Falls of the Hinterlands if a clod be washed away by the sea, europe is the less

There had not been a soul to be found in the cedars. He'd spent nearly a fortnight there to no avail. With a sigh that rattled his bones, Hrishikesh lifted himself upward—and onward. Onward, and upward, until he hovered over a river fed by a waterfall. The monotone rushing of the falls drew him into a trance as he stared at the water.

It was quite beautiful here, even if it was utterly lonely. But the heavens were even more ethereal, and had never lacked for company.

He lapped at the water, finding it cool and bright on his tongue, as all things springing from the mountains tended to be. Now more or less healed, Hrishikesh knew it was time for him to travel. He could not stop until he found friends.

The god was no longer content to rest. He had done enough of that.