Rankle

“I swear by the Gladeskeeper and call all the gods and goddesses to witness, that I will observe and keep this oath. I will remember that medicine is both a science, as well as an art and that sympathy and understanding may outweigh procedures and drugs.”

Sepulchre says: "It was like a mirror, but not. Stands of skin hung off its hide, and strange growths covered its face. It was bone-white, with claws and teeth that dripped with Plague. It came upon me in a flash. There was no life in its eyes, only hate. I fought it off and fled, but not before it managed a bite." Hemlock says: “We just wanted to take one step that belonged to us, make one move that we have independently decided to make, but at every turn it felt as if our strings were being pulled by unseen hands.”

Infestation Hound Familiar Dripping with disease, these hellish hounds disguise themselves as carcasses. They prey on unsuspecting scavengers that come to feast. 2750 Aged Carcass Meat This creature had very little meat on its decomposing form to begin with. This is almost not even worth it. 41 4 Contaminated Featherback Pelt Organics A pelt this far gone is best burned or buried far away from clan territory. 350 Oozing Tusk Organics The tusks on Blueridge shells are not poisonous, but the mucus coating them is full of bacteria that frequently causes wounds to fester. 40

Rankle meditated beside Wyrmwound crater. For days now, he had fasted at its edge, reciting the long-memorised prayers to the Plaguebringer. Another day was ending, and still no answer. He remained untouched by infection. The miasma made him heady. His orientation spun. He was shaking, his legs felt leaden, his vision blurred. Why have you come, my son? The goddess’s voice sounded in Rankle's mind, soft, yet hitting him with a physical force. His ears rang, and he gasped, delirious. There, within the centre of the Wyrmwound, he saw a towering silhouette rise from the festering cauldron. I have come to kill you. His treacherous thoughts supplied, but the words died at his lips. “I’m not your son,” Rankle said instead. With a gesture of trembling fingers, his hands became wreathed in the glow of another god’s magic. The revitalising energy blazed in his palms in defiance of the smothering darkness around him. Choking on bile and half-blind, he felt the weight of the Plaguebringer’s gaze looking upon him. The Gladekeeper's worship ill-suits you. He dared a look up into the Plaguebringer’s face. He saw himself there, looking back, but also so much more. The memory of his defection to the Gladekeeper, and his subsequent change of heart, was stark in his mind. He had rebelled against the Plaguebringer's doctrine. Her war priests wrought so much suffering upon the world, why should he follow their creed? Instead, he fled, and joined with the enemy. There, he made an oath to heal rather than harm. He had enhanced resistance to disease, and could pick up the scent of illness. These skills he used sooth and mend the weak, rather than prey upon them. A lump sat in the pit of his stomach. A guilty, fearful hole. At the start of all this, he had been an idealist. He believed that even the Plaguebringer's savagery would not win against a truly unified community that supported their sick and lived in harmony. But, the weak turn out to be just that. Weak. When they were healed, they fell ill again just as quickly. He had been angry then, when he realised he loved the Plaguebringer still—or at least, the power that she brought, and he found himself dissatisfied with the simple life of forests and streams. If he wanted to rid the world of disease, it was useless to keep curing those who fell under its grasp. He had to destroy it at its source. His fellows had lauded him then, had given him all kinds of accolades and gifts to support him on his quest. It gave him the courage to return to his homeland, brought him to this confrontation at the heart of the Contagion itself. He may no longer serve the Gladekeeper, but her magic still danced in his grasp. It still wanted to do the work for which it was tasked. He released the hissing coil of energy with a hoarse shout, hurling it at his target. It was a vicious spell, something meant to suck the life from the goddess—but the Plaguebringer was quite experienced in magic such as this. With a gesture, the Plaguebringer stopped the spell and sent it racing back twice as hungry as before. Rankle tried to flinch away, but the ravenous magic devoured him before he had a chance to even scream. The spell burrowed under his scales, making his skin crack open in wounds and weeping sores. He did not remember what he was doing—why he came, why he went. The sickly taste of death magic smothered his entire world. Why did he leave the Plaguebringer in the first place? “I want to come home,” he begged, his voice the rasping gasp of a dying man. You have denied me, and now you would ask for my power? “I’m sorry, goddess,” he said to the apparition. “Forgive me.” He knew that his words were inadequate. He had prayed to the Gladekeeper—proclaimed her as his god and erected a shrine for her above the Plaguebringer’s own. He was an apostate. The Plaguebringer’s aspect regarded him, and the silence stretched. When the goddess at last spoke, her voice was his own, but thick with power. “You have been away from me too long, my son,” Plaguebringer said. “I do not forgive.” And the Plaguebringer leaned towards him, over him. Her great, membranous wings encircled him. Rankle could not move. She bent. His heart pounded. The Plaguebringer’s words, still in his own voice, whispered in his ear, “No, Rankle. What you could have been is not what you are.” Rankle screamed when the goddess’s hand touched his neck. The pain was agonizing, the plague set his skin afire, turned his body red hot. He opened his mouth to curse the Plaguebringer, to thank her, but could make no sound. He felt his life ebb, leeching away from his body. Briefly, he wondered what would become of his soul in death. But the goddess’s plague did not kill him. He lingered between life and death. “Not death, my wayward son,” Plaguebringer said in a voice more familiar than ever. “For your apostasy, you will have the life-magic you so desired, and so too you will have the plague-magic. With it, and with the power you stole from the Gladekeeper, you will give me service. You are charged to shed the blood of the heretics who follow the other gods. Pain will eat at you, hate will fuel you, and guilt will plague you. This is to be your penance.” Horrified, Rankle grasped for death. The plague saturated his soul, wracking him with fever. He opened his mouth and screamed. The piece of him that had found joy in the flowering meadows could only watch and despair. The rest of him remembered an old life of sacrifice and power. The pain spread from his legs up to his eyes, and he saw only darkness. The plague seared him, and he longed to use it. He conjured it to his hand and rose. It writhed purple and crimson. Welcome home, my son.

