Day 1 Morning

[Ada Wong]

One hand reached out to part the way between a bundle of dew-slick leaves as Crowley pressed onwards through crawling, shadow-stained vines and thick undergrowth. The ambient sounds of rustling leaves and the faint, hushed chirping of birds and hiccuping frogs accompanied his footsteps while he crept along, taking great care not to make a single sound as he went. A few more times than he would care to count the demon stumbled across a pile of loose pebbles or an unexpected dip in the damp jungle floor, but other than those few bumps in the road things were going swimmingly for him.

To pair this climate with swimming was a little more than he could ask, unfortunately; he was fairly surprised there weren't a million yellow-tinged mosquitoes buzzing about in this humidity, and once or twice he had caught himself tugging at his collar to loosen it lest it choke him in its fiery grasp. It was sort of funny, to him, that an agent of Hell itself couldn't handle the heat.

Eventually, however, it became apparent to Crowley that this plan of action just wasn't working. That brief venture into the unknown had borne surprisingly little fruit, and it just wouldn't do to press his luck in one direction while there were plenty of others ripe for investigation. But which one to take?

With an irritable huff, Crowley leaned against the barrel-wide trunk of a tree, letting the rather hefty and musically pulsing weapon rest against his hip while he regarded the nearly impenetrable canopy above. For a moment he simply rested there, staring, when a little glimmer of color caught his eye. Parched lips parting slightly, his head lolled lazily to the side so he could better see it.

A slight hummingbird, no bigger than a bumblebee, hovered beside a vibrantly-colored, sparkling bloom for a split instant before zipping away in a streak of lavender plumage. The demon's slitted pupils followed it only briefly before again flitting back to where it had once been. As he began to look more critically at the tree's branches, more and steadily more little buzzing birds became readily apparent. One by one, when all of the sweet sap had been sipped from their chosen bud, they would dart away to the west, leaving nothing behind but a wavering pocket of disturbed air.

Somehow, somewhere, from a background and life Crowley largely cared very little about, someone had said those little birds were good luck. And he would be blessed if he really didn't need some luck right now.

Crowley's snake-like tongue again flickered out, contemplative, almost as if he were tasting the air. From his sagged position against the tree trunk, he took a moment to consider his options: either he could remain here and melt in this blasted humidity, or he could follow after a few feathery tokens of fortune. Neither seemed especially promising to him, but it was a choice he simply had to make.

As fate would have it, Crowley straightened up from his slouch, a whole battalion of water droplets prickling against the dark fabric of his suit. He idly flattened his tie against his front, wondering just when he had lost the fancy pin that kept it shackled to his shirt, before setting off after the flighty birds.

He whistled lightly under his breath as he walked.