((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.
Pestilence ((Open))
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