Facts of life in the caves were simple ones, easy to learn and hard to forget; a few were just common sense once someone lived long enough to get a halfway decent read of how the place operated and bothered to acknowledge that all things important didn't begin the moment their chrysalis spat them out. This one in particular could be realized by the traces of past lives any Gembound could see or stumble upon: relics, drawings, and ruins—dusty and in the most dire condition with no one left to maintain them. For those of the current era, they were not the first to make their mark and would likely be far from the last. Best not to dwell too long on how their own generation might meet its end.

The stretch between Orion and Polaris used to be a popular route. That much could be gleaned from the state of its floor, rock worn smooth by passers-through, and the lighting rather too bright for a route frequented more by ghosts than anyone whose soul was still anchored to its flesh casing. A time ago, no doubt, the tunnel would've echoed with the thumps and shuffles of many feet. The crowd to which those belonged might have bustled about their busy days and personal dramas, heedless of the end lurking beyond their limited foresight. Now the noises were humbler, driven more by instinct than purpose as tunnel runners roved and flying pitch rats fluttered back to their homes to roost.

But occasionally the new and exciting broke up the monotony. What could have been the sound of beating bat wings might happen to originate from a source less common than the typical Lesser. In this case, it was pages flipped by a careful talon. And before that it'd been the bird himself landing in the middle of the tunnel, clutching the leatherbound book he currently had opened..

Of all the sketches he browsed, no surprise the first was what he returned to when finished idly flicking from the front cover to the back and over again. This, after all, had been what his elusive Narrator had referred to the last time they'd seen fit to comment on the so far barren state of his endeavors. Chasing metaphors as much as concrete evidence and coming up empty, his wary self seemed to have been offered the most blatant of hints to keep the game going.

Time to begin testing if "carving" was either clever wordplay or entirely lacking in deception.

Short in stature, small compared to the wide sprawl of the elaborate depiction before him, to take in the scene all at once would be impossible. Preferring to keep to the ground to begin with, East paced along its length, head craning back to sweep over the details much higher upon the wall. Every so often he retreated to the book and referred back to what was inked within. The task might've been tedious, but necessary to ensure the image remained ingrained and accurate.

Circles of a more abstract nature he'd long discarded on the mysterious voice's insight. Perhaps a more literal example could be found hidden amongst these lines etching an unknown tale into stone.

@Humphry

CRIME NOIR

THE RINGS

The carvings held their own stories--their own scenes--carefully etched into every stretch of the wall, here. Some seemed merely to be idle sketches, ground into the stone with little skill or care; others had tried to preserve, in perpetuity, events that the carvers must have deemed important.

"...But though the walls were worth a visit, they held no sign of the rings that our hero sought." There was a pause, one pregnant with presence--and emotion; thoughtfulness? Disappointment? "But was 'hero' the right word for him..? Our dark protagonist. Determined to follow his path alone, to pursue age-old hints into potential danger without the benefit of allies... nor their wisdom." Another pause. "Hmm."

The voice, echoing with its quiet speech throughout the tunnel, continued. "A riddle, then; something to ponder, while our champion refuses aid, searching on his own merits, wandering from cave to cave with blind hope. Or perhaps... he feels no hope; and that is why he goes alone? Ahh, but the riddle. What do a black cat, a black and white cat, and a cat cloaked in stone, have in common?" This hung in the air for a beat, in silence. "...What do a little spider, and a little bug, have in common? What do an owl with stars in its eyes, and a black owl with horns atop its head, have in common... And what do the furred little beasts with feathered wings share? What, one might wonder... did the lion and the stag, shining white, have to do with the forgemaster with violet horns, and the silver fox at their feet? And why did the three-headed hound stand guardian above it all?"

This slow speech fell silent, musing, once again. There was no sign as to whether it was genuinely some sort of riddle, or a hint, or something else altogether. The Narrator offered nothing to help decipher it.

@East