The tunnel is dark and murky, a dirty extension of the forest. The vines layer the floor this time, as if they have been ripped off the trees and tossed into this tunnel without care. Every step you take squidges underfoot, filled with the softness of the vines. In the distance you hear water dripping, and, pushing your hand out to feel the tunnel’s ceiling, that low roof, you realise that it is dripping from there.

After a minute of walking, and when the light from the forest is much dampened by the black of the tunnel, you hear the dripping more surely, suddenly feeling it trickling from the tunnel roof onto your head.

You yelp back! The water is ice cold!

The same feeling starts to niggle at your toes, the vines sliding underfoot as the dripping water has created a substantial pool, stopping your from walking any further. The tunnel must be under a lake, or something, you tell yourself. You crane your head upwards, but still there is a canvas of blackness.

However, turning your head to the side, you see a layer of ridges carved out of the tunnel wall. Following the trail with your eyes, you notice a flame flickering further up the tunnel, a sign that the ridges must be going somewhere. They’re hand-holds and, though sideways, you could quite easily take them as you climb.

What do you do?

The End

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