It was late morning, but Hastur was in bed — curled up for a change with the quilt tucked around him rather than spread out comfortably in the manner he usually slept in. The sky outside was grayish-white, coated in the sort of thick cloud covering that presaged either heavy rain or snow, though a steady darkening at the edge of the horizon was hinting more at the former than the latter.
It had been three weeks since the day he privately thought of as That Mess, and it was the kind of day that seemed tailor-made for doing not much of anything. Even someone like him, who wasn’t good at doing nothing (lurking always had a purpose; it didn’t count), could appreciate that. Or at least hold a healthy disapproval of nasty weather.