Silver Moraine I'll learn the names of all the termites that eat my wooden teeth.

SEASHELL #3

He moved north for a while, to the coast. Then he followed some game trails until the earth became less green, and more rocky. Despite the summer heat this place was mild, even a touch cold when the wind picked up, and Willow ducked against gusts across the moraine every so often, lest they blow him over. The closer he got to the mountains the more lush the surroundings became.
He could smell water, but he couldn't hear it flowing. There were swarms of bugs lingering at his eye-level and they parted as he moseyed along; sometimes they'd land on his face and he'd snort, or a black fly would land on him and try to nip him through his coat, and he'd twitch and pick up his pace.
Eventually, Willow came upon a series of pools. They were surprisingly still, and he wondered where they'd come from. These pools didn't look like they belonged where they were situated — there was nothing to indicate a river had overflowed, or any rain had happened recently; the ground around them was bone-dry, and besides, there were larvae growing in the depths.
WIllow sniffed cautiously at the surface of these pools but did not drink, wary of them.