Significant damage to the jungle terrain has hindered your progress. Many things could have done this; none of them native to such humid, enclosed conditions. As you pick your way over felled trunks and splintered bamboo shoots, you meet with something too hard and too black to be part of the decimated vegitation: wrought iron fencing, standing tall and strong against the destruction. You're sure that the fallen trees would allow you easy passage over it, but red eyes peering out from the shifting brush on the other side gives pause for second thought.
Branches, leaves, and dirt fall away from glistening red and green scales as she rises from her blanket of detritus, wary of your presence. She casts a leer down upon you, as if deciding your punishment rather than determining your purpose. The snarl never leaves her lips as she speaks through her teeth, inundated with wood-pulp:
"You're NOT supposed to be here."
Branches, leaves, and dirt fall away from glistening red and green scales as she rises from her blanket of detritus, wary of your presence. She casts a leer down upon you, as if deciding your punishment rather than determining your purpose. The snarl never leaves her lips as she speaks through her teeth, inundated with wood-pulp:
"You're NOT supposed to be here."
