With an additional cleaver in tow, the group continued on. With the continual victories, morale was high. Rigo's enthusiasm that could have previously been described as overbearing had molded into an infectious opptimism. Even Rotharde's chagrin faded into only slight annoyance and his muzzle cracked with a grin from time to time. Of course, the youngest member was more than eager to try to carry the sword only to find that it weighed far more than he had previously considered. Without much more convincing, he gave it back to his uncle for safe keeping. Merriment was shared between the party, their laughs, jeers, and delighted tone magnified by the crisp walls of carved stone. Ansgrim was the first to notice, silencing himself while the rest of the group prattled on. Their volume competed with the echoes of their own exclamations, every natural sound of their progress (saddlebags jostling, hooves clipping) was a staccato of noise in his ears. It wasn't until Rigo's head also tilted, noted by the now silent Ansgrim, that he said anything.

        "The path is narrowing..." He muttered towards Rigo, who had briefly paused in his stride. The youthful colt glanced back to find Ansgrim's face devoid of the smile he'd worn prior. It had been replaced with tight lips and brooding eyes that scanned the peculiar hallways. The deflaction of the two forward Coursers finally infiltrated Rotharde and Rustica's musings, their conversation trailing off before they too started to note the narrowing of the cave. With the elimination of their voices, the amplification of their steps, of their breaths, of every natural sound in the tunnel toed the precipice of deafening. The further they push, the more constricted the space became. Rigo and Ansgrim were forced to file into a single line, with Rustica and Rotharde at their hinds. Thankfully the narrow chested colt didn't suffer as terrible with the quickly diminishing space, but his seniors began to struggle. Their shoulders, packs, and leathers scrapped against the stacked stone walls, ones that if you looked closely enough you could see where others had gouged the rock from their own passage.

        "Careful," Ansgrim was careful to not raise his voice too loud, as even the mutter seemed to boom in their ears, "There could be traps."

        Rigo's gulp was laid bare for all to hear.

        "Just keep moving, baby." Rustica spoke over Ansgrim, encouraging her son forward as his pace had slowed.

        "Yea, please for the love of everything, keep moving..." Rotharde's teeth ground. The compression on the largest of the coursers was growing too much for the hardened diver to bare, at least from a glance. A sweat had broken out on his brow, one that didn't touch the remainder of his body.

        "You okay?" Rustica asked her brother, slowing a moment only to have him rudely push her forward.

        "Yes just don't stop, I want to get out of here."

        Ansgrim didn't say anything, simply stared forward, not wishing to speak Rotharde's hidden fear into existance less it start to spread. Rigo increased his speed to a march, champagne tail swinging at his hocks as he pushed to find some sort of reprieve. Eventually, the stones even constricted upon him, and the others were forced to slow, reorganize their packs, or fight against the walls threatening to squeeze the life out of them.

        "Hurry, Rigo." Ansgrim encouraged though there was no warmth, only the chill of fear. Even the pets shrunk from the walls. Hewlette hugged Ansgrim's heels, Dirigo sat on the back packs of Rotharde's kit, and both the slime and mole had completely hidden themselves somewhere in the rearranged packs. If the flea-bitten grey didn't know better, he'd wager that it wasn't the tunnel arrowing, but the walls moving...

        But he dared not say that, either.