Janarel never did like caves. Something about them just didn't sit well with him--- the darkness, the way the air was always still, the way the stone seemed to press down all around him. Sometimes it felt as if he couldn't breathe. He knew better now, of course; he would stand still and take a few deep breaths, ignoring the stale scent of the place, and right himself again.
Still, he wished they hadn't come here.
Elaniel was already ahead of him, one hand holding aloft the sconce that held the eerie green veilfire she had lit at the mouth of the cavern. The flame flickered, casting sickly shadows along the walls. Her other hand was splayed against one rough-hewn stone wall, braced for balance.