Typhos continues after a sudden stop, speaking a bit more clearly now.
"Rambling, forgive me. The air, here, very poor...smells of death...
Anyway, there are many sorts of deep places in Tristram, places I once ventured in as a child-when I fancied myself a hero...I would escape my many keepers, my family-we were wealthy and we had to be seen a certain way...
I would go Alone.
Only wielding only my tiny little candle to light the way, and a piece of wood sliding fashioned into my sword...every shadow, a lurking monster I would slay to keep my friends safe in the night, every wink of sunlight slanting through the earthen ceiling-for I was not brave enough to go lower, too much of a coward-leading to some great hall filled with lost knowledge, or perhaps a Princess to save, or maybe a mighty Dragon snoozing on his hoard of coins...like in my stories." His words sound almost unbearably sad, melancholic.
"...Childhood dreams always remain distant things, I suppose. I never became a hero. I took the path my family offered, the easier one. Was I a fool to do that, or do I pine needlessly? I, who had so much, without effort-while so many others had so few.
Even now, so many suffer, or linger in darkness as undead, cursed to go without the balm of true sleep-while I am still here, and myself. I should not despair..." His voice trails off, leaving the rumination unresolved.