Check out the update to The Eyes of God:
“Please,” I asked, “a cloth? Something has gotten into my eyes.”
At first there was no reply, and I felt a silence come upon us as if the three men had collectively caught their breath. Then it was, I think, the man with the net who spoke:
“Something in your eyes?” he said, as if a question.
“Please,” I continued, “It was something off of those putrid corpses, the bile of stale blood.”
I was now rubbing my face against my dirtied sleeve, itself covered in the black splatter. The front of my shirt too, was just as soiled. Then it was the light lapping of a wave against the shore reminded me of the pond, and I knelt down, clenching the moist earth between my fingers. I felt along the ground, my hands sinking deeper as the mud grew less thick, more watery: I groveled my way back to the pond. Splashing the frigid waters against my face, I cleared my eyes. Blearily, I turned my gaze back to my acquaintances in this dark world.
The man with the club, in his excited beating of the disembodied eyes, had displaced his cowl. The light of the campfire struck his face, his uncovered face. A light beard dusted his chin as a man who normally might have shaved, but recently went without. It was black with hints of grey and shadowed his cheeks strangely in the flickering light. He had a small nose which interacted with his upper lip as if he were permanently sneering. But he had no eyes.