See now the plague priests in their ash-grey robes. Cowled, mouths and noses covered, pale eyes examining the world. Disinterested in mortal affairs. Hear the chant and hear the dirge-pipes, leading the Damned through the Forgotten Lands, past the river Styx, into Hades and Purgatory. In silence they fill the plague carts, bodies piled like cordwood, bubules and pustules oozing even under that gentle touch. They speak not to the living, but offer comfort to the dead. Bleak winds course down city streets, now emptied of the throngs that once massed at market, stalls empty, fruit rotting where it lies. All roads now lead to the plague pits, hellish mouths in hill and field, greedily consuming and ever hungry. Doused with pitch and tar when full, they burn like the Hell the Church preaches of, flames stretching long into the night, creating roads Above and Below... And as the chants and pipes fade, whispered words drift skyward. "All Death is certain..."
Revisiting the Red Howlers
1 year ago