Walt's legs quivered as he took another step, his hand against the cold, rough rock of the wall. He looked up at the dark ceiling, tears in his eyes. He turned and put his weight on the wall, slowly sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor, his knees still up in front of him. It was cold, it was dark and it was damp. His green eyes were strained from trying to find his way through the dark for days and still could see nothing in any direction. He took a second to listen for something. Silence for one second. His heart beating the next. As he worried something was listening to him, his heart got louder and louder. The sound echoed down the long, thin hall, bouncing off the rocks that made the walls, floors and most likely, the unseen ceiling. He controlled his breath to slow and quiet his heart. Still silent. Nothing was around. Nothing to hear him. So he put his head in his bloody hands and cried.

It was just after his 22nd birthday that Walt first arrived at this place. He was given a sword, a horse and with them the chance to do something. His village wasn't the worst, they farmed, lived and were happy, but they were the kind to stay there and be peaceful. A sword for combat, a horse for travel, many of the villagers hadn't even seen them before. But he wanted to go places, learn things. Walt left with little more than a lantern, two weeks worth of food, the clothes off his back and a book and ink set to draw what he saw and to help him learn to read. He had first learned about the lands far away when a traveling prince came through and a monk dropped a book behind him. None in the village could read, but Walt became fascinated with what he saw. He held that book, from when the town council threw it away 12 years ago to the day it fell apart months before his current predicament. While he never was sure that what he read from the book was what it really meant or sounded like, he was sure that it was an important learning tool.

But once he lost the only book he had ever seen, he wanted more. And he wanted to learn what they really said, how to read and write. So for his birthday, his family sold some of their crop and bought him a sword and a horse, and they sent him out to find what he dreamed of. But only a day and a half into his journey, he came to wooden door leading down into a grassy field and hear muffled screaming. He felt it would be wrong not to enter and attempt to help.

He didn't stop crying until his head felt like it could split, his eyes had gone dry and he could barely breath because of the humidity in the room. It was night again. He could tell when night came because the entire structure he was in got soaked in water, the walls, the floors, you could hear the ceiling drip and you could freeze if you didn't have something to keep it off. Walt looked down at his brown and gray clothing. Everything was behind a blurry screen, but he could still see his out-of-shape, stringy body, his frayed pouch, nearly falling apart at the seems and his water skin, leaking steadily. He sighed. It must have started leaking while he was crying, since he hadn't heard the dripping before. He stood. His legs were still unsteady and the world seemed off balance. He put his hand on the empty hilt at his side and hoped his horse was alright. He continued down the hall, keeping his hand on the wall. The shuffle and flop of his leather boots combined with the drips from the ceiling and his water skin would have driven him mad yesterday and maybe even this morning, but he doesn't even notice now. He's not even sure he has sanity left to use.

Minutes go by and he tries not to think of anything that's happened. Hours go by and his legs lose and regain strength. The night goes by and he's ready to collapse when he finally reaches the end of the hallway. A wooden door leading up. The very door he's been looking for since he got here. He opens it inward and pile of dead spider carcasses collapse on him. He flails and stands again, surrounded by dead spiders of all kinds. It's too dark to tell them distinctly apart, but there are light ones, dark ones, big ones, small ones, even a few that died with egg sacks on them. He looks, still hopefully, through the door. He sees another room, this one has a dim glow, possibly from a nearby torch or a campfire further into the room. It has items, such as clothes and dead rodents, hanging on makeshift racks and shelves from what he can see. He takes a swig from his water skin, takes a bite of bread, ruffles the spiders out of his hair and climbs up into the door.