A fortnight of traversing the thick woods coats the small band of teens. Faces smeared with dirt, and the pungence of strain seeming yo radiant in cartoonish waved lines about them. They slowly shuffle down the embankment to the trail way leading into the dark tunnel, the largest of the boys sliding down on his butt first, and aiding his smaller companions.

Skip, the largest, is barrel chested and thick handed. The sheer force with which he lifts his tiny companion, with interlocked wrists, an attestation to the power he possess. In stark contrast, he immediately shuffles forward and reaches well up the embankment, taking the dainty hand of the first of his female companions, a waif of a thing with chocolate hair knotted atop her head. As she finds a footing and hops down, again Skip reaches up, placing a firm hand on the lower back of his second companion, knowing she needs to help in her climb down backwards, but still ensure a safety net.

George, the smaller boy, is mousy and adroit. He creeps about the landing space and eyeballs the tunnel as if expecting something to jump out of it. He seems even more diminutive than normal when standing beside the 30 foot retaining wall, like a hobbit hiding from the ring wraiths. He scours the inlet l, examining plants, and stone for anything of use.

Trysta is a little worse for the wear than the rest. Her olive skin wears creases, deep and dark, telling the story of a fortnite with insufficient water. Her skin seems taut atop her slender frame, as if wringing every drop of water out of the muscle and restricting movement as she settles herself on the low wall of the right side.

“Nik, you good?” Trysta rasps over her shoulder, clearing the cobwebs in the throat as he legs dangle nearly a foot off the ground. Two heavy feet rumble into place beside her as Nik hops down the last inches of her descent, and Skip vacates his assistance, assured she will land safely. She is a thicker woman, with wide hips and broad shoulders. Her fiery red hair hold on, betrayed by a mottled grown growth at the root. Her eyes too are sunken, beleaguered and worn. But the glimmering gray of them scans the area as she again jumps down and rests a meaty hand on Trysta’s, enveloping hand and part of her bare leg.

“Living the dream.” Nik’s voice is whiney, yet deep. “Take a minute and catch your breath.” She smirks at Trysta, walking away toward Skip. He now kneels in the center of the path, a wide map sprawling, and his stiff fingers tracking various paths and locations.

“George, when are you going to remind him we all know he can’t read?” Nik chuckles as she places a hand on Skip’s back, leaning over the map with him. As continues to look at the map ignoring the jest, though George giggles idiotically as he approaches. Various fungi fill his hands, and he holds them out with puppy dog eyes beginning with Nik.

“This should be it. A way under.” Skip’s eyes linger on the tunnel, pleading with the darkness.

“And we’re sure over won’t work?” Trysta’s voice shudders as she joins them in staring into the tunnel.

“Oh no no. Not at all. Crags far too tall. We’re in no shape for those climbs.” George chimes in. The squeak of his voice catching in the tunnel, chirping as it moves away from them.

“Under it is. We need light. And to hurry.” Nik unravels her ruck sack, and rifles through it. She emerges with a flare and a shrug. “It’ll be night soon. Dark tunnels are bad. Dark tunnels at night are worse.”