I have spent the last year living in a cave. I am used to dirt. I am comfortable with moss. I have come to accept that "damp" is just a texture of air.
I was not prepared for clean.
The hallway we were limping down was offensive. The floor wasn't stone; it was a grate of dark, matte metal that didn't creak. The walls were paneled in seamless black glass that reflected our miserable, mulch-covered reflections. The air didn't smell like rot or spores. It smelled like... nothing. It smelled like recycled static and ozone.
It was dry. Violently dry. It sucked the moisture right out of my eyes and made my scales itch.
"I hate it," Splitjaw grumbled. He was leaning heavily on me, his good leg skidding on the smooth grating. "It's too quiet. Where is the dripping? A dungeon is supposed to drip."
"Maybe the plumbing actually works down here," I muttered, adjusting my grip on his harness. "Come on. Keep moving. If we stop, we stiffen up."
