Rainfall

     A path in the shadow of mountains. Dirt paved by feet unseen for many years, blackened as the sun dipped low behind the stone wall to end the day. The road stretched on for many miles from north to south. A wind picked up in the east, bringing with it a wall of clouds, too arrogant in posture to yet release their flood upon the earth and turn the path to slick mud.

     The gale whipped through the trees to the east of the road, turning their boughs into a sea that flashed different shades of green as the leaves were twisted this way and that. The foliage rustled, coming alive as the wind tore at it. Thunder rumbled as the clouds drew nearer to the mountain range, to the inevitable clash of nature.

     The warrior quickened his pace along the road south, south to home. The wind buffeted his weary footsteps, and the heavy chainmail in his backpack weighted him oddly. He sniffed the air as the smell of rain grew.

     Lightning flashed from the clouds to the forest, illuminated the darkening landscape and stretched the warrior’s pupils. With a hand to the hilt at his side, he continued along, his worn boots beating out a steady pace. Blood and dirt stained what had once been a lighter shade of hide, but had now become a dark and ugly shade. The warrior looked at the clouds again, almost overhead now, the darkness almost complete as the last rays of sun poked over a peak to the west.

     The wind increased, howling, tearing at his face and hair, pulling him and pushing him. The warrior kept his pace, fleeing from the north, hurrying towards the south.

     The clouds reached mountain range. Sheet lighting cracked in the sky. Thunder boomed, echoed off the mountains and swept across the path and into the forest with a deafening roar. The warrior halted for a moment and peered at the sky, waiting. A droplet smacked against his nose, splashed into his open eye. He blinked and rubbed at his face as more rain followed. The path looked black now, the surface had turned to mud.

     The rainfall turned into a torrent, and a torrent into a deluge, streams racing off the cured leather of the warrior’s pack. His hair clung to his head and his clothes to his body as he set off again, hand ever on the hilt of his sword, head down to focus on keeping his balance as the ground grew ever slicker.

     The lone survivor of the Slaughter at Dumhaven continued through the night, and the storm did not stop.