Now, in a sense that she knows what she’s doing, her midnight ride is a lot less terrifying and she finds herself able to enjoy the beauty of the landscape, even if only for a brief moment now and then between the beats of her heart, which strikes frantically because of a different terror.

Sure. She’s flying to let the dungeon-masters know that it’s time. But what is it time for? She has no idea and the fountain clearly isn’t letting her in on the game, which is of course, worrying. Then again, she’s always worrying about something or another, so what’s one more thing on the ‘keeps her awake at night’ list, right?

Fresh wishes that were true as she soars westward, towards the rising peak of the mountain that she sees. In a sense, it makes her oddly nostalgic, seeing it come up over the horizon. Sure, it was only a month or so ago since they had left it and they had spent about three’ish months there in total. But they were long, rich months full of strong feelings both good and bad. She feels like that past memory is so close, that she could just reach out and touch it with her bare hands. In a way, it feels like a lifetime ago. But relatively speaking, it was essentially, metaphorically, yesterday.

Swooping down, she picks out a flower from a field, one that looks particularly beautiful, before rising back up and into the air.

(Fresh) got: [Teacup-lily](Normal)

Fresh draws closer, flying over the city, flying over the glint of glass pointed up towards the sky and even if she knows she shouldn’t, Fresh waves, hoping that the kind magistrate is doing well and that his own quest to lighten the world is moving along.

The broomstick flies down lower, down and over past the craftsman’s plaza that she had mostly neglected to ever visit, down through the tunnel in the rock that is empty at this time of night and straight into the dungeon-gate.

Now what?

Fresh floats there, inside of the western-dungeon, looking at the familiar small river and crystalline passage that makes up the entrance. There’s no Mr. Mushroom here and she feels like the kobolds won’t be too accommodating to her.

Actually…

Fresh blinks, looking down at her broom. With her broom, she could just fly above the monsters in the dungeon and curse them, staying safely out of their reach until they die, unable to do anything about it. She won’t have to run around in circles anymore. She won’t need Jubilee or Shamrock or Basil, she can power-level herself.

If she were so inclined.

Fresh lifts her eyes, looking around again. “Hello? Excuse me?” she calls out into the dungeon, hoping that the entity can hear her like the one in the east could, when Basil and herself visited it. “Uh… Charcuterie?” she guesses. “Is anyone ho-IAH!” Fresh yelps in terror as a face pops out of the ground, simply floating through it as if it were swimming to the surface of the ocean.

“PERCHTA!” yells a deep, booming voice and seemingly overjoyed voice. A hand shoots through the ground, snapping its fingers. A second later, the floor beneath her vanishes, leaving only a giant hole.

“Uh…”

“Hold on, uh, agh!” The thing grunts and swears to itself as it pulls itself out of the ground it had phased through like a ghost, before reaching the top and dusting itself off. It looks like the other dungeon-masters, but this one carries a ruby red tinge. “How’s it going?” asks the thing, it grabs onto her broom and pulls itself up onto it in front of her. Fresh lets out a surprised sound, trying to keep the broom steady as it clambers up, as if they were on a rowboat threatening to tip over.

Fearfully, she looks down at the hole beneath them.

Sitting itself down, the entity, Charcuterie, she supposes, points down at the pit. “Let’s go! I got food on the stove!” it says.

“Oh, uh, sure,” says Fresh, flying down into the dark hole. The lantern begins to glow, illuminating the way through the solid rock and ice of the mountain. “Here, this is for you,” she says, reaching forward with a hand and giving it the flower she had plucked on the way.

“Ah, you’re as thoughtful as always,” it says, taking the flower from her. Fresh beams, seeing it accept her gift. Though she finds her smile becoming a little less intense as the creature opens its mouth, which seems to grow far too wide and has far too many sharp, dagger-like teeth. It eats the flower, shoving it inside of itself.

“Uh… I was told to say ‘hi’ from uh… from the north,” says Fresh, not knowing the name of the northern dungeon-master.

“That blue snoozer? Ah, I bet he wants me to send him another gift-basket. Well, it has been a hot minute since we last met up.”

“Anyways, I uh, I didn’t mean to stay long,” says Fresh. “I just wanted to let you know that it’s about time.”

“Ah! Don’t be like that!” it says, looking over its shoulder towards her. “You’re the first visitor I’ve had in ten years!” it argues. Fresh nods. She supposes she has a little time to stay. She doesn’t want to be rude, after all.

The two of them reach the bottom of the dungeon after a time of flying and then get off of the broom, stepping into a familiar white-void, that all of the dungeon-masters seem to have one of.

“Come in, come in!” it says. Fresh yelps as it grabs her hand and drags her after it. “Still got that curse, huh?” it asks her, dragging her through an invisible door. It’s apparently far less interested in the usual social decorum. “Must be rough.”

“Yeah, uh…” Fresh tilts her head. “I’m used to it.”

