It Spreads...

[everblue2er101 906]

News of it had reached Arethor, of course. The Royal Scribe had received countless documents and letters from all across Asulon, describing what was going on. The information was sketchy at first, and very incomplete. The old scribe tried his best to piece together the details. From what he could understand, it had began in or near Seventis. From there it seemed to have spread, with Normandor reporting an infection. Shortly afterwords he received word that other nations were preparing for it. Hanseti went into lockdown, and no one was to enter the cold Realm. A dispatch soon arrived from Prince Richard of Renatus, stating how the Kingdom would deal with the unfolding crisis. The scribe had dutifully made copies and posted them all around Arethor. But still... he worried...

His worries seemed justified when plague struck Renatus, suddenly and violently. His contact in Mireton wrote a hasty letter, telling him that the town had been hit. They had closed the town off, sealed it from anyone spreading the plague further. Their measures seemed quite reasonable and well though out. The letter wound up being burned. Although he didn't think the plague could travel on it... why take the chance. The old man was still worried, though. He decided to take a trip throughout the Kingdom and see how each settlement was doing. But when he tried to stand his chest wheezed and knee burned. Collapsing in his chair, the scribe called for his son.

The lad set out, traveling on the orders of his father. Any information, anything he could find was to be brought back, the old man told him. The younger man nodded and assured his father that he would be careful and avoid Mireton. The horse ride to Corpathia revealed nothing. In Westport, it was reported that no signs had emerged. At Ildon Lord Elendil told him that the town was under lockdown, and all inside were safe. The locked gate that he encountered and healthy looking citizens made him believe this entirely. Reassured, he had gone back to the capital.

He had stepped off the horse, patting his nose, and made his way down the road. The sun was high above, blazing onto the ground. The assistant scribe sagged a little under it, his skin growing prickly. It was quite a change from the cold forests of the Ildon he had been in only a few hours before. He was trying to get to the Cathedral, where he could report his findings to the Royal Scribe, when he saw the man.

For a brief second, from a distance, the scribe thought that it was a zombie. But he realized right away that it couldn't be. He recognized the symptoms immediately from all the correspondence he had received. As he stepped back from the man Throdo Therving was there, ordering him to run. The scribe pulled out his bow, aiming it at the infected man. Then, he ran away from the peasant, towards the city. As he did, he hoped that it was just the one man. He could get his father, who could come check himself, and then... the peasant would have to be finished. He didn't want to think about it. Probably, his father would be the one to do it...

He bolted past the graveyard, unable to see past the heavy stone walls and inside. But he was aware of a strange sound within it. It wasn't the low moaning of zombies, or the whistling that the wind made within the walls... it was like a combination of them both. He didn't pause or stop to consider it. He just kept running, past the wall that had been built around the Cathedral for the wedding of the King. As he neared the front of the Cathedral... he saw her.

She was clearly dead. She lay on the ground, her dirty peasant clothes sprawled all around in the grass. The assistant scribe abruptly stopped running, and his eyes widened with shock. He noticed the green skin of the corpse, the dried blood around her mouth. He had seen bodies of other victims, of course, but this was different. She had been a Renatan, probably a peasant of Arethor. She had worked the fields, or in the city, or lived beside him in the slums. He felt queasy and suddenly lightheaded. As he tore his gaze away from her, he realized she was not alone.

Lying in the grass were other bodies. Men, women, children, young and old. They all appeared to be peasants, dressed in the usual clothing. They had been farmers or slum dwellers in life. Now, they all appeared dead. As soon as he thought that he noticed that one still lived, an old man lying near the river. The assistant scribe saw his chest rise, slowly, but no other body showed any sign of movement. Slowly now, cautiously, he moved towards the entrance of the Cathedral.

