Gnash ached.

  He and his rats had been through a great deal on this expedition, encounters layered one atop another, leaving no time for rest before the next demand came. There had been new creatures in the heap, strange and dangerous, each one demanding coordination and precision to bring down. Then the collapse. The fall. The chaos that followed. Even now, fine stone dust still hung in the air, making the rats cough and sneeze as quietly as they could manage.

  This place was unknown and had already proven to be dangerous. Gnash held that thought close. It was entirely possible that more Tendril Maw Creepers lurked deeper in the dark, waiting beyond the reach of scent and sound.

  He turned his focus inward, bringing up his mental map. They had fallen far, farther than he would have guessed. It surprised him that his map had been able to capture any of the chaotic descent. Still, with time and patience, he believed they might find a way back to the sunken layer that had given way beneath them.

  He looked over the rats,. They were battered, fur dusted by powdered rock and smeared with the viscera of the creature they had killed. Sling-bags hung heavy at their sides, packed with what they could carry from the creeper’s remains. Each rat had eaten what it could stomach. The taste had been unpleasant, but hunger and uncertainty left little room for preference. They had no way of knowing how long it would take to climb back out of this place if the way back even still existed.

  Gnash did not linger on the thought. Weariness could dull focus, and focus kept them alive. With a low chuff, he began to organize the group. Two of the lightest climbers were sent toward the base of the shaft, their bodies already angling upward as they tested stone and packed debris. Another pair stayed behind them, watching the climb, ears tilted toward every scrape and shift above.

  Gnash turned with the remaining rats and guided them outward, spreading through the nearby dark in careful sweeps. They searched the fallen stone and broken ground for movement, for scent, for anything that suggested they were not alone. Nothing answered them. The cavern stayed quiet, heavy with settling dust and the distant creak of stone.

  Then Gnash caught sight of something else.

  Dark stains streaked the shaft walls, thickened smears where liquid had seeped down from above. It gathered at the base in dozens of narrow rivulets, slow and sluggish, pooling together as it crept across the stone floor. The stream was thick and opaque, moving with sluggish persistence before slipping around scattered rubble and out of sight.

  Gnash followed it, whiskers twitching in interest. The scent was overwhelming, not the stale rot of long buried refuse, but a dense, concentrated decay that spoke of countless things broken down and pressed together. It clung to the air and coated the back of his throat as he tracked the flow.

  The liquid led him to a narrow opening in the stone, a tight passage where the stream vanished into shadow. Faint light glimmered within, the familiar glow of fungus reflecting off damp walls. Beneath the stench lay other scents as well, softer ones, moss and living growth, carried on cool, wet air.

  Gnash paused at the entrance, chest rising slowly as he measured the space. It would be a tight fit for him, and his larger frame, but it was a pathway.

  And it led deeper.

  Gnash emerged from the narrow tunnel coated in the runoff from above, his fur splashed with dark muck. A thick drop slid from the end of one whisker and fell to the ground below. He drew in a slow breath, the passage was narrower than if first appeared. He had been forced to let the air from his lungs to force his way through the final stretch, ribs compressing as stone scraped along his sides. He turned and chuffed sharply, calling the others forward.

  The cavern beyond opened wide around him. It was not the typical bare stone but living growth. Massive mushrooms rose from the floor in pale towers, their caps broad and heavy, their stalks thicker than any he had ever seen The ground beneath his paws gave slightly, spongy with a living patchwork of moss, lichen, and various fungi that wove tangled patterns across the stone. Strange green shoots and soft bladed growths brushed his ankles as he moved, cool and damp, alive in a way the Deep rarely was.

  Gnash looked up. Rope-like vines choked the walls and draped from the ceiling, tipped with heavy blossoms that pulsed with a faint, inner light. Between them, crystals jutted from the stone, casting steady light in soft greens, warm yellows, and pale whites that filled the cavern with a quiet glow. Understanding surged through him in uneven waves as he took it all in. Names and meanings pressed at the edges of his thoughts, his knowledge of the Deep triggering repeatedly, offering fragments faster than he could sort them. The sensation was overwhelming in its abundance, but not alarming.

  He held still long enough to steady himself, then looked back toward the tunnel mouth.

  One by one, the rats squeezed through after him, their fur darkening with the same clinging filth and their eyes bright as they took their first steps into the grotto.

  The rats spread out in cautious arcs, noses low, whiskers brushing unfamiliar growth. They tested the ground before each step, paws sinking slightly into the living mat that covered the stone. Gnash moved among them, slower now, letting his eyes and nose do the work.

  The towering mushrooms drew his attention first. Their stalks were dense and fibrous, resisting the pressure of his claws, more like the worked poles of the kobolds than the thin soft stalks found higher in the Deep. Whatever fed this place made its growths strong.