“Sit!” it insists, pulling a chair out of seemingly nowhere. It’s entirely white and colorless, like in the home of the eastern dungeon-master.

“Thank you,” says Fresh, sitting down. “So,” she starts, looking around the room. It’s time for some small-talk before going home, she supposes. “How’s it been going?”

“Oh, you know,” says the thing, pulling out a box and shaking it. Fresh narrows her eyes, looking at it. It’s a wooden box, like the eastern dungeon-master had its tea in. “Just keeping the world running,” it explains. “It’s such a pain in the ass though,” sighs Charcuterie. “I wish they’d all just be a little more considerate, you know?” it asks. Fresh nods, assuming it means the people of the city above. “Anyways, you look good for someone who died,” it says, pulling out a tea-cup.

“I die a lot, actually,” says Fresh.

“Oh, sure, sure. Don’t we all?” it asks. “I had two people beat my dungeon this year,” it explains. “Though, maybe I did go a little easy on them,” it sighs, looking at the chicken-engraved tea-box and stroking it with its thumb. It shakes its head, looking at her. “You’ve always been a bad influence on me, you know?” it asks. “I can’t help but feel like you made me soft.” The entity shrugs, taking a pot off of the stove, before getting the tea ready. Fresh scratches her cheek, having the oddest sense of déjà vu. “I’m surprised you still want to go through with it, honestly. I heard the others left?” it asks.

“Yeah,” replies Fresh, looking around the kitchen. “Gauden and Spillaholle went south.”

“Those two never had the heart for it, tell you what,” notes the entity. “One little set-back and they gave up the ghost. Maybe your curse isn’t so bad, honestly,” it suggests. “Being too smart, knowing too much can be bad for you in a lot of ways,” explains Charcuterie, tapping its head.

“I like it here,” says Fresh. “The world isn’t perfect, but I’m still happy with what I’ve found and made, you know?” she asks, taking the tea-cup that it sets down for her. “Thank you.”

“You’re a dreamer. That’s probably why Yovel liked you,” replies Charcuterie. Fresh tilts her head, sipping her hot tea. It’s some kind of root blend. Another name that she doesn’t know. She’s certainly landed in the middle of some odd conspiracy here.

“Anyways. Ten years, huh? Has it really been that long?” it asks, almost melancholically as it stares up to the ceiling.

“I suppose so,” replies Fresh. “Time flies, huh?”

“Time flies. I’m surprised you took it so personally, honestly,” says Charcuterie. “It’s not like you to hold a grudge for so long, Perchta. The Yovel thing must’ve really got you too, huh?” Fresh tilts her head.

“I mean. I get it. I’m still mad about that too,” replies Charcuterie, emptying its teacup with its second gulp. The entity gets up and pours itself another. “But that you’d go after the hero, after ten years? It’s really not like you and I don’t think it’s what Yovel would have wanted.” Fresh blinks. The hero? Ten years ago? “It seems a little heavy?” it asks. “He did kill you, but the new guy doesn’t have anything to do with that,” says Charcuterie, looking down at the tea-box on the table.

Fresh looks down at the child-like engravings on the box. Chickens, drawn by an unskilled artist. But the entity runs its hands over it, as if it were a precious thing, while waiting for her answer.

“I didn’t want to do that,” she says. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s happening anymore,” admits Fresh. “But things are getting really complicated and I’m just trying to stay above water.”

“Poor choice of words,” says Charcuterie, dryly.

Fresh blinks, not sure what it is that she said. “Sorry,” she apologizes, just to be safe. She empties her tea-cup, setting it down. “Anyways. I have to go. The night is going to end soon and I still have a stop to make,” she sighs, hoping that her friends aren’t worrying about her. “Thank you for having me,” says Fresh, getting up and grabbing her broom, looking at the entity.

It almost seems sad about her leaving.

“Uh, let’s do this again soon, okay?” she asks, trying to do something about that glum expression. “I’ll bring something to eat and we can make an evening out of it.”

That seems to do the trick. “Just like old times, huh?” it laughs. “Sure, we can do that.”

Fresh nods and the dungeon-master of the western-dungeon, Charcuterie, nods back. There isn’t any pact or anything like that. It had already been sealed long ago, during the forming of an older friendship that Fresh knows nothing about.

“Thank you for having me,” says Fresh. “Goodbye!” She waves to the entity as she flies towards the shortcut and then out of the dungeon.

Taking the other tunnel through the mountain, she looks at a very familiar house from outside, staring at the warm light that shines from the windows and the small, but growing silhouettes that run around behind it, bathed in the glow.

There’s a small sign by the door. ‘Dungeon Coughee Inc. Open from sun-rise to sun-down’.

Fresh beams, feeling a combined sense of relief and pride as she shoots out of the tunnel, heading to the last dungeon left on her list, before she can finally go home. At the very least, she’s interested in seeing what it looks like. Even if she would much rather be at home.

Thankfully, this ordeal, whatever it is, is almost over.