the downpour is unforgiving, soaking the earth to the bone, filling the roots whole. the pitter-patter of rain flicks against his skin, a thin layer of cool mist a welcome change of pace to the earlier rising temperatures. there beneath the coverage of a few heavy branches does volo linger, a palm against the sturdy wood -- assessing, ascertaining, with a bemused expression, the length of distance between here and the spit of ruins he’s had his eye on all afternoon. his gaze is scrupulous and refined, driven down to the finest detail.
a heartbeat passes. two. three. his gaze flickers towards the grey, swirling skyline, then to the ruins in the distance, shrouded by fog. another glance is spared to the heavens, and the subtle furl of his fingers against the bark says that he is waiting for something.
as if to answer his bated breath, thunder rolls farther in the distance, a crackle of blinding white for those miles and miles away. its rumble does not throw him off kilter, doing nothing to shake him to his core; a sudden cocksure grin keeps his expression alight instead.
“alright, you don’t have to tell me twice!” he says to the company of no other than himself, breaking free of his stupor and kicking off where he’d been previously rooted. with rainwater sloshing about the stomp of his boots, he’s off -- making a mad dash through the drizzle, hoping to reach the ruins in a timely manner.
let’s hope he doesn’t slip.