Eleven and a half dancing princesses.

We were coming from dark and headed towards dark and our eyes adjusted quickly, but you could still get lost in those tunnels. Carved by dragons was the rumor, and, overwhelmed by the blackness and the stench of sulfur, it was hard not to believe. I'd heard them called wyrmholes by those who lived before us and those who would come after, for sometimes we'd cross paths in those places that wound beneath time. Greeks smelling of blood and honey, eyes full of ghosts and hands dripping from sacrifice. A party of feathered, dreaming Celts. Groups of fearful men and women sucking in air from behind glass helmets. Endless chains of dwarves. It was easy to stand and stare. Easier still to lose the thread of your own tale, and I'd seen evidence. The trick was to cling to yourself--to any goal or deed or triviality. To a half-eaten dinner or your thin-soled shoes, to the men waiting in boats at the end of the trail or the man you left for dead in your bedroom. And with them needle your way downwards or outwards or wherever you chose.