[Location: Near the Falwood Border]
The air stank here. Of refuse. Sickness.
The village youth went missing only to return a few weeks later, pale and softly bleating gibberish with pustules of darkness pulsing underneath their clothes. Mothers wept as they tended to their dying sons and daughters, while fathers muttered of superstition in the taverns and town hall. Something had befallen their quiet village and they were all at a loss for a solution. As each parents' wailings of loss and despair rose, so did the tensions between neighbors. Arguments clamored throughout the night, hastened and exacerbated with booze-fueled insults. Someone must take the blame. They will be killed and that will be the end of it.
"Pitiful," the cat murmured as she gazed through an open window.
A young man of no more than eighteen summers sweated in his bed just inside the home. From her distance, she could see the sweat glistening across his brow and could hear the struggle of each agonizing breath. A tendril of necrotic skin sprouted just above the neckline of his sleeping tunic and continued to grow, ever slowly, to creep up his neck. He groaned as he turned his face towards the small bowl of cool water resting on the nightstand by his bed. He lifted a finger, shuddered, and began to sob.
His gaze turned to her, a black cat with golden eyes leisuring at his window, and she could hear him croak something quietly.
"Please."
The suffering of men meant nothing to her, not usually. But this.. this was no man. This was a boy. A child. She had always had a fondness for children.
Kthell dropped inside his room and approached with the typical grace of a feline. She hopped to rest at the foot of his bed, tail twitching, and eyed the water.
There was a soft crackle within the collar at her neck and the necrotic tendril receded below his collar.
The boy gently attempted to move a hand to push himself up to an angle, and showed surprise at his sudden strength. He reached for the bowl and eagerly drank it dry. She remained still, collar popping and beginning to glow, as she watched him enjoy this small reprieve of pain. Only at his outstretched hand did she approach closer and allow him to scratch at her face and neck.
"Good girl," he whispered, voice hoarse.
The crackling at her neck began to fade and the dark magic at his throat resumed its creep. The youth sniffed, afraid, and returned to his pillow. Kthell slinked to his chest and laid there as well, pressing her face beneath his chin and matching his slowing breathing.
Together they laid for a time.
When his breathing finally stopped and she felt him go limp, the cat stood and exited the way she entered.
Graceful steps pattered to the next window.
The village youth went missing only to return a few weeks later, pale and softly bleating gibberish with pustules of darkness pulsing underneath their clothes. Mothers wept as they tended to their dying sons and daughters, while fathers muttered of superstition in the taverns and town hall. Something had befallen their quiet village and they were all at a loss for a solution. As each parents' wailings of loss and despair rose, so did the tensions between neighbors. Arguments clamored throughout the night, hastened and exacerbated with booze-fueled insults. Someone must take the blame. They will be killed and that will be the end of it.
"Pitiful," the cat murmured as she gazed through an open window.
A young man of no more than eighteen summers sweated in his bed just inside the home. From her distance, she could see the sweat glistening across his brow and could hear the struggle of each agonizing breath. A tendril of necrotic skin sprouted just above the neckline of his sleeping tunic and continued to grow, ever slowly, to creep up his neck. He groaned as he turned his face towards the small bowl of cool water resting on the nightstand by his bed. He lifted a finger, shuddered, and began to sob.
His gaze turned to her, a black cat with golden eyes leisuring at his window, and she could hear him croak something quietly.
"Please."
The suffering of men meant nothing to her, not usually. But this.. this was no man. This was a boy. A child. She had always had a fondness for children.
Kthell dropped inside his room and approached with the typical grace of a feline. She hopped to rest at the foot of his bed, tail twitching, and eyed the water.
There was a soft crackle within the collar at her neck and the necrotic tendril receded below his collar.
The boy gently attempted to move a hand to push himself up to an angle, and showed surprise at his sudden strength. He reached for the bowl and eagerly drank it dry. She remained still, collar popping and beginning to glow, as she watched him enjoy this small reprieve of pain. Only at his outstretched hand did she approach closer and allow him to scratch at her face and neck.
"Good girl," he whispered, voice hoarse.
The crackling at her neck began to fade and the dark magic at his throat resumed its creep. The youth sniffed, afraid, and returned to his pillow. Kthell slinked to his chest and laid there as well, pressing her face beneath his chin and matching his slowing breathing.
Together they laid for a time.
When his breathing finally stopped and she felt him go limp, the cat stood and exited the way she entered.
Graceful steps pattered to the next window.
Garrod Arlette
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