Firefly Ravine the rabbit hole never to be found

The ravine sprawled out before him, and he liked to think there was the faintest tinge of sea salt in the air. The day was warm and humid, the chill of the outer edge of the taiga relenting mile by mile. Once distant mountains loomed close now and the land was cast in late morning shade as he descended a rocky path towards the rushing rapids below. If things panned out, he thought he could clear the region by nightfall and take those first fresh steps onto the coastal realm in a world very much suited to his desires.

Though still not quite aware he had made his way back into familiar—though not quite noticeable—locales, Dirge moved easily and without much recall to the winter that had bored down on the area. He had cut a jagged path weeks ago that had bypassed this area altogether, more focused on travel and brief exploration than anything. But the harsher elements of the north had beckoned him to turn south and so he did, and so to some degree he had bobbled in a course that followed the natural curvature of the earth to funnel him back towards the sea.

Pausing to drink from a runoff point, his ears turned this way and that as he listened in to his surroundings. It was quiet here past the din of what should have been; the ravine lurched and roared as it tore away from the deep crevases of the interior mountains, but the birds sang from boughs on high where the trees stood sparse. His thirst put to rest, he moved along to follow the cut of the ravine, and more importantly where it would prove safest to cross.