work-in-progress

[Xelitaus]

The stench of rotting flesh, the groans of the dying, the sputtering and coughing of those inflicted with the disease that was spreading rapidly through the population was enough to turn any man’s stomach, let alone a woman’s, but one could see the figure of a woman moving among the masses in the darkness, her whispers calming the sick as she gave them drink to restore the water that the fever had burned out of their thin, limp bodies. One could feel her cool fingers upon their hot, sweaty brow as she removed the warm, dry cloth from their foreheads, replacing it with a cool, damp one in an attempt to bring the temperature of the afflicted down. One could hear her weeping in the night over the corpses that she attempted to move to other areas, out of the sight of the living.

It was true that the woman was rather plain in appearance, her unruly blonde hair often tied behind her head to keep it out of her face, and one could not deny that her exhaustion made her look older than her true age. It was also true that she was very aloof, preferring to stay to herself and very rarely being seen in the shops in town. When she was spotted among the cobblestone streets or wooden walks, her stride was long, her pace quick, her brow furrowed as she darted from place to place, never saying a word to the populace, caring for nothing than the business that must be taken care of, and rarely meeting anyone’s eyes, let alone offering them a smile. With averted eyes, she would list the supplies she had need of as she dug into her coin purse, doing her best to not stutter as she stammered, her voice nervous and quiet.

Those she passed on the streets usually turned their noses up at her appearance, giving her a wide berth as the faint scent of death and decay lingered upon her tattered dress, wafting to their nostrils on the breeze like the nauseating perfume of a woman sent forth from the hells to gather victims and spread disaster and death. She would keep her eyes down, avoiding their stares and glares, and ignoring their whispers as she passed, often slipping into a shop here or there for a few moments before reappearing on the streets to return home.

The door to the run down manor opened, and once again the woman appeared in the courtyard, dirty and haggard. She glanced up at the bright sky, her blue eyes brimming with tears before she turned, scanning her surroundings, and took a deep breath, letting out a long, mournful sigh. Her slippers clicked on the cobblestone as she walked from the entryway slowly, and stopped at the gates of the manor, staring at the dancing flames of a lit torch, her hand reaching up for it. A few citizens watched her in confusion as the woman took the torch inside the manor.

Moments later, servants rushed from the manor, worry in their eyes as they came to stand in the street, turning as they watched, waiting. A few tendrils of smoke rose from the building, and one of the women began sobbing, burying her head into the chest of the man standing next to her. He absently stroked her long red hair as his brown eyes stayed glued to the front entrance, anxious as he waited, the flames growing into a raging fire as it belched a thick, black smoke into the sky, its roar becoming louder as the smoke crept across the sky, blocking the warm rays and light of the sun.

Screams erupted from within the manor, mixing with the sound of the roaring fire as it licked hungrily at the curtains, the window frames and wooden doors. Several of the servants began sobbing, some crying for their loved ones who had not made it out in time. The red-haired woman shook her head, her green eyes closing as tears streaked her dirty cheeks, "Our home, our home!"

The cleansing had begun.