For generations, travelers told of mushrooms that shifted when no wind stirred, or of clusters that seemed larger at dawn than they had been the night before. Only later did the truth emerge: the Shrumlings are no mushrooms at all, but beings who cloak themselves beneath caps cut from wild fungi. They tuck their limbs beneath their bodies, nestling into the soil until they are nearly indistinguishable from the clusters around them.

At dusk their disguise falls away. The Shrumlings awaken in small groups, their movements careful yet oddly fluid, as if guided by some hidden rhythm. Their voices rise in tones so high that few can hear them clearly, though the forest reacts: insects grow still, leaves quiver, and spores drift in pale clouds that shimmer under moonlight. On rare nights, the Shrumlings join in circles of dance, spinning between the roots until the ground glows faintly with their steps.

Though they are elusive, they are not hostile. Those who have lingered long enough to watch speak of an air of quiet curiosity, as though the Shrumlings weigh whether the intruder belongs among the trees. Their reasons for singing, for circling, for weaving spores into the night air remain unknown. Some believe they nurture the fungi they resemble, spreading growth through ritual. Others think they guard something older, hidden beneath the roots.

Much about them remains a mystery, but their presence lingers in memory. To find them is rare; to watch them dance is rarer still. Yet those who have stumbled upon such a gathering never forget the sight of living shadows crowned in mushroom light.