"I see," Diarmuid siad, pulling back the cowl of his cloak and running a hand through his thick black hair as he walked back toward the grave. The thick smell of rotting flesh mingled with the damp loamy smell of the earth to produce a scent that he was all too familiar with. Only the crisp scent of cedar in the air and the cool spring mist did anything to alter the familiar stench.
Pulling back the sheet, he gently rolled the young woman's body over, his eyes going wide at the number of vicious wounds on her body. The cold season had slowed the decay enough that the bruises and cuts inflicted by Owain's merciless beating could still be clearly seen.
"Is she…" one of the diggers asked, making a gesture with one hand to ward off evil while the other covered his nose to block the thick, cloying stench of decay.
