The still-blue sky was turning ashen, a thick cloud bank lined in the smudged pink of sunset resting at its base. Where no cloud marred the horizon, the sky dissipated into white tea and, on the side opposite the vanishing sun, a three-day old bruise. Their breath misted before them as a constant reminder that, for now at least, they were still alive. The quiet was punctuated occasionally by the unconscious sounds of the weary; a dull exhalation, a quiet sniff, the hard swish of one unwashed pant leg brushing past the other. The dark would not cease their journey. They had traveled for too long to be concerned with sleep. No, they would rest when they reached their destination. The sky was darker now, the clouds since moved on, and the chill surrounded them, drawing the crowd closer together as surely as any rope. Under the watchful eye of the sickle moon, they walked on.
Just a quick snippet today, something I had on my mind.
