Using his cane as a bit of support down the stairs, Opium followed, feeling dirt and moisture fill his nose, cool air against his skin. It filled his lungs with this musty, mossy smell like the deep part of the woods or the old wet brick cellars where his plants used to grow.
Opium walked the edge of the room, careful of the mushrooms growing, feeling like the little fungi were taking root in his limbs. When he paused, he turned towards Tracer and easily closed the gap between them. His fingers traced the shape of the god's cheek and he smirked a very old, very knowing smirk in the damp darkness. "Now," he said with some kind of finality in his voice, "tell me what's been troubling you. I can feel it, this thick black mess just... here," he said as his fingers traced over to the center of Tracer's chest.