The plague weaver
The Viewpoint of a Peasant
The sun hung low in the sky, its warm glow replaced by a chilling shadow that swept through the village. I crouched behind the hay bale, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum, each beat echoing my growing dread. The air felt heavy, thick with an unspeakable tension, and I fought to stifle the urge to gasp as I peered out from my hiding place.
Across the open square, I saw him—the Plague Weaver. His presence warped the very essence of the village. Clad in tattered robes that swayed like tendrils of smoke, he stood beneath the old oak, surrounded by an unnatural darkness that seemed to pulse and writhe. I watched, horrified, as black particles poured from his eyes and mouth, swirling into the air like a flock of crows taking flight.
His lips moved, whispering incantations that twisted the very fabric of reality. Words dripped from his tongue like poison, coating the earth in a malevolent melody that sent shivers racing down my spine. I strained to hear the sound of his chants, but the words were muffled, lost in the wind that carried them away, tauntingly just out of reach.
The villagers gathered in the square, oblivious to the horror that lurked in the shadows. They laughed and shouted, going about their mundane lives, unaware that a darkness had descended upon them. I wanted to scream, to warn them, but my throat felt thick and raw, paralyzed by fear. If I stepped out from behind the hay bale, I would surely become a target of the Weaver’s dark magic.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air, cutting through the laughter like a blade. One of the children—little Elysia—clutched her stomach and fell to her knees, her eyes wide with confusion and pain. It was then that the horror of the Plague Weaver's power became clear. The black particles in the air began to drift towards the villagers, settling like a dark fog that clung to their skin.
I pressed my back against the hay, my breath shallow as I watched them succumb, their laughter fading into coughing fits and gasps for breath. Panic rippled through the crowd, and chaos erupted. The townsfolk stumbled, hands grasping at their throats, their faces contorting in agony as the Weaver’s curse took hold.
I knew I should do something—anything—but my limbs felt like lead. What could a peasant do against such dark magic? I was but a simple farmer, unarmed and defenseless, while the Plague Weaver unleashed his blight with the ease of a farmer sowing seeds.
With each passing moment, the darkness spread, seeping into the very ground we walked upon. I watched in horror as families fell apart, mothers screaming for their children, husbands reaching for their wives. It was a nightmarish scene, and I was paralyzed by the fear that coursed through me. Would I be next?
But even as the horror unfolded, a part of me was captivated by the spectacle of it all. The Plague Weaver stood there, a dark figure wielding powers beyond comprehension, his chant echoing in my ears like a twisted lullaby. I felt a strange allure in the chaos, a haunting beauty in the darkness he commanded. It was terrifying, yet I could not tear my eyes away.
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The Tale of the Plague Weaver
Tamas, a young street boy from the underbelly of the city, had always been the subject of mockery and abuse. The worst of his tormentors was a red wizard apprentice, who, along with his friends, made Tamas' life a daily struggle. The bullying grew worse with each passing day, until one day, the apprentice took it too far. Tamas was beaten unconscious, but not before he managed to yank a small lock of hair from his tormentor's head—a trophy of survival in the face of his greatest humiliation.
When Tamas finally awoke from the savage beating, weeks had passed, but his rage had only grown stronger. Revenge seemed impossible, as his tormentor belonged to a powerful order of wizards. Desperate for any hope of striking back, he recalled the dark legends of Black Eden—a sinister and forgotten sect, spoken of only in hushed tones to scare disobedient children or warn the foolhardy. They were not avengers of wrongs, but ancient wielders of cursed magic, long since vanished from history. Though many believed them to be just a tale of darkness, whispers told of their rituals still lingering, waiting for those brave or foolish enough to seek them out.
Tamas, driven by hatred, sought out the abandoned ruins where the Black Eden altar was said to reside. Hidden deep within the crumbling city, the altar remained undisturbed, a remnant of times darker than the present. Ignoring the cold dread that clung to the air, Tamas made his sacrifice. He took a chicken, slit its throat, and allowed the blood to pool on the stone slab. With trembling hands, he used the crimson liquid to draw a circle on the altar, placing the red wizard apprentice's hair in the center. Lighting a candle, he began the chant:
“Plague Weaver, Plague Weaver, do my bidding.”
Over and over he spoke the words, his mind clouded with anger and thoughts of revenge, focusing on the face of his tormentor. But as the candle flickered and died, nothing happened. Tamas stood in silence, waiting for a sign. When none came, he left the altar disappointed, sure that the stories had been nothing more than old wives' tales.
Two nights later, in the manor where the red wizard apprentice studied, a swarm of dark particles formed in the sky. They gathered like a storm cloud, swirling and coiling, before descending upon the manor. Inside, the apprentice lay in his bed, oblivious to the looming terror above. As the black mist seeped into his room, the apprentice awoke to the sound of a low, inhuman whisper.
The Plague Weaver had arrived.
Dark magic filled the room as the shadowy figure loomed over the apprentice’s bed. Flies began pouring from his nose, buzzing in a horrifying chorus. Cockroaches crawled from his ears, scurrying over his face and chest. Blood dripped from his eyes as his body writhed in agony. Inside, the insects multiplied, devouring him from the inside out, tearing at his flesh and bone. The apprentice's screams were short-lived, drowned out by the chittering swarm that consumed him. By morning, only a pile of bones remained where the apprentice had slept.
The Plague Weaver had fulfilled its task, summoned not by justice, but by the ancient, cruel powers of Black Eden, leaving devastation in its wake.
Entered by: 0x712b…E85C
