The Gravedigger

He was tired in every fiber, his back was a fury of wariness, and his arms burned with exhaustion. He continued digging. Sweat ran from his brow, but he far beyond noticing the sting as it ran into his eyes. The dry air served to blow the dust, which stuck in his sweat. His shirt had been discarded long since. How many graves had he already dug? How many more did he have to dig? He could not remember, lost in the rhythm of his work. This was too important to conduct the rift for. This should not be easy.