There were quite a few times he wished he could fly. This, apparently, was one of them.
For one, there was a huge mass of thorns that had obviously been created by an over-descriptive author purely to annoy (strip?) the wingblades off of him. He was quite sure they weren't native to this area of the Lands, as well as the massive flock of mosquitoes that found it their duty to try and drink muse-lucain blood. (As much as going ethereal helped here, somehow mosquitoes still managed to do bad things to him. He was starting to blame all of this on an amateur author having too little to do with her time.)
He was never going into a rainforest again. Giving up on whatever strange motivation had driven him here, he turned around (pausing to try and rip off the strangely clingy vine now permanently attached to his tail) and attempted valiantly to find which way was out.
But wait, there's more! (This was promptly followed by
Omigosh, I'm reciting advertising lines now, too?)
He looked around, ears swiveling to try and find the source of the sound he'd just heard, something weird and extremely random that seemed to tell of a murder, though he doubted anyone'd name their kids Double A Glory. Whatever. He still had to take a look, didn't he?
Setting off into the underbrush (ow! eek! I'm going to die!), he looked for whatever, or whoever, was there.