The dogs were getting closer. They were going to kill him. He had done nothing wrong. He stopped briefly and surveyed his surroundings. This part of the landscape was seeped in an eternal fog. Nothing grew here. It was an accursed place; a place where blackened trees spread their twisted branches, ready to collect the souls of those foolish enough to venture too close. The small tears on his cotton shirt was a testament to this. He'd had no choice; had been sure they wouldn't follow him here. Yet they had. Such anger, such hatred, that they were willing to overcome their fears to pursue him. Why had this woman incorrectly accused him of violating her? What moved a woman to do such a thing? He had seen the guilt in her eyes. There had been no misunderstanding. She had knowingly falsely accused him. And he had run, sealing his guilt in the minds of his accusers. But what other option had been available to him?
