The rains were back.
He felt the droplets against his skin, washing away the black paint that streaked his cheeks and his forehead, masking out all light, turning him into a shadow. He turned his face to the ground, trying to keep the colour from getting wet. If he didn’t, the Beast would be greatly displeased.
He pressed deeper into the ground, into the long grass, the sound of the pounding downpour thundering around him, coating his backside and bare feet in thick mud. His weapon lay under him, cutting into his thin ribs, but he dared not move it away lest the demon he loathed accuse him of not caring for his gear.
