The Rot
Southern Hemisphere: Late Summer – Early AutumnAverage equatorial lowlands temperatures: 23 °C (73 °F) – 31 °C (88 °F)
The dark is deep, interminably endless. An oppressive hopelessness clinches the atmosphere in an iron fist. The air feels heavy and confining, each breath a laborious effort. Silence reigns in absolute stillness. And yet...
The festered earth thrums with a terrible energy. And instinctual dread stirs, a deep seeded fear of something terrible, unseen, though undeniably present. Something that waits just beyond the edge of perception, poised, ready, agitated, waiting.
The things in the dark are restless. They hunger. They will wait no longer.
From the depths of the Rot, the shadows rise.
Dusk approaches.
A low setting sun casts ribbons of shadow stretching across the plains of Swanfall. Spring has arrived, but the evening air is still wintery crisp this soon into the season. Moisture is begging to gather in the cool evening air, gleaming diamond-bright on tender new grass shoots. The last of the songbirds trill their final tune for the day, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots.
A farmer straightens, wincing at the anticipated 'pop' of his crooked old back, and wipes sweat from his brow. He surveys his field a long moment, admiring the neat rows of freshly tilled earth ready for planting. With a satisfied nod, he turns to his horse — a handsome haspar mare, bay — unfastens the hoe from her harness, and leads her back to her stable. She eats greedily as the farmer removes her tack leathers and brushes her down, then settles quietly in her stall.
A well-worn path leads from the stables, past a neat firewood stack and a modest vegetable garden — bare but for a smattering of seedlings peeping out from beneath the topsoil. The farmer pauses as he passes to gently brush away some dirt hindering the unfurling of a freshly germinated bean sprout, then continues on his way.
His cabin stands at the end of the path. It is a modest dwelling, well-kept and homely; built from hand-hewn logs, with walls chinked in pale clay. The windows are small, deep-set, and framed by shutters painted a sun-faded blue. A stone chimney rises above the shingled roof. There is no smoke: the fire in the hearth must have burned out while the farmer was busy in the field.
The farmer opens the door and stops just past the threshold. A crease forms in his brow as he peers thoughtfully into the dim cabin. It is as it should be. Directly ahead, a large stone hearth dominates the room, wide and arched over an empty grate. Iron tools — a poker, tongs, and a shovel — are mounted to a wooden rack on the wall above, and a heavy, iron kettle with a soot-blackened bottom hangs from a hook. A sturdy oak dining table stands against the wall opposite, set with two wooden chairs. On the table, a small, unlit oil lamp sits beside a stack of coarse linen napkins, and a single tea-stained mug.
The familiar sounds of the old house are conspicuously absent, he notices. The weathered oak door does not lament his return with its woeful groan, nor do the joists beneath the floor creak and moan as they shift under his weight. He cannot hear the clock set on the mantelpiece of the stone hearth tick, tick, ticking its persistent rhythm. The cricket that had been disturbing his sleep for three nights prior does not chirp. There is a stillness that feels... thick. Palpable.
For a breathless moment, the farmer fears himself to be stricken suddenly by deafness. He sets one labor-annealed palm to his chest and yells — "AH!" — into that plenary quiet. He is relieved to hear himself, but it is a fleeting feeling. He listens as his voice booms and echoes strangely, fading slowly. On and on and on, and then, again, silence. Such an absolute, unadulterated, heavy silence.
The farmer hesitates. A chill that has little to do with the coolness of the hour shivers through him, then he shakes his head to himself. This is nonsense, he thinks as he closes the door soundlessly and steps towards the hearth. He'd not eaten since the morn and has overworked himself tilling, that’s all. A pitcher of ale and a hearty meal will set his head right! All is well.
Yet his hands have begun to tremble, and as he moves to relight the fire in the hearth, he can feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. He fumbles with the tinder. Sparks fly as he strikes iron to flint, and a flame sputters quietly to life in the hearth, the crackle and wheeze of the embers strangely muted as though he is hearing them through water. The flickering light casts long, dancing shadows across the walls. The warmth of the flames is a small comfort, but it does little to dispel the creeping dread.
All is well, he assures himself, and sets about nursing the little flame to a healthy blaze.
The last lingering glow of sunlight on the horizon ebbs gradually to black. It is a moonless night, and soon nothing but the darkness is pressed against the windows. The farmer does not look outside. He is, he realizes, afraid to look. He worries what might happen should it get in, and he feels something many-legged and malignant crawling up his spine. He is afraid to look. Afraid to see. Afraid.
He has a feeling of being watched. A terrible, eerie feeling.
All is well.
The shadows taunt him. They twist and wither grotesquely out of the corner of his eye. He tries not to look at them as he sets a cast-iron skillet over the coals to boil. He tries not to dwell on the silence.
All is well.
Something insidious feathers across the nape of his neck; a fleeting brush like talons barely skimming flesh. The farmer turns abruptly, alarmed, and his breath hitches in his chest.
A pair of eyes glare out at him from a dark corner. Eyes that aren’t at all like eyes should be. Eyes of pure obsidian, without any distinction between white and iris and pupil. Eyes that flicker like fire, yet are as cold and steady as the Azah in deep winter. Eyes that radiate malice, and nothing else.
The farmer’s heart, already racing, now thunders.
And that’s when the fire snuffs out.
A new day dawns.
The first pale rays of delicate morning light stretch lazily from beyond the horizon and unveil a terrible scene. The shores of the Wriysh Lake are scarred in the aftermath of Lat Salok's battle against Aavshüd. Though her roaring, churning waters have grown placid once more in the wake of the carnage, the splintered cadavers of wooden boats and shredded sails now lay strewn among the bodies of the fallen. The living move slowly among them — searching, grieving, praying. More, still, have been lost forever beneath the surface of the Wriysh, succumbing body and soul to tooth and terror.
There is little distinction to be made between the cries of the wounded and the mourning.
From the trees above, Iprasil watches, his insensate gaze steady and unblinking through the wide green eyes of a lemur. There is a lesson here, and he wonders if the people will deign to learn it. A lesson about the danger of allowing fear to cloud one’s judgment, to drive one to action, to take for granted nature's sacred creations, and how the rush to destroy that which one does not understand leads only to devastation, to loss, and damnation.
The air hangs heavy with despair as the people of Lat Salok grapple to process all that has transpired and everything — everything! — it has cost. The lingering scent of smoke does little to quell the stench of blood.
The future of Lat Salok and her people hangs in suspense, for the battle is decided. Aavshüd has endured. And to he — The Maw of Justice, Protector of the Innocent and Devourer of Evil; he who was born of ignorance and lies, and feeds upon the wickedness they inspire — whose wrath has been provoked by the barbarous insensibility of humanity, forgiveness does not come easy.
Prompt
The fallout from the raid on Apora’s sacred temple and the fierce battle against Aavshüd sweeps the continents, throwing the world ever further into turmoil, and the drums of war grow ever louder. Meanwhile, the festered lands of the Great Plains and Shilen Uul grow ever darker, the epicenter of a new and ominous threat. Accounts of strange and terrifying entities said to have sprung from the putrid, rot afflicted lands to prowl the landscape run rampant. How is your character coping with these events, and what do they make of these rumors?