Rain, Rain Go Away

The villagers weep and curse the skies. The driving, endless rain has not stopped for a full three weeks. Once-green fields have been reduced to oceans of brown mud interspersed with a tapestry of deep puddles. The beautiful high wheat that had soared upward under the bountiful sun of the majority of the summer has been trampled into the ground, along with all expectations for the harvest. Gently babbling brooks have become angry and dangerous torrents. Small ponds have become giant, murky lakes. A cow was lost to the water. Then a child. Then several houses. The old Gods have been taken out of their hidden places in the depths of the night, prayed to, sacrificed to, begged. It's not going to be an easy Winter.