like’d from x ;
@thefatalbelievers
The stink of rot and black leaves and of quickly-fading mushrooms brings Roland’s leaf-strewn head to poke out quickly from the upper branches of a Willow tree, and to furrow his brow upon this blatant, cosmic Finger-Touch. He frowns in this growing stench, like the underside of a decomposing log left o’er from a storm, and drops from his hid Nest with nearly no sound, save the rustle of creaking twigs, thick seed and the crumpling of moss. Like a deer doth Roland straighten gracefully, and peak his inhuman, pointed ear to It, thus.
He inhales deeply upon the Wind, and decides to amplify that base Root of this primitive Curiosity, and to follow that reaming Stink, like a ribbon of utmost Promise. A thought for Adventure, by the reign of his callused heels.
