Smoke & Herbs

Written by World Smithy

Those afflicted with The Gray Rot are no longer with us, despite what their strained voices may try to say. Final rites are reserved for those that are still able to hear them, I'm afraid. Those spores are incredibly flammable, so I must ensure that not a single one clings to my clothing before administering the cure. Plumebearer, comfort their souls, for I cannot.

— Waldemar Ueberroth

Leaves and branches that hung low over the muddy path were obscured through the thin haze within Waldemar's beaked mask. He scratched at the edges where the heat and travel had chafed his face. Lavender, mint, thyme, and rose hung heavy in his nose, burning into his eyes and lungs. Anything was better than breathing in the spores of the Lichomyces reticulatus growths that had cropped up throughout the Jorkudu Vale. That damnable lattice-like mycelial menace, The Gray Rot, had claimed too many lives as is.

Ny'Olonis, the small village that rested at the end of the path south east of Esari, was covered in fungal growths. Small clusters of gray, spore-coated mushrooms littered the ground, spewing clouds of spores when disturbed. Waldemar passed the village's bakery, long abandoned and boarded over either to keep looters out, or the unfortunates who turned into a Mycelian in. Not a single chimney exhaled smoke, not a single window was illuminated, nor a single lantern was burning along the beaten road. I believe these country bumpkins will not be pleased to see me, despite being their only salvation.

Waldemar carried a large bag in one gloved hand, softly clattering with all manner of glass jars and odd tools, along with a large staff in the other. A polished, glass orb containing a raven's head in profile surrounded by a radiant sun topped the blackened staff. His tail swished idley behind him beneath a heavy great coat, obscured from view. Two, curled horns spiraled from either side of his head through long and braided icy blue hair. Only a small sliver of the exposed, blue skin of his neck peeked above the coat's collar. No, they will not be pleased to see an Infernal such as myself sent as their only hope.

He approached the heavy oak door of a larger cottage deep within the village and rapped the orb against the wood twice. Slowly, the door opened to reveal a woman standing there, her skin pale and damp with sweat. Bags had formed under her eyes, likely due from sleep deprivation, and she seemed on the verge of collapse. She swept strands of her blonde hair out of her face and recoiled as she took in Waldemar's appearance, her eyes lingering on the mask bleeding smoke.

“Mrs. Eshantè, I trust you have prepared your husband for examination?” Waldemar asked, pushing past the tired woman into her humble abode.

Mrs. Eshantè stepped out of his way, stammering, “O-of course, d-doctor! Allow m-me to show you to him.”

She covered her mouth and moved to a side table, picking up a stick of incense before trudging towards a room in the back. She held the incense close to her nose and cupped her face, taking slow and shallow breaths. He followed her, tapping the silver cap at the bottom of his staff on the creaking floorboards. The orb softly glowed a dull golden hue and a small bubble grew from it, eventually shielding both of them as Mrs. Eshantè opened the bedroom door.

Mycelial roots crawled along the walls of the room, centered on a writhing fungal mass resting on the remains of an old bed. Spores clouded the room, obscuring the aged artworks hanging on the peeling walls. A single, humanoid hand jutted out of the pile of mushroom caps and tangled roots, its fingers jittering at the disturbance in the room. A long, shuddering breath emanated from beneath the mass and the hand clenched, grasping at the air.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Eshantè,” Waldemar started, taking a step back, “There is nothing I can do for him in this advanced stage. You should have warned me he was this far gone.” Smoke cleared from his vision for but a moment as he looked towards her, pity radiating from his eyes as he tapped the staff twice on the wooden floor. A halo of golden fire erupted around his head. “You, and whomever else remains, must vacate Ny'Olonis. I must administer the only known cure, and I do not wish for those untainted to be caught in the aftermath.”