Eupatrid examined the wound that rent the dark scales of his patient. Sepulchre's obsidian scales were were hot and feverish to the touch. The ripped flesh upon his forearm was an angry red, and an alarming ridge of infection crawled its way up the afflicted mirror's limb.

Eupatrid tried again to halt it's climb. To stay the plague in its tracks. He felt it begin to slow for a brief moment, it's momentum stuttering under his will. Then his control snapped, and the sickness burned hot with malevolence again. It railed against his command, pushing back just as hard and fighting his will like a living thing.

Eupatrid snarled, affronted. Never before had he encountered a strain of plague that behaved this way, impervious to his efforts to halt it.

"Describe it to me again." He demanded of his patient.

Sepulchre sighed, and retracted the limb he had stretched out and displayed before the necromancer. Frustration curled at his tongue, but he dutifully began his recount.

"It was like a mirror, but not. Stands of skin hung off its hide, and strange growths covered its face." He recited. "It was bone-white, with claws and teeth that dripped with Plague. It came upon me in a flash. There was no life in its eyes, only hate. I fought it off and fled, but not before it managed a bite."

"It might have been a ghoul." Eupatrid offered with some hesitation, a heavy frown worrying his brow.

"I know what a ghoul looks like, and that was no ghoul." Sepulchre snapped back balefully, his tone curt.

There was a lull in the conversation, as Eupatrid steeped his claws deep in thought.

"If I didn't know any better," he muttered after a long pause, "I would say that your affliction had been caused by a necromancer. But..."

"But that's impossible." Sepulchre finished.

Eupatrid shook his head. "Not impossible, I suppose. But a necromancer in such a state... I can't imagine how that would have happened. Either way, this is something new."

"Call the patrols!" He lept to his feet, invigorated by his revelation. "We must find out what we're dealing with, and contain it before it spreads. I will know more once we capture the creature that assailed you."

"How do you plan to do that?" Sepulchre inquired, alarmed. "The thing is feral, and it fights like some beast processed. I barely escaped it."

Eupatrid ignored Sepulchre's question in favour of sorting through his catalogue of plague, picking up selected vials from his collection with a careful claw.

"We will bring more warriors with us." Eupatrid answered dismissively. "Plus, I will be there. If anyone else is to be injured, perhaps I can stop the infection from taking root at all. In any case, we cannot afford to ignore it. I need to know what manner of madness we are dealing with."

He turned back to Sepulchre and fixed him with an unblinking red stare.

"You will come with us." He commanded. "You are the only one who can identify it."

Sepulchre held his look for a moment, before dipping his head in acquiescence. Tonight, the patrol will hunt for the mysterious wight that haunted its land.



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