Dipping his skull-clad muzzle into the small outlet that was scarcely larger than an over-glorified puddle, Grave lidded his eyes to a close. Another soul laid to rest; his work was gratifying, but exhausting.
Shaking his head to nudge the dirt and decay off of his skulled mask, he lifted his head and looked placidly around his surroundings: the small lake that had formed from MotherFather knows what, glistening shades of green beneath the descending sun; the stretch of scattered trees whose boughs were heavy with vines and moss, affording him the small clearing in which he stood; and thanks to the acrid air that didn't allow much in the way of canopy growth, he had a decent view of the sky that was painted with the vibrant colors of the setting sun's rays against distant clouds. It was peaceful, but he often felt the Swamp was at rest when one of Her children was return to Her embrace.
Did it make him self-important? More likely than not, but he earned his keep. He still had to forage for his evening meal, but it wasn't, perhaps, a bad place to rest for the remainder of the day. It's not like his work ceased once the sun fell...
