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 ^{(it's beta!)}

In amongst the mangroves, it never stops raining.

Down upon the muddy banks, the Rain House squats gloomily.

Huge wheels and cogs spin around its flanks, adding clank and rattle to the steady beat of the rain.

There are three huge windows set in the front of the edifice, without either curtains nor shutters.

Within however, is always shrouded in shadow.

Nobody ever ventures this far into the mangroves.

Nobody ever sees my Rain House.

The shame of this is as great as the value, of items as yet unclaimed.

Artifacts, trinkets, tomes and the like clutter every surface.

For the enterprising scholar, the Rain House is a Goldmine.

For the enterprising miner, the Rain House is a library.

For you, the Rain House could be anything.

For you, the Rain House could be everything.

For you, the Rain House will be nothing.

Artifacts and Trinkets.

Priceless as Dust.

As predictable as rain, inside the Rain House is a stench of skin.

Mist and clouds fill halls, bathed blue in aquatic light.

Sewage pipes rusted to ceiling, mildewed and decaying.

Eyes lurking in doors, blinking from walls.

Bright lights scuttle round corners.

Lips part between sheets.

Ears full of rain, listen to the air.

Whispered voices from the bedroom.

Shouts in the dark upstairs.

Murmured conversations bottled within walls.

Tales told in a half-lit twilight.

Blue words hidden, faceless in the shadows.

And in the central chamber, under a wide skylight besieged by the Rains, sits a child on a blanket of eyes.

On his back, a bright pair of wings, folded tight and close.

Within his hands, a white light shines.

Outside, the rain never stops.