Rainforest Cliffs
Varuna stretches his muscular wings, flexing them like a young man trying to impress a girl. Only there are no girls here, just the dark and the dusty dry air.
It is daylight, but this deep into the trees not much of it can be seen, caught in the canopy that looms so high above. It's a typical day for this belligerently feverish season they are having, the likes of which Varuna is not very fond of. He likes rain, a bit of chill to the air, a dampness to keep his coat sleek and wet and shimmering. With the sun bearing down at all hours there is none of that. None at all. It seems to the rainchild that there is no wet thing to be found in the wretched heat, neither to parch thirst nor keep cool. Even his feathers seem to grow brittle, bleached by the light.
He finds refuge deep within the trees. The air is not so dry among the foliage, though the darkness is deep and crawling with phantoms real and imagined. Sounds and shadows and other things that can not be fully made out. The imagination fills in the gaps. Varuna, being a glutton for exploration and all things mysterious wonders at what might lurk where the eye cannot see. He feels his hide bristle with every shape that takes form at just the edge of his sight.
It is easy to feel claustrophobic this deep in the woods. His wings will shift and flutter every now and again as one might bite their fingernails. And still he moves ever deeper, skeletal muzzle probing the deepening shade with a curiosity that he knows might end up coming back to bite him (perhaps quite literally).
Is he brave or foolish? He will find out.
It is daylight, but this deep into the trees not much of it can be seen, caught in the canopy that looms so high above. It's a typical day for this belligerently feverish season they are having, the likes of which Varuna is not very fond of. He likes rain, a bit of chill to the air, a dampness to keep his coat sleek and wet and shimmering. With the sun bearing down at all hours there is none of that. None at all. It seems to the rainchild that there is no wet thing to be found in the wretched heat, neither to parch thirst nor keep cool. Even his feathers seem to grow brittle, bleached by the light.
He finds refuge deep within the trees. The air is not so dry among the foliage, though the darkness is deep and crawling with phantoms real and imagined. Sounds and shadows and other things that can not be fully made out. The imagination fills in the gaps. Varuna, being a glutton for exploration and all things mysterious wonders at what might lurk where the eye cannot see. He feels his hide bristle with every shape that takes form at just the edge of his sight.
It is easy to feel claustrophobic this deep in the woods. His wings will shift and flutter every now and again as one might bite their fingernails. And still he moves ever deeper, skeletal muzzle probing the deepening shade with a curiosity that he knows might end up coming back to bite him (perhaps quite literally).
Is he brave or foolish? He will find out.
