He stands in shadow, and it is so humid, so damp, so loud with the buzzing of insects he thinks it will drive him mad. In the distance, he can see the sands, the dry heat shimmering off of the dunes, the lush plants crowding their oases, and he swears he can hear the faintest strings of song twining sweetly together from many throats. He recognizes the land of his ancestors deep within his heart, and he feels a pull towards it - but even as he lifts his first leg to act on his desire, he finds it it held down by blindly clinging plant life. He cries out and yanks his leg free, but his other legs are bound as well - he thrashes and kicks and bites and yanks and he screams, he screams, but he is held fast against his will by the vines and creepers of the swamp. He can see it, he can feel its heat, it's so close, so close, please, save your son, save me! - but the sands remain unmoved as the vines drag him into the humid heart of the swamp and smother him.
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