Despite the seemingly ceaseless rain, the ground was cold and hard. It was as if the rain was the catalyst of some sort of dismal cement, the creator of the damp, chilled earth only found in graveyards or places where great tragedy has occurred. It was drizzling even now, the rain pooling at the bases of the corpse-fed trees that shielded the boneyard from prying eyes. Occasionally something would flash on the surface of the water, a glimpse of a face, or a reaching hand...
To Algernon, ghoul of the Tribe of the Cold Wastes, this was not a place of somber thought and reflection. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only. To feed. He snuffled at the cold Earth, pacing around a recent grave. It was ripe, and he was hungry. Settling back on his haunches he began to claw at the earth. His strong, tapered fingers and scooplike hands made quick work, and he was soon standing in a deep hole. Below him was a wooden box, glazed with some sort of black varnish. He used his full force to leap on it, jumping straight up eight feet, and smashed the lid in. Splinters went everywhere. He could hear the night watchman coming, but he was very close now. He reached into the coffin, and stuck the corpse's hand into his mouth. Then he vanished, hopping the veil between the waking and dreaming world. Here was dangerous though. Here others would steal his food. Dragging the body along, he found another point where the division was thin between the two worlds, and pushed through.
He was in the shadow of a giant, withered tree. Stagnant black water flowed beneath its roots, into some subterranean cavern. Algernon pulled the body into the crevice made by the roots, and began to feed.
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