The journey led him through shell high moss. Green and sticky the moss grabbed at his slimefolds like wanting children; Sticky green moss fingers demanding attention. Snayle slowly and deliberately pulled away winning countless battles of mossfinger tugs as he came closer to his final destination, water. Water, glorious water, salty, warm and smelling of earth tones.
He slipped silently from moss to salty waves with a final futile tug of moss fingers at his tail. With every roll of slimefold the saltwater rose against his shell, higher until finally his waving feelers floated freely.
"Blurp!" a small bubble left his shell of ballasted air.
"How embarrassing," Snayle thought. "I do hope no one was looking." He swung his feelers in circles to measure his embarrassment.
Thankfully only a skittering school of whitefish, flashing paranoia as they swam by, were witnesses.
"Silly fish," Snayle thought. "The bite is off. Our enemies are in deep water, far too warm to be here in the shallows."
And with a sigh he found his place among the mangrove roots, high tide in full swing.
Just the way a Snayle liked it.