August 14, 1772 – Bengal

     Dust whips around me. The ground succumbs to desiccation. Cracked and crumbling, the earth longs for rain that will not come. Many people have deserted this place in search of food and water but countless others waited too long. The stench of their bodies baking in the summer heat is revolting and despairing for the ones who still call this home.

     I do not come into town often these days. The humans’ thin frames pulling their skin tight against their bones while they stumble weakly through the streets aren’t exactly the enticing meals I prefer. However, there are a few who seem to be healthier than most, the ones who, undoubtedly, are responsible for all of the thefts and brutal beatings recently. Trying to save themselves, they steal from others but it only makes them tastier prey. And they are easy to track.