“Drip, drip, drip, drip… drip, drip…. Ksssh”
The rain began as a light drizzle, softly cooling the wayfarer’s face and nestling stains onto paper. But all too suddenly it changed into a raging storm demanding attention.
“Oh dear.” Mumbled the wayfarer, bending over to shield the pages of their journal. “I don’t suppose it’ll pass too quickly.” ‘thunk, click’ their hand slams the journal shut and locks the clasp.
Pelting down like tiny arrows the rain drops seem to chant “move, move,” in fact the long ears of the wayfarer prick up as if there really is someone chanting.