“I am worshipped as a messenger. Death speaks through me!”

Old Crow was wild with fever now. It was rare, but Ghost had seen it before.

“Others named their people after me!”

Old Crow’s eyes flitted wildly. For a brief moment it appeared as if another set of eyes had been trying to peek out.

“They fear me!” Old Crow spit, his head raised to the sky.

Of this, Ghost had no doubts.

Labels: Fresh Gravel For Your Craw, ghost, Inktober, Inktober Day 15, Old Crow, Pentel