  A tiny twitch drew his eye to a pale, segmented shape flattened against one of the great stalks. As Gnash focused, the name surfaced with sudden clarity.

  DewBack Hopper.

  The insect was cream colored; its body divided into overlapping sections that hugged the curve of the mushroom. Its whole form blended into the stalk, easy to miss against the fibrous surface.

  Gnash shifted nearer, curiosity pulling him toward the disguised form. The insect twitched at his approach, its stillness breaking.

  Gnash halted at a safe distance, muscles tight, watching for poison, spray, or sudden violence. None came. Instead, the Dewback Hopper seemed to have sensed him and slowly curled its abdomen over its back, releasing a thick liquid that began to grow at its tip.

  The bead grew larger, heavy and translucent, carrying a scent that reached him a moment later. Sweet, earthy, clean and familiar. Recognition stirred, quiet but certain. He eased back a fraction and squeaking softly, signaling caution rather than alarm, eyes never leaving the insect as the sap continued to gather, patient and unthreatening in the glow of the grotto.

  Gnash’s Fortune Increases

  Ability Triggered: Lucky Break

  Gnash’s luck manifests in unexpected discoveries and fortunate events. His keen sense of opportunity has led him to stumble upon the DewBack Hopper, a valuable resource for his colony. With this newfound chance, Gnash can capitalize on similar fortuitous occurrences, enhancing his ability to find beneficial resources and navigate uncertainties.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The scent told him what the liquid was before his thoughts could fully settle around it. This was Nectar of the Deep, the same healing substance they had found sealed in clay vessels back at the colony.

  Gnash reached out, touching the swelling bead with the tip of a claw and drawing back only a trace. As he brought it to his tongue, the taste was thinner here and lacked its usual sweetness, yet the identity was unmistakable. He knew this substance.

  Warmth spread through him, familiar and steady. The sting of small cuts faded. Tightness along his limbs eased as shallow scrapes knit closed beneath his fur. The effect seemed less potent, gentler, taking a moment longer to settle fully into his body.

  They had found the source.

  Gnash took a careful step back, then another, his posture tight with sudden energy. He moved quickly scanning the low growth nearby, pushing through spongy plants and broad fungal fronds. The rats around Gnash hesitated, bodies half raised, whiskers twitching as they tracked his movement. None followed. They watched instead, shifting in place, uncertain.

  Moments later Gnash reappeared, two small mushrooms carried delicately in his teeth. He crossed the short distance at a measured pace, slowed near the creature. With deliberate bites he tore free the soft caps, then gently cupped them together around the swollen bead. The translucent drop stretched, then came away cleanly.

  Gnash carefully inspected the item, the sticky bead of nectar holding the two caps together. He drew one of their last remaining healing bundles from his sling-bag comparing the two. The difference was clear. One plump and damp, the other dry at the edges and slightly sunken.

  The insect relaxed, lowering itself against the stalk. It moved without haste, climbing upward until it slipped into the shadowed folds beneath the mushroom cap and disappeared.

  Gnash turned and displayed the new bundle. Excited chittering rose at once, understanding spreading through the pack in a wave. Rats peeled away in small groups, noses low, bodies light despite their fatigue. Some drifted toward the undergrowth to inspect small clumps of mushrooms, while others searched the stalks for the pale, flattened shapes that hid so well. Those that found something hurried back, guiding Gnash with quick chirrs and eager movements.

  It took time. Careful searching. Patient work. But before long, a small mound of the healing bundles rested in a shallow hollow lined with damp moss. Gnash stood over it, whiskers angled forward, chest steady. They had not only survived the fall. They had found the source of one of their most valuable resources the colony had.

  They had spent an extended amount of time inspecting the grotto. It was slightly smaller in circumference than their hidden cavern home, but boasted a higher ceiling and strange glowing crystals they had yet to encounter elsewhere.

  Apart from the Dewbacks, only plants and fungi claimed the grotto.

  The pack began to test the growths, nosing through the clusters and scraping at their surfaces.

  Some of the smaller growths proved edible. A few caps tore easily, their flesh soft and the taste dull, but filling. The towering fungi were another matter. Their stalks resisted both tooth and claw, dense and fibrous.

  The dewbacks themselves were left undisturbed.

  Gnash watched the DewBack settle back into the gills and folds of the massive caps above, slow and unthreatened. They offered no challenge and asked for nothing, yet they provided something the colony could not afford to lose. This was not a place to strip bare; it was a place to return to.

  With the bundles gathered and the grotto judged, Gnash drew the pack together. The space had given what it would, and he would not push it further.

  Gnash eased himself back toward the narrow opening that led out of the grotto. The stone passage was tight, the walls still slick with the dark runoff that crept along their edges. He watched the last of his rats slip through, their bodies vanishing one by one into the cramped bend beyond.

