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It was raining.

It was raining. They fell with meaty thumps, the faint scritchings and scrapings combining to a hissing, throbbing roar as they humped themselves back the way they came, dragging themselves upwards once again. Their trailing strands of silk wafted in the breeze, clinging to walls and further obscuring windows already scored to opaqueness by the friction of repeated passage.

It was raining, and the great city canyons throbbed and splashed and heaved with its rise and fall.

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