Unlike Mikal, Dunar didn’t know a purification ritual. The Leader relied on his awareness to recognize that he was Afflicted and his pure stubbornness to ignore the voices and false images. He found that talking to himself helped.


    “Don’t listen to them,” Dunar told himself.


    The muscular Frostsworn stopped running and tried to assess his surroundings. Phantoms of his teammates pleaded with him that they were in danger. Flickering images of an ambush danced along his peripheral. Dunar shook his head.


    “Go away!” He ordered.


    With closed eyes, which stopped the images but not the whispering, he opened his pack. Dunar inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.


    “Be in this moment,” he told himself.


    The phantoms and voices remained but were less distracting. Dunar opened his eyes and searched his pack for the map he was drawing before he and his team encountered the cultists.


    “This was where we fought the Cult Leader and her Goreraptors,” Dunar said and tapped a circular chamber that was drawn on his map.


    His finger followed the path they escaped and then the map ended. “The Rune trap was around here,” he stated.


    The voices and phantoms continued to harangue him for ignoring them. They told him he was in danger! Dunar shook his head.


    “I am not,” he responded. He was in a quiet hallway made out of cold stone and dimly lit from the odd pale glowing lines.


    Dunar dug out a blank parchment to copy his current map. He planned to make educated guesses, but he didn’t want to ruin the original. With steady hands, he drew the precise lines as he transcribed the map. Dunar enjoyed map-making and drawing in general. It calmed him, and while he was focused on the exact details, the Affliction faded to the background of his mind.


    Memories replaced the voices. Dunar thought about his parents. His father was a renowned warrior and clan leader. His mother wanted a fierce son who could lead their people. Dunar glanced off to the side as he thought about his father. The man was mostly into himself, and the only time he paid Dunar attention was when Dunar won his first Winter Tourney. Both father and son were fearsome warriors!


    “But they were always ashamed of you,” the voices had returned.


    Unperturbed, Dunar recognized that the curse magic responded to negative emotion. Like a parasite within him it latched onto feelings of inadequacy, fear, and self doubt.


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    “You gave up your dreams in order to make Mommy and Daddy happy,” a condescending voice wailed into his ears.


    Instead of upsetting him, the voices gave Dunar insight. He was always fascinated with art, and later Rune drawing. But, he steered clear from those pursuits because he did want to make his parents happy.


    “It is natural for a son to want the love from his parents,” Dunar reasoned.


    “You envied and hated Mikal for having the freedom to study Runes with the Cold Priests of the Frozen All-Father,” a voice taunted.


    “That was why you bullied him!” Another accused.


    Dunar shook his head. It is true; he felt bad for bullying Mikal. But in all honesty, the dark-haired Healer was an oddity. He was skinny, whereas most Frostsworn were muscular and stocky. Mikal preferred books to hunting and fighting.


    “Just like you!” A voice screeched.


    Despair and self-loathing formed in his chest and threatened to consume Dunar. But, the Leader recognized that it was the Affliction spell that was stirring up the negative emotions. They were not lies, as they were his feelings. But, there was more to Dunar than regret. There was perseverance. He and Mikal were friends. Almost brothers, really. Like any family, they have had their disagreements. In the end, Dunar knew that they would gladly lay down their lives for each other. The Affliction was pushed back and turned into a mere annoyance. Dunar was free to focus back on the map. Something about it caught his attention. There was a pattern to the twisting and turning corridors and passageways.


    “A symmetry, like Rune chains,” Dunar said out loud.


    Even though he spent most of his time studying tactics and combat, Dunar didn’t know Rune magic, but he recognized that the Core Tunnels were shaped in a similar fashion. If he was honest with himself, and if his parents allowed him to pursue his passions, he would be a Rune caster. The voices returned.


    “You are living a lie!” They accused.


    Dunar shook his head. “No, that is not true. There is beauty to combat. I am still an artist.”


    The Frostsworn returned to looking at the map. “If I start a new map, I can make a guess on how to backtrack,” Dunar observed.


    The Leader dug through his pack for a blank parchment. The plan was to walk the hallways and map his progress. Dunar’s hypnotized that he can guess a way back to the door where the Rune trap was triggered. With his battleax in hand, Dunar walked the twisting corridors with multiple passageways and stopped every few paces to map his progress. After a half dozen guesses, Dunar was finally able to link his two maps!


    The Leader stood at the edge of the tunnel and peeked down the corner where they had triggered the Rune trap. Through the doorway, he saw that the room was covered in blood and gruesome body parts. Lying among the macabre scene were two sleeping Goreraptors. Dunar was relieved to see that there were tattered robes among the ripped body parts. The bloody remains belonged to the cultists and were not from his teammates. They managed to escape down one of the dozen passageways.


    “Nothing left to do but to move forward,” Dunar quoted a Frostsworn proverb.


    The Leader picked a passageway and walked down it. Dunar continued to focus on his map-making, and the Affliction curse faded further into the background of his mind. There were sounds of fighting up ahead. Dunar needed to breathe deeply in and out to assure himself that the noise he heard was real and not a part of the curse.


    “You are in trouble now!” A voice said.


    The curse exposed itself, which led Dunar to conclude that the sounds of fighting were real. The Frostsworn warrior packed away his maps and readied his sword and axe as he crept toward the sounds of battle.