A father's simple concern for his family. Set in the Soul Reaver world.
The light was grey and thin, even at the best of times. He counted himself lucky if his crops grew at all, never mind if they were yellowed or blighted, relying on small creatures and gathered fungi, the only things that thrived in their world now, to supplement his meagre harvest. The water was always bitter and brackish, especially after rain. Every day that passed without the death of someone he knew was a victory; it might have been worse, if the shambling vampires, decaying from age or whatever afflicted them, had taken to raiding graves for easier sustenance, and he was glad to let them.
But of all the troubles he could lay at the step of vampires, he resented the mushrooms most.
He allowed himself to be distracted from his dark musings by the appearance of his little daughter at the doorway, his only light. All legends of bright skies and green plants palled before her innocent joy in this world, however bleak. Sophie ran up to him, her eyes sparkling with delight, and he ruffled her hair affectionately. "What is it, dear?"
"Daddy, there are purple pigs flying in the kitchen!"
Damn. Picked the wrong kind again.