The creek wasn't right along the road. They had to break off to the right, pushing through a sea of tall, swaying wild grass that came up near to Vilon's waist.
The air held the sharp, clean scent of an after rain, and the blades still clung to heavy morning dew, which was strange, considering that as far as either of them had seen or heard, it hadn't rained a drop all morning. Vilon raised his eyes to the sky. It was a gloomy, bruised grey, heavy with the promise of a downpour, certainly. But not yet. The gods, it seemed, were content to let a man sweat a while longer before they opened the heavens on him, perhaps to was all his sin away.
Vilon deeply misliked tall grass. Not being able to see where his boots fell was a fine way to break an ankle, and all he had to protect his legs from snakes were his thick leather riding boots, cracked at the seams and long overdue for the boot maker's needle.
