Towelfall

Henry took another step into the jungle and immediately regretted it. His sandal squished into something that felt like a hybrid of mashed peaches and divine regret.

"Welcome to the Forbidden Wetlands," Prudencia whispered, drawing her thighblades slowly, as if the air itself needed foreplay. "We are now officially inside Clamazon territory."

Henry glanced around.

The trees weren't just tall—they were sultry. Their trunks curved inwards at impossible angles, like they were posing for a jungle lingerie ad. The vines above twisted like dancers caught mid-twerk, dripping with honey-sweet nectar. Bioluminescent flowers blinked at him flirtatiously.

Somewhere, a branch sighed.

"I don't trust this forest," Henry muttered.

"The forest doesn't trust you," Vebrissima replied, holding her parasol like a fencing sword. "But it likes your towel."