Beneath Star Crossed Oceans of Gray
Between those Hues of Life and Death
Below the Eternal Eye and Sickle Sky
Buried be the Treasure that You Seek
Or that's what the scrap of parchment would have said, if
Misery of the Windswept Rain hadn't crossed the lines out and written 'Splinterstone ravine, cave system, crescent shaped' in the margin. Rain scowled at the words flapping wildly about between the grip of his claws and the tug of humid, hot air or arid, hot air - depending on which crosswind he happened to be gliding through at the time - and muttered sharp and pointed and otherwise unpleasant things about bandits with a sense of poetry. The stallion had been searching Splinterstone well past three days without luck and with lots of ravine left to go. His wings were tired, he was thoroughly fed up with trying to decide why a shady jungle canopy flitted by to his left while long expanses of sloping scrubland and rocky desert dipped away to his right, and he was very, very annoyed with the thin ribbon of water in the ravine's heart below that flashed and sparkled and shot slivers of the sun directly into his eyes as the day began to wane.
Rain caught himself after he violently shoved the parchment back into his satchel with gritted teeth. Bright blue eyes are forced closed with a slow, deep breath, and Rain listened to the wind whistle past his ears. The stallion felt himself slowly bank in the buoyant darkness of his mind and opened his eyes again to avoid a messy end. His body arched and wing membranes cupped as the verdant edge of the ravine rushed up to meet him, then claws scrape rock and wings blast away dirt and pebbles as Rain settles neatly onto the stone outcropping.
A sigh of relief and released tension escaped as Rain's wings finally got the break they'd been begging for, then the stallion began to look about as he stumbled upon the question of what to eat for the evening.