In the dungeon, the muggy air swirls slowly. It is dark but not pitch dark as a starless night. On a late summer day, the breezes caress your skin till you fall asleep on the bench at the park. You wake up to realize it’s already past the dusk and you try to figure out the trail home. That kind of dark is the dungeon.
The humidity comes from the vapors that nearly fall back to its liquid form but quickly rise up as gas again. They never escape the dungeon; nor can new water elements come join. The humidity is itself, turning itself into itself time and time again.
The dungeon has been like that for a decade, since the day the goblin came and closed all curtains.