Sunbeam Lair my face will be painted in these white brick lines

now that diaspora had settled, mahler knew he must restore his cache of herbs. he had brought what little he possessed to the split hollow of a tree nearby the lake, and now he took the day to seek more. in his jaws dangled the cured skin of a weasel, in which he hoped to wrap his findings.
the bitterdust smell of green things came up from the ground over a nearby ridge; the gargoyle followed it until the mouth of a cavern yawned before him. scenting the air carefully for any threat, he descended into its reaches, eyes adjusting quickly to the dimmer light here.
he was not alone, but not in strange company; here was alarian, coughing hoarsely in the half-glow, and mahler set down his fur. "you are ill. vhy are you alone?" he inquired, approaching the sylph with unease writ into the planes of his face.