  At the same pinch point he’d navigated before, he emptied his lungs, ribs drawing inward as he forced himself through, the pressure leaving his chest aching.

  He spilled out onto the cavern floor at last. The rats gathered around him immediately, brushing past, checking him with quick nudges and soft sounds.

  Gnash steadied himself, shook off as much of the sludge as he could, and turned his attention back to the entrance.

  He worked carefully, dragging loose chunks and fallen fragments into place, nudging slabs of stone just enough to break the clean outline of the opening. He didn’t seal it, he was careful of that. The sluggish stream of dark liquid still needed its path. He left a narrow channel open, guiding the flow along its original course so nothing would draw notice by its absence.

  Only when the mouth of the grotto resembled nothing more than another crease in the stone did he finally pull away and lift his head.

  They moved.

  The base of the collapsed shaft waited ahead, just as they had left it. Two rats still lingered there, bodies low and alert. Their posture shifted the moment they caught Gnash’s scent; relief rippled through them, subtle but clear.

  Gnash answered with a low chitter and moved to them. He paused, listening, sampling the stagnant air for any hint of an intruder. No new sounds. No fresh danger.

  That was enough.

  The climb back up began without ceremony.

  It was difficult, to say the least. Loose stone shifted under claw and paw, sending small cascades rattling into the dark below. Gnash signaled the others to climb first. Mindful of how his own weight might unsettle the precarious stones, he watched them ascend—quick and light, testing each hold before committing. Only once they were clear did he follow, slower, choosing each step with care.

  Even so, the shaft resisted him.

  More than once, a ledge gave way beneath his forepaws, crumbling into fragments that clattered into nothing. Each time, the rats froze, bodies pressed flat against the stone until the noise faded. Gnash held himself still, muscles burning, then shifted and found another route upward.

  Progress came in brief, tentative bursts, the hesitations lengthening only when the stone beneath the muck held firm.

  Footing became increasingly difficult as the cavern’s grimy stone gave way to the heap’s saturated debris. Slicks of liquid coated every ledge, trickling down the shaft walls and turning the climb into a struggle against the rising filth.

  By the time Gnash hauled himself over the final broken edge, his limbs shook with strain.

  Ahead, the scouts lingered at the tunnel’s mouth, posture rigid but alert. They glanced back at Gnash often, whiskers twitching in the damp air, their eagerness shown only in the way they crowded the entrance without yet crossing it.

  Gnash dragged himself clear of the shaft and stood, chest heaving, whiskers drooping with exhaustion. The rest of the day blurred into a crawl through the upper tunnels of the heap toward their own borders. They pressed on for hours, navigating the winding ascent until the familiar, narrow cleft of the Colony’s hidden entrance finally appeared.

  They were home.

  The colony was a buzz of activity.

  Rats flooded the passage, drawn by the commotion. Bodies pressed close, brushing against those who had gone below, touching sling bags, sniffing unfamiliar traces clinging to fur and fabric. The return carried energy with it, relief and curiosity bound together.

  Gnash allowed it for a moment, then shifted his weight and gave a steady, grounding rumble. The press eased, the flow of bodies settling into order as instinct and habit reasserted themselves.

  The sling bags were unshouldered. Their contents were brought forward.

  The gelatinous flesh of the Tendril Maw Creeper was received with caution. Rats leaned in, sniffed, recoiled, then edged closer again. A few brave bites were taken, followed by uncertain chewing and visible displeasure. Still, it was accepted. Food was food, even when it was strange.

  The reaction to the bundles was different.

  When the first of the fresh healing wraps was laid out, the rats responsible for stores and sorting froze. They circled it slowly, noses twitching, hovering just above the moss?wrapped surface. The scent was familiar, yet sharper.

  One rat pressed a claw gently into the bundle and drew it back, eyes wide. Another leaned in and sniffed again, longer this time, then flicked its tail in something close to awe.

  More bundles followed.

  A small cluster formed around them, careful and reverent. These were not tucked away at once. They were examined, compared to the older, shriveled stock.

  The difference was clear. These were new.

  Gnash watched from a short distance away.

  He did not intrude. He did not need to.

  The colony was already adapting, already making space in mind and tunnel for what this meant. A living source, far below, hidden and intact. Not something to burn through, but something to guard.

  Eventually, the flow of activity slowed. The rats settled, exhaustion catching up to them now that the danger had passed. Gnash lowered himself onto the stone, muscles aching, and let his breathing steady.

  They had fallen far. They had bled. They had nearly been lost to the dark.

  Instead, they had returned with more than they left with.

  In the Deep, that mattered.

  stone and rock by now. In my defense, the characters are literally surrounded by them.