It had been a good day. The dwarves had struck a vein early, and followed it for hours. The eight of them pounding and picking, collecting and hauling, and with one tap everything went bright, and there was screaming, the sound of rubble and one voice moving away, and then quiet.

Hands clutched hands clutched tools clung to earthen walls, and slowly their eyes adjusted to the blinding brightness, and Bonnir moved to where the tunnel ended and the light began, and saw that their below-ground was also above-ground. Unknowing, Gurrumir had pounded a hole out the face of a cliff, had fallen out of the earth and into the sky, and then returned to earth, falling to the stones below, where his story ended.

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Awake before dawn as usual, Grennin’s fingers ached as they dug roots from the cold damp ground. Work was good. Good for the body, good for the mind. The fingers would ache less the more they worked. The roots would dry throughout the day, and be roasted tonight for tomorrow morning’s djzav brew. When the terror dreams came, the bright blue light, the falling upwards away away ever away from the lovely dark earth, the waking from the brightness into cold damp darkness which might for some be fearful still was welcome relief. And while the other six still slept Grennin’s day began with a long walk outside, gathering roots and small game, anything to keep busy, to forget.