Untitled

Untitled


"... We shouldn't being doing this." Two cloaked figures were standing by a gate. One with his front toward the metal bars, the other standing to his side, looking out into the street. Rain drizzled from the sky, the soft pattering made for a serene ambiance, the contrary to what the cloaked figures were up to. Beyond the gate lay a neglected field, littered with headstones marking the burials of dead men and women of the local area. 

"I'm really getting a bad feeling about this hole business." The one picking the gate-lock murmured. "Shut up." The man at the gate worked quickly as he could in the soft rain. His fingers dampened and slick with moisture. A clink signified the lock was picked. "Done, come on." The two cloaked figures made their way into the cemetery. The cemetery was large, and the grave they were looking for was in the oldest section. As they walked by the gravestones the rain began to beat heavily upon the earth. As the rain fell harder, the men moved faster.

By the time they reached their destination, the ground was soggy, and mud made the ground treacherous to walk on. The gravestone they arrived at was made of a river stone, with the a name carved into the surface. The carving was done with skill, many laborious hours poured into making the gravestone a perfect representation of the man that lay beneath it. A simple representation of nature, no carved granite or marble, but a simple, large, river stone. "WHITE BUFFALO" the stone read. The two men looked down at the gravestone and then at each other. 

More than a weeks time had passed before news spread that the grave had been robbed.