"...when you say chute, I trust you actually mean some sort of, uh, tunnel, or corridor, or passageway, or... something with steps." There's a hopeful glance from the High Constable as he dismounts, and there's a quiet moment or two as he approaches the rock, peering at it and the point at which it joins the ground - or rather, where it's embedded in the ground thanks to lying in this place for untold years, with grass growing around it and lichen and moss trying to grow on it. Hm. He straightens, and the gaze he turns upon the mapmaker is not a particularly delighted one.
"You know, I was sort of hoping it'd be some kind of tunnel, which just needed unblocking. Like there was at Foggy Bottom. Shift a few rocks, a few shovel loads of dirt, and there you go." A glance for the stone that towers well above his head. That thing's got to weigh... tons. More than a few of them. Probably many. Maybe dozens. "And that the stone would just be, I don't know, a marker. I mean, just look at this thing. It's been here since forever." Calomel thumps the looming boulder with the side of his fist at this last word, frowning in manifest frustration.
And is rewarded by the deep, reverberating sound of stone on stone, as the hulking mass of rock shifts, dust and dead leaves drifting down from the top of the thing. No, that's impossible. It's been in the same place for centuries, it's not going to move around just because he knocked it. Ridiculous.
But.
There's a moment's pause as the young man examines the monolith warily, then places a hand flat against the weathered stone and pushes experimentally.
A grinding, crunching noise is the result, the massive rock moving perceptibly, visibly at his touch. A bit more effort, the Constable leaning into that push, and the rock tilts, lifting somewhat out of that depression in which it has sat for countless ages as if made from hollow wickerwork; when released, though, it drops back into place with the unstoppable force of many tons of solid rock, and a thump which can be felt through the soles of the feet.
Calomel, for his part, regards this with some uncertainty before looking to the mapmaker.
"Right. Uh. That wasn't me."