[The warm, balmy climate of the island—and its expansive territory of greenery—is at odds with everything he's ever known. As soon as Cain steps off the train at the station, his attention is consumed by the strange otherworld of Primavera, an almost trance-like fascination leading him through exploratory hours just staring at things: a pale, pink-petaled tree in full bloom, shedding over dark stone steps; bright azure waterfalls flowing into near-translucent springs; grass and moss and vines a shade of verdant green that nearly hurts his eyes in its intensity. The frigid, dusty plains of his home can't begin to compare to the vivid kaleidoscope of colors that live in this place. It doesn't even compare to the grainy vids of Earth he used to spend so much time playing and replaying in the fantasy of one day being able to visit.
Eventually, Cain wanders into the avenues of Yaranak, owlish wide eyes taking in the site of open marketplaces. He's somewhat unsettled by the honeycomb pattern of the stonework, reminded too readily of Colteron architecture, but the overall style and atmosphere is different enough to take him away from that thought. Not to mention the scents. A sweet fragrance is in the air, carried on a tepid breeze. He's wrestled out of his jacket and tied it around the waist. Now clad only in a sleeveless red shirt, he heads down the street sampling everything offered out to him.
It's a lot. By the time Cain finishes grazing, he's pretty buzzed and light-headed from several cups of mead and sticks of honey, shoulders slack as black eyes scan the crowd with relaxed curiosity.
And then he sees them. Pointed above the heads of several natives, twitching in the next wind—soft, fluffy, furred ears.
His heart rate quickens, a flutter up in his throat. He takes off at a half-sprint down the street, shouldering roughly through the crowd in pursuit. Eyes on the prize.]
Hey, you! Hold it! [Simultaneously excited and a little tipsy, Cain thinks nothing of pointing rudely at the man(???) he finds in front of him.] What the hell is on your head?
@wray
Eventually, Cain wanders into the avenues of Yaranak, owlish wide eyes taking in the site of open marketplaces. He's somewhat unsettled by the honeycomb pattern of the stonework, reminded too readily of Colteron architecture, but the overall style and atmosphere is different enough to take him away from that thought. Not to mention the scents. A sweet fragrance is in the air, carried on a tepid breeze. He's wrestled out of his jacket and tied it around the waist. Now clad only in a sleeveless red shirt, he heads down the street sampling everything offered out to him.
It's a lot. By the time Cain finishes grazing, he's pretty buzzed and light-headed from several cups of mead and sticks of honey, shoulders slack as black eyes scan the crowd with relaxed curiosity.
And then he sees them. Pointed above the heads of several natives, twitching in the next wind—soft, fluffy, furred ears.
His heart rate quickens, a flutter up in his throat. He takes off at a half-sprint down the street, shouldering roughly through the crowd in pursuit. Eyes on the prize.]
Hey, you! Hold it! [Simultaneously excited and a little tipsy, Cain thinks nothing of pointing rudely at the man(???) he finds in front of him.] What the hell is on your head?
[WHAT ARE THOOOOOSE]