Summer Night, Waterfall Noise, Jungle Noise
The night is anything but still beyond the room obscured by the waterfall. Along with the dull roar of the cascading crystalline water there is the rustling of wind in the trees. The light from the window gives a weak glow as embers dim. The occupant inside has probably fallen asleep by now. Turning away from the falls themselves, the tropical forest can be seen from a new height. It's a rough, risky climb to the top, but worth it to be so close to a clear star-filled sky and so far above the ancient, tangled treetops.
There's a slight chill to the breeze now that it's dark, but it's still a little humid. An eclectic collection of birds are heard in an orderless chorus of cries, coos, and whistles. Frogs are croaking almost as constantly as the crickets are chirping, a sound that blends into everything until becoming aware of it is like becoming aware of the heartbeat, or the way the tongue sits in the mouth. Uncomfortable, hard to realize, and hard to shake when one does.
Mossy stone, smooth after years of being weathered down, makes up most of the cliff that a river dumps thousands of gallons of water over by the minute. In some places there are sand, and dirt, and the rest of the forest behind. You couldn't tell there was a whole complex built into the land just by looking. The architects were very clever about things like that. Most of the environment is rarely interacted with by the occupying humans. It's a novelty to see them out on the surface at all. Sometimes though... like now, one or two... usually the same few people plodding about through the trees out of pure curiosity. Suppose you can't live below paradise without wanting to have a peek from time to time.
It's just one this time. From this height little can be distinguished, but this is one that sticks out quite a bit. A woman, small and slender, with her long white hair pulled back into a braid, wanders around the pool of water below with an almost fearful caution. She always seems afraid to touch anything; she tiptoes along like the place is made of glass, one wrong move and it's irrevocably shattered. An appreciating caution, that's what it is.
Sometimes one or two will go out and follow her, acting much less careful and much less happy to be there. They'll rush through, shouting what can be assumed to be the woman's name at the top of their lungs. It never takes them very long to come back with her, but once it turned out the white-haired woman had gotten hurt and was missing for almost a full day. That was only once though. This time, no one follows, and she stays out until sunrise, running back as the first light of day peaks over the horizon with uncharacteristic haste. She's never seemed to even be capable of speed.
Maybe the occupant in the fireplace room has something to do with it...