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The Sage's Choice: A tale of the Searing Plague

The sage, Ohjetsiä, looked up bleary-eyed from the workbench. The shouts and heavy noises outside had given way over months to a grim and grinding calm, as if doom stalked the living as surely as the dead were harrowed by the corpsetakers and soldiers still brave enough to take to the streets.

The proximity of the jet-stone enclave to the border regions had brought early news of something amiss in the world outside the swamp, and scouts had traveled with the trade caravans, then aid and medical experts. The sickness had returned on the clothes and in bodies of the hospitaliers, in the tears and blood and sweat of those who had gone to help in the early days. Ohjetsiä, and others, had used their sacrifice to begin to understand the nature of the threat. Charting the growth of the outbreak through scattered reports and discoveries of dead settlements, the team settled on a simple strategy. While many of the infected were too far gone to be helped, some could, and at great risk and considerable cost they were nursed back to health. Once cured of the disease, they appeared to be immune to its effects, and were quickly turned to the work of researching a permanent cure to what was now being called the Searing Plague.

More work was dedicated to determining the right ratios for mixing tinctures for purification, and still more effort to hastily copying and distributing texts of medical knowledge that had proved effective for fighting the Plague. All that was behind them now, however: the pace of new discoveries had slowed drastically of late, and they had exhausted the supplies of parchment for the scribes.

Snuffing all the flickering candles but one, Ohjetsiä looked around the scattered cots filled with exhausted workers and smiled. The work she had started would move now of its own accord, and there was yet one last piece of parchment. Uncovering twin inkstones, one red, one black, she worked a little pure water into the surface of each, dipped a brush, and began to write…


Sage Ohjetsiä
Kalevasuo Athenaeum

Workers of the Athenaeum:

Your efforts this last year have been nothing short of miraculous. In the face of misery and certain doom, you have turned the tide and given us what we need in order to survive. Over the course of the last few months, the work of our alchemists and herbalists has been proved on hospital floors and in the alleys, and the doctors we supply have worked safely amongst the dead and dying with the masks and garb our sages have devised. We have much to be proud of, much that I trust you will carry on in my absence.

Yes, my blood and bones, you will carry on without me. I go now to take all that we have learned, all that we know, and carry it to the streets. I turn to take up the mask and gown to minister to those who remain sickened by the plague. It is right for me to do this: as I have always taught you, there must be Balance in all things. We have given thought; I now move to action. We have given life; I now risk death. If I should fall to this plague, I trust that you will remember the words of our founder: in all things, find the “knowledge worth knowing” - scire quod sciendum!

Farewell, but not for long.
Ohjetsiä


Checking that the mask held a fresh charge of herbs, she took a last glance around and covered the inkstones, leaving the parchment on the bench. The doctor took a deep breath and snuffed the last candle. It would be a long night; she hoped she was making the right decision.


((In accordance with the Think Tank guidance as we move into the end stage of the Searing Plague.))

9/5/2018 6:03:19 AM #1

Atop a high tower, two men worked in darkness. The older man, clad in the robes of his order, observed the stars through an ornate instrument. Behind him, another man sat at a small writing desk, completely covered in a heavy woolen blanket that draped on the ground. From under the blanket came a muffled voice, at regularly intervals. The robed man would reply with an inscrutable series of numbers.

The night passed, as had every night for two years, and the two men descended into the tower to sleep. As the sun rose, so did the cries of the Corpsetakers.

At noon, the younger man entered his mentor's study, carrying the previous night's journals.

"The time has come."

The old man reviewed the charts and tables. Together they consulted tomes older than some kingdoms. Twilight gathered and the old man finally nodded.

"The time has come."

Crossing the room, he removed an intricately embroidered robe from a chest, a mask, and a small pack loaded with medicines. The younger man reached out to take them, but the older man turned away.

"What we have learned must not be allowed to be forgotten. This knowledge has been paid for in countless lives, a toll paid to buy a future not for my generation, but for yours and that of your children. My work is ending, but yours is just beginning."

"Remember."

The old Sage, plague mask securely fastened, shouldered his pack and passed out of the Talqamar, into the night.

9/5/2018 6:33:25 AM #2

((Please, feel free to contribute a story in the vein of the two above, or to interact if you'd like!))

9/14/2018 6:36:59 AM #3

The doctor, Ohjetsiä, picked her way through the gloom. With no one in the streets to light the torches, she navigated by starlight and by listening for the occasional cough or rattle.

This settlement had been hit hard by the plague. A few of the villagers, smith's helpers, perhaps, had been strong enough to break open a postern gate and allow her a way inside. Not that there was much for her to do. From slumped body to body she moved, searching for signs of life. She rarely found it, and rarer still found anyone still strong enough for her help to be of use.

A few victims still lucid enough to provide a name were loaded in carts under Ohjetsiä's direction, as she marked down notes of the date and time of their visit, and the flights of stars overhead. Pre-made placards were hung on trestles out on the kingsroad, as soldiers moved into the village and began the last work of the night. The pyre would light the way to the next village, but not before those within felt the slick relief of jet blades hastening them into the embrace of the Goddess.

It seemed wrong, somehow, even still. It was wrong. Those gathered behind these walls should know the kiss of rain as the frail flesh departed. Someone should carve their bones for them, sing their great works, remember those they loved and who loved them.

Batting away a tear, Ohjetsiä muttered a silent prayer and began to chant low into the night as fires flared off in the distance behind the wall.

In the rhythm of the dying there is life
darkness rises from the embers of life
the blood that soaks the ancient ground returns to us...