Dirt and dust blows across the crust.
Nobody knows who drives tha wind down yonder. Who gives it time fer ya poor sake onna hot day. Nobody cares about folklore no more. Not in this forsaken land. Not when the black night clears the air.
A rising sun burns through the clouding fog of filth. Like a spotlight shining on an even dustier than the wind filth muppet of a man once called the gravedigger.
They's taken ta callin me diggin boy in most cases nnd not another more... Who cares fer tha like. I've got bigger fish ta fry. I've got home runes and a numbered beast.
Cracklin skin ends to repeater pointed west. Dry lips shape vowels silently. The old hollar romps over the sand dunes carrying himself onward for the next scab.
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The shadowed prey
ActionOnce a lone hunter around the quarry of elebeth, they called me insane when I went travelin fer tha thing. They said it ain't right! All them names ain't bringing hospice from the dirt diggin boy! but I'll show em all. I'm goin on a blood drive! it'...
