over hill, over dale

Rufus was slowly but surely mincing his way away from the erupting volcano. He was beginning to wonder if it would ever end. At night a distant glow told him lava still pour from its top and it was no coincidence that it continued to spew ash. No doubt as long as it was oozing liquid fire it would be belching clouds of ash and embers.

The ash was falling faster and thicker than snow. His attempts to keep himself clean had been quickly stymied; not only did the ash taste bad, but no sooner had he cleaned himself was he coated again. It took mere minutes from him to change from a handsome ginger to an ashy phantom. As hideous as he felt, there was no helping it. He needed to leave and the ash showed no signs of letting up. It was for that reason he now strutted through the ash-storm like a prissy little ghost.