blanket of debris. The sturdy, pliant shoes Priscilla had bought in Majula even out her footfalls, the leather protecting her from any pesky roots planning to nab her again.

The two travel in companionable silence, the only speech to be heard a sigh or the occasional grunt of exertion. The forest floor dips and rises, and shortly after the fourth hill the rocks are no longer jagged, but hewn and smooth. Ornately carved pillars lie toppled, moss growing over the intricate engravings.

A loud hoot startles the pair, emanating from a hollow space partially covered by a crumbling statue. Sunlight glints off of Priscilla's pendant, catching the eyes of one very tired horned owl.

"Hullo," Priscilla says, waving.

The owl jerks its head back indignantly, tucking it's head under it's wing angrily.

"Are all owls this grumpy?" Priscilla whispers.

"You woke him up," Sær replies. The owl peeks it's head up.

"The ones in Ariamis were much nicer," Priscilla huffs loudly.

The owl treats her to an ear-peircing screech for her sass.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a quick lunch of dried venison, the two set off once more. The forest slowly gives way to dense jungle, bamboo lining each side of the mossy cobblestone path. Large stone braziers light themselves as the pair approach, all at once lighting the entire path. At the end, several hundred yards down, the mouth of a cave looms tall, the stalagtites and stalagmites sticking out like teeth. The bamboo leaves shroud it in partial shade, and eyes hewn into the rock light with fire as they draw close.

The cobblestone grows cleaner, brighter, and neater the closer they get. By the time they reach the entrance of the cave, the stone is crisp and sharply angled, laid perfectly symmetrical. The braziers have freshly cut wood and kindling in them, and the bowls aren't as stained with ash.

Sær kneels down, running his hand over the newly cut stone. "This is from Darkroot Quarry," he says slowly. "This kind of stone isn't found anywhere else."

"So...?" Priscilla asks, tilting her head.

"The stone-cutter there hasn't worked in well over a hundred years, and the quarry has been closed for two hundred. There is still stone dust on it, as well," Sær says a chill running down his spine. "It's impossible, but... These are new."

The fur on Priscilla's tail bristles, her nerves thoroughly rattled.

Suddenly an eerie, ghostly moan whistles through the mouth of the cave, and Priscilla jumps back, drawing her scythe and trembling.

"It's okay, it's okay!" Sær says, his hands up in a placating gesture. "A lot of tombs have whistles carved into the rock, so potential thieves are scared off."

Priscilla stands up a little straighter. "If theives were such a worry, then that means they must have been buried with..." The pair look at each other excitedly.

"Treasure!" They cry in unison.

"Maybe they will have jewelry!" Priscilla exclaims.

"Or gilded daggers!" Sær says giddily.

"Or vases!" Priscilla adds.

"Or diamond anklets!" Sær says.

Priscilla looks at him quizzically.

"What?" Sær says defensively. "Men can wear anklets too."

Another windy groan from the mouth of the cave snaps them to attention. Without a word, the two grasp each other hand in tail and step into the cavern.

Outside, an owl hoots sadly.

* * *

The cave-crypt is hot and humid, the occasional gusts of breeze doing little to ease the pair's discomfort. Priscilla uses frost breath every so often, but even that fails to keep the oppressive moisture from clinging to their skin.

The magical braziers become few and far between, eventually becoming mere specks in the distance. Priscilla hoists her scythe up high, bathing the cave in a greenish-blue light. The glow makes her face look elegant but eerie, her face even paler in the dim rays.

They plod forth monotonously, their footsteps making a drum beat, a marching song for their journey.

Priscilla squints, struggling to make out the next brazier. She is so focused, in fact, that she fails to notice Sær calling out to her. Suddenly, she yowls in anguish as pain races through her tail and up her spine. She whips around angrily to find Sær clutching the long appendage, but before she can voice her displeasure, he points ahead.

Priscilla turns to find her feet grazing the edge of a vast chasm, so deep she can scarcely make out the bottom until Sær hurls a fireball down it. After a frighteningly long drop, the flame explodes into a flash of fire, and the pair can make out naught but sharp wooden spikes adorned with the remains of would-be trespassers.

Priscilla looks at the far edge of the chasm, sighing sadly. "I suppose we should turn back, dear," she says dejectedly.

"Not so fast, you wimpy wyvern," Sær chides. "The crypt keepers had to get around somehow, right? There has to be a way across."

Priscilla nods, surprised at her husband's foresight, and the two look around for a way across.

After half an hour of a fruitless search, the two sit upon the cold stone floor, disheartened. Suddenly, the whistling, moaning wind picks up, and the jangling of a chain echoes through the chasm. Sær stands, summoning a ball of flame in his palm and hurling it across.

The orange light glints off of a dangling rusty chain as the flame sails by. A large handle is affixed to it, and it is evident by the grimy coating that it has not been used in some time. Sær sighs dejectedly. "That's way to far. I guess we'll have to go home after all. Let's go, Priscilla."

Upon hearing no response, he whips his head around to see her walking away. Before he can catch up, however, she turns around swiftly, steps into a lunge with her rump out, tail in the air, and suddenly launches towards the chasm.

"Priscilla, wait!-"

With a short hop, Priscilla lands on both feet and launches herself through the air, letting the momentum from her sprint send her soaring. Deftly sliding her scythe from it's sheath, she hurls through the air, and the blade hooks through the handle on the chain.

Just as she begins to fall, she grabs the shaft, dangling dangerously over the daunting precipice.

A mighty groan echoes through the cave, an the walls to the hole move inward. Scraping stone shifts and rumbles before finally the two walls come together with a deep, resounding CLACK! sealing the chasm.

Priscilla gracefully slides down, unhooking her scythe and landing on the newly made bridge. She stands with her hands in front of her waist, grasping her scythe. She tries to act calm and collected, but the hopeful gleam in her eyes betrays her, showing that she is itching for praise.

Sær merely stands there, mouth agape. "Wow," he breathes. "That was... Incredible."

Priscilla beams. "Truly? You are not being sarcastic?

"No," Sær says with a wry smile. "Because you just sealed my

sar-chasm!"