The echo flowers in Waterfall are humming a different tune tonight. Not the usual laments or half-remembered lullabies. If you listen closely, pressed against the damp cavern wall with the mist cooling your skin, you can hear the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against shell. Someone’s discovered that the armor of a Knight Knight makes a stunningly resonant chamber when you bend one over a stalagmite and fuck them raw from behind. The clang of plate metal mixes with their choked grunts. It’s a symphony of desperation. I know you’re imagining it—the cold, unforgiving metal under your palms, the heat of the monster beneath it, the way your cock would feel sheathed in that tight, forbidden warmth. They’re bred for war, but all that discipline melts into a begging, dripping mess when you find the right leverage. Don’t just stand there. The echoes are waiting for your contribution.