The night was pitch black. He had to blackup his face with his partner's blacking, so, he was in one of his black mood. Those black-hearted Thrush blackguards didn't help.
A black day.
All had started, the morning before, at The Blacksmith' Hammer, with the breakfast. Jam, first : blackberry or blackcurrant, of course. With blackbread, or blackbuns, of course.
They were moving. He sheltered behind a blackthorn. Something ran on his hand. There were no black widows, in this country, he hoped...
A black night.
He sighed. Then, it had been lunch time. Black pudding, of course. Black Forest, of course. And some blackbeetles running along the floor. And some blackflies...
He thought that he must be in Waverly's black book... He'd rather be on his partner's little black book... What have earned him such a black mark ? He didn't know.
Speaking of that, where was the Black Knight ?
He had intended to get forty winks, after lunch. But thrushes weren't the only birds, around : blackbirds, blackheaded gull, and probably blackcocks had teached him black arts for hours. At least, the night seemed to have imposed a black out. Or they had disappeared in a black hole.
He gave his black sheeps a black look.
He didn't want to paint things blacker than they were, but Thrush blackmailers were real Black Death. They blackmailed those who were on their black list. They blackened the reputation of the others, however innocent they might be
He'd have been delighted to blackjack them , or to beat them black-and-blue...
.
A white flash.
Pain.
White throats above whitethorn.
Where was the White Knight ?
He blacked out.