Durnan Oreseek would insist until the end of his days that the stone had *already* been planning to fall long before he touched it. The city inspector disagreed, but that was because the city inspector had never listened to stone for a living. The Underways were quiet that morning — a good sign — although the quiet had a particular *tilt* to it, like a drunk bard trying to pretend he wasn’t leaning on a chair. The air smelled of cold iron and wet moss. Fine cracks spidered along the ceiling in patterns only dwarves or unfortunate masons appreciated. “See there?” Durnan said, gesturing to a very normal-looking wall of granite. “Minor stone realignment. Happens all the time. Perfectly safe.” Slappy Blackscales ducked under a support beam that absolutely did not require ducking under and tilted her head. “That stone is glaring at you.” “Stone doesn’t glare, Slappy.” “This one is,” she replied. “Looks like it wants to fall on your head.” “That’s just the weight distribution.” “Weight distribution wants to kill you, then.” Before Durnan could respond, a wet scraping sound echoed from behind them. Irongut Anvilfoot, squatting near the wall, was hunched over something pale and lumpy growing between two loose stones. “Durnan,” Irongut said, voice low and reverent. “Durnan, my friend… look at this fungus.” Durnan winced. “Don’t eat anything that glows, Irongut.” “It’s *barely* glowing.” The dwarf plucked it from the crack. It pulsed once, as if insulted. “Put that down,” Durnan said. Irongut sniffed it. “Smells like bad cheese. Bad cheese is still cheese.” Slappy lumbered over. “If it glows, and if it smells like cheese, and if it grows on a wall that wants to fall on us — it is probably a grenade.” That was when the ceiling shifted. Not in the slow, dignified way stone sometimes rearranges itself. No — this was the kind of shift that meant: *You have touched the wrong thing, and the stone is about to express an opinion.* “Right,” Durnan said. “Everyone take three steps back.” Slappy took one step forward and punched the wall. “Slappy!” “Thought it would help!” It did not help. The rock face let out a grinding groan like an angry god clearing its throat, then the ceiling above them cracked into a neat, horrifying lattice. “MOVE!” Durnan barked. The three dwarves sprinted, Slappy half-dragging Irongut — who was still clutching the glowing fungus — while Durnan grabbed the nearest support timber, trying to brace the collapsing arch. Stone rained from above, each chunk hitting with the sound of a drunk ogre falling down tavern stairs. Dust filled the chamber. The ground trembled. And then, as the last slab fell and the echo settled… something else moved. Deep in the newborn cavity behind the collapsed wall, a shape stirred. Not stone. Not air. Slappy squinted into the darkness. “That cave wasn’t empty.” From the dust emerged a long, skittering limb. Then another. And another. Eight in total. The creature’s eyes reflected their lantern light in a pattern Durnan did not enjoy contemplating. A giant subterranean spider, half-starved and twice angry. “I knew the fungus was edible,” Irongut whispered. “It’s not edible for *you!*” Durnan snapped. Slappy raised her maul. “I call punching it!” “Please don’t punch it,” Durnan said. Slappy charged. A battle of questionable strategy and abundant enthusiasm erupted in the cramped tunnel. Slappy swung with the unstoppable confidence of someone who has never let geometry inconvenience her. Irongut headbutted the creature with the fervor of a man still trying to hold onto his snack. Durnan tried to collapse the stone behind the spider to limit its movement, only to realize the stone was still mad at him. Minutes later, the spider lay defeated, Slappy’s maul planted triumphantly in its thorax. Irongut sat on a rock, chewing the glowing fungus (it did not stop pulsing), and Durnan leaned against the wall trying to calculate how many forms the city guard would require after this. A heavy quiet settled. Then the quiet ended in the form of armored boots. A patrol of Neverwinter guards stood at the tunnel entrance, staring at the wreckage. The leader pinched the bridge of his nose. “What,” he asked in a long, suffering exhale, “happened here?” Durnan cleared his throat. “Minor stone realignment.” Slappy nodded. “Perfectly safe.” Irongut held up the glowing fungus. “Would you like a bite?” The guard collapsed the report form he was holding, slowly, deliberately. “This,” he said, “is why we have paperwork.” Later, in the Ledger, the Soul Bearer wrote: > Three dwarves ventured where stone and silence brood. > One punched, one ate, one reasoned. > The stone will forgive them eventually. > The city guard will not.