Plains of the Holy Spirits, eastern region.
A light drizzle fell all night, leaving the fields covered with puddles large and small, and wet, muddy ground. The stubborn white-stem grass had been washed down by the rain, lying flat against the ground, requiring one to tread over it with extra care.
The Corpse Puller cautiously drove his cart across the plains, carefully choosing firmer ground without standing water to avoid getting the cart wheels stuck in the mire. Such an issue would be troublesome this far from camp.
A cold breeze blew, causing the bearded, burly man to shiver. He raised his yellowed and cloudy eyes to the low sky in the distance and couldn't help but mutter, "Blood God above — what a damned weather."
Rain on the night of the Spirit Festival is not a good omen, especially for superstitious Corpse Pullers.
