In spite of the cover of the canopy, the marsh was damnably bright; though hooded and covered in thick wraps, the Fenito still brought a linen-garbed hand up to shield his eyes, trying to take a more detailed lay of the land. Perhaps, farther inside, there would be more shade-- if he could find his way before nightfall-- and it would become easier to navigate this nearly knee-deep water. 

Traveling during the day was much the opposite of his preference, and yet here he stood, trying to get his bearings in this gods-forsaken wilderness. The scarce safe hovels he’d come upon had thus been over-run with other creatures, and he refused to take their beds from them. Besides, the roving band of branch-wielding hollows restlessly running amok had captured his attention, at the time. 

Malice welled inside of him for his station this night-- it was not so much revulsion for the grisly task set before him, and, indeed, there was much grizzle to sort through, as it was revulsion for the seemingly endless monotony that came with sifting through bodies. At least when he was collecting them on the backs of carriages, they were mostly still in one piece, able to be appropriately harvested. The snatchers did naught but grind everything they touched into a fine paste half the time. Organs ruptured, bones broken, blood coagulated and cold.