Borusa gets up, applies small hands to dusty rump and smacks vigorously, the backways of her mind anxious to crawl through any shiny refuse still hiding.
There are panels, dimly outlined along the chair rails... she can just make out some oddly placed roundels dotting the higher portions of wall.
Vines play a withered brown symphony across the floor, and, she imagines, everything else; her toes find the occasional leaf or rough bit of nib as she scuffs her way around, one finger to the wall for guidance and her nose in the air.
Borusa sniffs, smelling a sudden something perhaps jarred by her entry and her movements.
It is a sweet yet savory scent, dotted with the sleepy scenery of herbal teas and the simmering anticipation of bubbling meat being stewed off the bone, the ripe apology of ready fruit hanging low on a dark, wet branch.
The smells entrance like the shine of knives against bare skin.
Too sharp- needles in the flesh.
Borusa concentrates on clearing the fog of dim lighting, imagining a surplus of small lamps hanging in mid-air, bobbing a little as though borne up by the surface of a water unknown to gravity.
The room begins to light... soft echoes of brightness spill suddenly into everywhere, flanking Borusa’s little body in bars of uneven...