The air is thick with moisture. Breathing deeply is physically painful. The sky is clouded with darkness, promising more water despite the saturated earth below your feet. Water squelches between your toes, and the sand is still loose from the last rain, dull golden grains floating in a pool that refuses to drain.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and even the amphibious wildlife is still in the sodden underbrush, waiting with bated breath for the oncoming storm. The slimy skin of toads glisten, and the rough scales of alligators blend into the murky water beneath the growths hanging suspended, eyes glinting. The smell of salt and decomposing plant life hangs in the air, seeming to plaster itself to your skin with the sheer humidity.
You stare wearily at the swollen sky, pregnant with an impending storm, before you melt back into the ground. This place is not fit for human life.
E. Seneca 