There were more corpses, but when he turned the corner he saw some still living. A few turned to look at him, noticing the only healthy one among them. He avoided their gaze, and entered the Cathedral. There were more. Many more. They lay in the pews, stood in the aisles. His eyes widened in shock as he watched. When they saw him, many turned. A few came towards him. They begged for help, for food, for relief in any form. Many more were praying, and he realized that was the reason why they would all be there. With terror in his veins, he ran. As he did, he realized that his father would have been down below, in the basement of the Cathedral. He stopped running, panted on the middle of the road, and looked back. He had to save him. The old man was weakened already, he surely would not survive this. But then, suddenly, there was movement. A plagued peasant was walking towards him. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin green. The hideous sight prompted the assistant scribe to keep moving.

He left the city. Over a few days he managed to make his way to the Cloud Temple. From there, he took a boat to a far away town, and then fled to the Wilds. He felt no pity for what he left behind. If the city was going to remain infected, he wouldn't return any time soon.

Meanwhile...

The Royal Scribe had been doing what he usually did. The letters and notices were still pouring in, and he took time to read them all, and answer, or archive them. He had been sitting in his office when he first heard the noise upstairs. His initial thought was that his son must have returned with news from the rest of the Kingdom - but it was much too soon. He couldn't have been everywhere already. But someone was indeed coming down the stairs into the basement. The scribe got up wearily, his bones aching. He opened the door and looked into the hallway.

At the end of it, a man stood. The Royal Scribe stared for a split second. The peasant was clearly infected. Green skin, haggard breathing, bloodless eyes. Josef was reminded of zombies and their mindlessness. The man was walking towards the scribe. Suddenly, from out of nowhere. He drew his sword. The old scribe was shocked to see it, but remembered that some of the infected had grown violent, and mad. He didn't hesitate to draw his bow swiftly. As the peasant increased his pace, the scribe fired a shot into the head of the peasant. He fell, blood splattering the walls. The scribe watched him collapse with little pity. But then... he heard them. At the end of the hall, where the stairs were, he could see the shadows of more figures on the wall. More were coming.

The old man didn't hesitate. He turned, and made way to the concealed exit. When he had built this basement he recognized there might be a need to escape one day, and that day had clearly arrived. As he left he considered his options. Clearly, he would need to contact his son. Their bird that flew only between them would do that easily. He would have to leave the city. The Cathedral was no longer safe. Somehow, he would need to remain in contact with the others. The idea came to him. It was crazy, and dangerous, but it might work. The caves beneath the city, with their many secret entrances and exits, would provide a reasonably safe hiding place...

Outside...

The peasants grew angry. Where were the nobles? Where was the King? Why were they being left here to die in masses? Was there no salvation to their illness and their suffering? They had flocked to the Cathedral to try and find solace with the gods, to beg for help or forgiveness. The Cathedral was still decorated for the wedding of the King. The ornate decorations and opulence angered many of the peasants. While they worked in the fields and lived in pain, the King and his nobles lived in splendor. Those with the strength tore them down, burned what they could. But soon, there were few. Those who had arrived at the Cathedral died there, or crawled away. Those who could get away realized that by leaving they would be able to escape all the disease that was building up in the area. Soon, there were no living left in the church.

There was still no sign of the nobility or the clergy or anyone other than dead peasants. Those who had not gone to the Cathedral, but had stayed in the safety of their homes, now emerged. They went cautiously to the church, where they saw the piles and piles or bodies. A new wave of infections struck those who came too close. A small group of peasants, the hardiest of them all, realized that unless the bodies were removed the disease would only keep perpetuating. So, a massive pyre was built outside the Cathedral and the dead were taken there to be burned. More caught the disease in the process and became sick or died, but their actions prevented the deaths of many more.

Fortunately, it was not as bad as it could have been. The city reconstruction meant that many were avoiding the city for the time. The nobility quickly retreated from the city, trying to avoid the disease by heading off to the smaller towns and sealing them. Many of the peasants managed to lock themselves in their houses and avoid getting sick.

But a few things changed. The peasant population in the farms and the slums was badly reduced. There was some physical damage to parts of the city, but nothing that couldn't be repaired easily. As the dead were cleared the Cathedral grew silent once more... too silent. For many of the peasants, their faith had been shaken. The buildings could be fixed and made whole, but the people would never be the same.

[steelersfan1221 300]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.