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Featuring: Plagos


These are to be the last words I shall ever write.

In a plain-looking room, in a plain-looking shack, a plain-looking, old abbot lies in a plain-looking bed. Apart from the bed is a simple desk and chair, with a single candle illuminating the dark space. It is night, and the window is open, but clouds obscure any light from the stars or twin moons.

I know that I will never be redeemed. I have forsaken the Light, and I deserve my fate. I only hope that these words may be preserved, so that the sins of the past are never repeated.

The man's face looks greenish and sickly under the lone candlelight, which only heightens the shadows along his temple and sagged, wrinkled jawline. He scratches his bald head with his left hand, in which he holds a quill. He is writing on a piece off board propped in his lap as a desk.

My plague is guilt, and this is my curse. It is important that my story be known...

Some time ago, I was approached by a few gentlemen. I right away sensed the darkness about them, but welcomed them anyway. They told me they had a way to make our people live forever. They sought my help in their plan. They were going after the grain...

He pauses again and looks down at his hand, now covered with the scabs and marks bearing the signs of a sickness he can never recover from. He reaches up to his graying, wrinkled face and feels the same lesions around his pointed cheekbone, and along his brow. One of the pustules on his hand oozes slightly, and he wipes it on his thin linen sheet, which has turned a yellowish brown over the years.

I helped them. I helped them even though I knew what they said was a lie. Even if I would not agree completely with them, they seemed to have other ways to persuade me.

Unfortunately, I have many vices.

The man's wrinkled hand reaches under the blanket, pulling out a small pouch. His right hand reaches inside and pulls out a small portion of dried silverleaf held between his thumb and forefinger. He puts the fingers up to his nose and inhales the snuff deeply, remaining expressionless.

Though I knew that their true intentions were far from holy, I'm afraid some dark part of me actually wanted it this way. It's this part of me that chills me to this day. Ultimately I was double-crossed. Little did I think that my daily bread would be my undoing. But poisoned it was, and I didn't realize it until too late.

The clouds of smoke break for a few brief moments, letting the larger, white moon shine through under the glowing fires from the city outside. The moonlight comes though his window and casts a beam onto his bed. The man lets out a few hacking coughs, then brings a handkerchief to the corner of his mouth. He looks at the fresh blood on the cloth. It looks like a putrid, dark green color under the soft moonlight.

So here I lay, while the fruits of my labor ravage the city or Andorhal, my home, outside. Soon I will be joining them. Soon my home, and this world will be completely undone. Light forgive me. I'm so hungry...

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