Pestilence ((Open))

[Nala Thorhild]

((Hoping I can help frame and maintain enthusiasm and fun for my character Lyssara’s ongoing roleplay. All are welcome to react to recent events in an IC, immersive manner))

Galmair, the city of gold and opportunity, sat cold beneath the mountains that crowned it—a place where merchants fattened their purses and miners dug gems enough to light the night. Its streets, paved with promise, now hummed with unease. The river ran dark weeks ago, leaving whispers as the corruption dissipated in time, the taverns thick with rumor, and even the farmlands felt the chill of something unseen. For all its wealth, Galmair was a city that had always believed itself secure… until now.

••• • • • • • • • • •••

The tavern was louder than usual that night, but no song carried over the din—only speculation.
“Nothing but a demon cultist,” one voice snarled over his mug. “Didn’ ya hear o’ the flames? That wasn’t mortal work. That was consorting.”

Across the table, a drunkard shook his head. “And yet we followed, didn’t we? Step by step, like sheep to slaughter. Paid in gems, no less! Tell me—who’s the greater fool? The shepherd or the flock?”

At the far end, a woman leaned in, eyes sharp. “You call it slaughter, I call it challenge. For once, the mighty were tested. When’s the last time you saw the so-called heroes of Illarion sweat?”

Another barked a laugh. “Test? Ha! If it’s freedom you want, you’ll find it in the grave. That’s where this kind always leads.”

From the corner, quieter voices whispered of the land itself. “I saw the reeds turn black… I heard crying from the river. You think a trick could do that?”

“No trick,” someone answered darkly. “A warning. The poison wasn’t in the fields—it was in us. And now it spreads.”

Not all agreed. “Bah. Stories. Whoever it was, took our gems, spat riddles, and left us with rot. A petty thief cloaked in magic, nothing more.”

••• • • • • • • • • •••

But the alleys told it different:
“Doesn’t matter who it was. They had power. No allegiance—just ambition. That’s worth betting on.”

“I say who e’er they was, be layin’ the ground for a new order. Where strength n’ cunning matter more than status.”

••• • • • • • • • • •••

And out on the farms, voices wavered between dread and longing. “Or maybe we’ll be the first to rot. That’s always the way of it. In’ it?”

“…Still. If they can make the high-brows fret, maybe they ain’t all wrong.”

By night’s end no one agreed on what had happened, only that something had shifted. And though no name was spoken, no discernible face remembered—the questions remained, gnawing, unshakable.

••• • • • • • • • • •••

And yet, beyond the noise of taverns and fields, somewhere unfrequented. No name, no face, no certainty—only the sound of a lone voice, low and steady, speaking to the flames as though the fire itself could answer back. The city would eventually reorient itself, but the norm was only a veil. For each day that passed, the rumors would grow louder: that someone continues to conspire, that new trials were being woven, that pestilence was abated for the moment but not cured. Illarion had been warned. Whether it chose to listen—or to falter—was a question the shadows would soon demand answered.

[Nala Thorhild]

Another vacant look—but this time it struck like a spear. She could no longer endure the absence. He did not see her as he once had, not even in moments of clarity. The fissure running through her festering core would never heal without him. A part of her soul had been torn from her beating heart the day she watched Arey convulse, vomiting and foaming from a poison she had begged him not to test.

Then he died, and Cherga returned something unrecognizable.

He had gone too far—sacrificed everything on her behalf. For what? Wanting was a vile dependency. The world owed no debt. Willpower alone could not sustain unrealized desire. How few were blessed with more than the rest of them. How delusional she had been to yearn for it all.

In truth, there was less and less these days. Less for herself, less for others. They should have been forgotten, cast into the infernal flames she had stepped through months ago. Hope—fickle as snow flurries—had once caught her eye. A plan had begun to take shape, a band of friends bound together. Now only a hollow nothingness stared back at her. The day Arey died had never released its grip.

She told no one, but she knew her husband fed again on despair, his curse coiling around her heart. Where she had once drawn strength, pain now found its opening. It drove into the center of her chest and tore inward, seeking access. When it seized her stuttering essence, the force tightened with covetous hunger. Ice-flames licked at her skin from within, pressing against an unseen wound, threatening to break free.

Death waited.

With the last of her fleeting strength, Lyssara whispered, “Fox…”

Nothing else would be remembered of that day. There was only darkness—and, for a time, peace in the lands of pestilence.