The Hintertombs had been described as unceremonious catacombs filled with poison and death, but in Balyn's experience the rest of the "labyrinth of the gods" wasn't much better. If these ancient Pthumerian tombs were where the fallen society had once served and worshipped the sleeping Great Ones, then Balyn felt at least part of the eldritch madness that separated the Great Ones' cosmic intelligence from bestial human idiocy was that they'd evolved beyond any taste in bedroom décor.

"Seriously," he muttered, looking at the human-sized statues of the Messengers that stood scattered around the room, some depicted carrying lanterns on long poles and others just staring with long-faced open mouths (which honestly looked more like Pthumerian faces, as if the artist was putting a little too much of themselves into their work), "instead of seeking the wisdom of the Great Ones, somebody around here ought to have been seeking a half-decent interior designer. Ugh!"

He headed towards the nearest door at a swift pace, hoping forlornly that perhaps the next room might feature better aesthetic sensibilities, when he felt the floor start to shift beneath his feet.

Not again! he thought, remembering the time a weak floor had given way and dumped him into a rat-infested sludge pit, but this time his foot only sank down an inch before being once again firmly supported, almost as if he had stepped on a…pressure…plate…

Ancient gears, poorly maintained by the Watchers, jangled off to his left almost like a ringing bell, alerting Balyn to the direction of the danger. He flung himself back as a flaming arrow exploded from the mouth of one of the lurking Messenger statues. The arrow missed, passing right in front of him to shatter on the far wall.

Unfortunately, when he jumped back, he landed right on another plate.

This time, the telltale ringing came from straight ahead, and he flung himself to the left. He wasn't quite as fast this time, and the arrow clipped his side, carving along his ribs with the barbed point and scourging flame. Balyn staggered in pain—right onto another pressure plate.

The third arrow hit him squarely in the back with more than enough force to pierce his caped greatcoat, leather-belted vest, linen shirt, underclothes, spine, and heart.

~X X X~

"Welcome home, good hunter."

Balyn groaned. This was not an expression of pain or even exhaustion; the hunter's body was restored to a fully healthy condition every time he woke up in the Hunter's Dream following death. But he groaned anyway; sometimes frustration just got the better of a man.

"What is it you desire?" the Doll continued.

"Maybe a little more light? Apparently I need to keep a closer eye on the floor. Only, I can't hold my gun while I have a lit torch, and I've got enough problems with the things in that labyrinth while fully armed, let alone if I start taking away weapons."

From the bath where they ran a shop, a couple of Messengers held up a hand lantern that could be hooked onto a belt for convenient hands-free illumination. Balyn's response to this helpful offering was not, however, what they might have expected.

"Aha! Now I understand! First you create the problem, and now you sell me the solution. Well, you won't catch me so easily! I'm wise to your tricks!"

He whirled on his heel and stalked off towards the tombstone where he'd performed the Chalice ritual unlocking the labyrinth, and was whirled away to Pthumeru once more, eyes bright with a fierce determination not to fall prey to the lure of paying his way past his frustration.

The bath Messengers looked over at the Doll in confusion. She offered a shrug in response.

"I am sorry, but I am coming to believe that no amount of insight is sufficient to explain the eldritch mystery of the good Hunter's thought processes."

~X X X~

A/N: Apparently, one of the foul, eldritch monstrosities venerated in elder Pthumeru was AAA videogame publisher monetization strategies. Truly, a horror poor human brains are too fragile to contemplate.