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Throat-constricting, joint-aching, head-pounding, cramping, wasting, desperate thirst.

Nothing else, nothing but this, nothing but the unbearable thirst. For too long, too long nothing but sand in the mouth now parched shut, impossible to open.

No mouth, no eyes, no head, ribs, body, joints or throat, nothing left now but thirst.

Wasting. Wasting away like grass, like a flower, in silence, unable to move. In wordless agony.

A whiff of wind, a breeze that ruffles fur.

An awareness, expectant tingling in everything, everywhere. As though wordless, soundless voices, calling out, screaming, yearning... singing.

Singing in joy, the purest bliss, the deepest gratitude, for the wind, it carries rain.

Now the beat of its hooves rumbles mightily, echoing through heaven and earth, joining the song of the voiceless in a mighty crescendo as it shakes its fur, and here

it comes

like silver voices, answering the joyful call.

It washes over everything, matting fur, soaking earth, easing pain, relieving agony.

And the song, it fades into the gentle hushing of the rain as life itself flows graciously, abundantly from heaven.

A scent, pure, washed clean of dust and sand. A scent of lush, succulent green. New sprouting shoots and delicate baby leaves, ripe with life, awakened in song.

And like a sprouting new flower, I lift my head and turn my face towards the warmth of the sun.




Song of Rain.

[[Fit best in second person perspective. I hope that's alright.]]

You are a coward, but the only one who never needs to pay is you.

In the great depths of the swamp you grew from a drop of sunlight. You were nurtured by a whisper of rain. Needing that attention, you spread yourself out and craned your green neck, stretching your arms. You were selfish for that warmth and didn't think of what consequences you might reap exposing yourself. Until you did.

You panicked, because you are a coward.

Unwilling to take what you were owed, afraid of the teeth and the weight, you did whatever you could to arm yourself. And for that your claws are forever bared, stretching with every inch you grow. They are cumbersome and snag upon every passerby. They render flesh and scratch upon bone.

And you never wanted the blood, but it has become a part of your selfish existence. Everyone who comes near has to leave something behind. You are cursed, you are a bane. There isn't a day that you don't wallow in it, splayed helpless over the soil, wishing for the warmth to console you. You are jealous of the flower and her constant company. Even if she perishes before the season turns she has more love than you ever will.

You will go on for that terrible forever until the sun is swallowed and the rain stops. Coward. There is no end to your claws or your benefit, and you covet the flesh and the lives that have been forced to cling to you. You got just what you wanted.

Sawgrass

In the warmth of the dappled sun, the buck’s sac quivered gently in the marsh’s stagnant air. Inside, colours in front of his eyes shifted and flowed lazily, lulling his cramped limbs into deeper slumber. It was a mesmerizing spectrum of greens and browns – like the colours of the swamp filtering through the thick embryonic slime as the dream crept upon him; tingeing his mind with the vision that would inevitably result in his name once the aforementioned limbs broke through the skin of his container and stumbled into life. As the swamp held its breath something began to stir. The dream was beginning.

~~~

Lukewarm mud shifted underfoot, soft and slippery after the recent downpour. He liked the feel of it. It was comfortingly familiar against his legs. The rain had not only created this unique texture for him to enjoy, but a whole plethora of smells now filled the air. Earthy scents of plants and dirt were the most prominent; they filled the kimeti’s nostrils with their hearty aromas and raised him up, invigorating him as he strode through the swamp. There were also more subtle traces in the air. A viridian green flower was excreting sweet dew metres away from him, it's floral form clasping on the trunk of a tree, and it could be smelt on the light breeze. This perfume was alongside the distinctly acrid odour of a cluster of bulbous mushroom clustered on a rotting log, half submerged in the peat.

The swamp had stark differences, yet it was all one living organism. Everything woven together to make a tapestry of life and he was just one strand of it.

His eyes looked down at himself, expecting to see his limbs ploughing through the mud, scales glimmering with the power that the wet, rain refreshed swamp had filled him with. However, rather than seeing muscled legs dipped into the mire underfoot he saw gnarled wood: like the roots of ancient mangrove trees, he sunk into the dirt on a multitude of bark and branches. At first he struggled, bucking and braying. Kicking out in disbelief, but astounded when the collection of tree material answered his commands rather than falling away and revealing his ‘real’ legs. Yet as the initial panic of the unexpected dispersed like a flock of songbirds revealing the branch they were sitting on, the buck relaxed somewhat, allowing the revelation to sink in.

He was one with the trees. His very body was imbued with the nature of wood. Cocking his head he examined other parts of his body to find that it was not only his legs that harboured the mark of the trees of the swamp. The bony ridges he knew were meant to rise from his sloped back appeared to be roughly hewn lumps of timber and his fur was matted with tangled lichen and vines. The idea of his home being a tight knit environment resurfaced in his mind and a smile, or closest kimeti equivalent, was revealed on his muzzle. Alongside this sign of pleasure came an answer.

Perhaps just as the flower needed a place to grow and the mushrooms fed off the log, the Kimeti also shared a symbiotic relationship with the trees of their homeland?

It was then that he knew his name and straitening his timber legs he threw back his head and spoke it to the world.


“I am Wood Walker.”