The dungeons were perhaps among the less-than-likely locations one might find Emrys Bateman, after, of course, large gatherings, raucous hallways conversations, close quarters with pretty girls and, of course, a sporting field.

But in the dungeons he was, robe pulled tightly around him. It wasn't cold, necessarily, but he shivered all the same. He was just looking for a quiet place to gather his thoughts, after that disaster of a seminar, and the dungeon was about as far as you could get from the towers without going outside.

A single curl fell across Emrys' forehead as he paced back and forth, arms crossed in front of his chest as if he could hug warmth to himself.

Damp. That's what the dungeons were. Damp. And probably mildew-y.

This self-loathing thing was going to be murder on his allergies.