Redhawk Caldera do not talk to me of dragon fire

the waning sun does not help to combat the heavy heat, laden with moisture from the afternoon's rain. it lingers in the caldera even as the yawning shadows spill like ink across the land: claiming all.

the moon is a small sliver in the velveteen colors of night: rich plums, wine reds, and navy blues.

roswell has already claimed his stargazing rock, settled upon his haunches, head tipped towards the young night sky; gaze worshipping as he greedily reads the stars, finding familiar ...and unfamiliar shapes.