Something small and cold taps him on the arm—and the shoulder—and a quill, then another, and soon there's a gentle chorus of the small, cold tappings and they become just a tiny bit bigger and somehow feel softer for it. Rain. Shadow stops and looks up. The falling droplets come down in ribbons, seeming to form long, broken lines on the way down. Staring directly upward makes him vaguely dizzy, dizzier the longer he looks, but the sight is too mesmerizing to turn away. The sky is such a gentle blend of cloud and atmosphere, diaphanous shapes in arrays of grey and off-white with splotches of hazy blue showing where the cloud cover thins in the rare spot—but more often the blue lends itself to the white and grey of the clouds and the effect is that of mixed paint, a mixture into a soft bluish-grey that reminds him of agate cores, does not hurt his eyes the way the naked daytime sky does, and the raindrops are near-black streaks running down the canvas, thin lines etched with the edge of a palette knife. Soon enough the whole painting is too much and he's too dizzy and Shadow finally looks away. Stands there in the middle of the greenery and flora and earth and cannot move his legs. Can barely breathe. Overwhelmed.
🌿🌿🌿 — by annuska / @whitejungle