A statue stands proud amongst the old ruins. Moss and the forest cloak the figure in an attempt to reclaim them. Despite the sun being in the sky the smell of fresh rain seems to permeate your nose. Signs of age cover their skin, and the chiseled marks of whoever made them too. The urge to reach out and feel the figures carved surface overwhelms you.

Lost in thought you almost miss the soft cracking sound. You peer up to their eyes, barley open yet quietly observing your touch.

Petrichor has lived a very, very long time. Most of that time has been spent quietly observing the habits of man and beast alike. They are quiet and prefer to keep to themselves, but don't mistake this for a shyness. They simply don't like to talk much and instead will go with the flow of things.