Iridae didn’t like this room. It was far too wet for his liking. He couldn’t fly with so much moisture clinging to his wings. He wasn’t a duck. His wings weren’t waterproof. He peeped indignantly, shaking his tiny body and spraying little water droplets around himself. He looked around with a scowl on his face, taking in the waterfall and the lagoon, and the grey rocks, the little ponds dotted here and there, and the mossy hills over by the walls. Who would want to live here? he asked himself. He didn’t yet fully understand that there were others in the Caves that were different from him — those that enjoyed water, that couldn’t fly. How long this information took to sink in depended on who he met in his travels, and how long they could keep his notoriously short attention.

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