Interlude One - Prophecy Fulfilled
General Summary
The year, 4702 AR.
The sun made an uncharacteristic appearance in the sky over Ustalav, casting a warm, golden glow over the quaint village with its cobblestone streets winding between rows of charming, thatched-roof cottages. Chickens pecked at the ground while children played, their laughter mingling with the distant sound of a blacksmith's hammer.
Entere Jophiah, in his early 20s, with an unmistakable air of humility and contentment despite his threadbare clothes and the noticeable blemishes marring his otherwise youthful face. His bright, observant eyes took in the beauty of the simple life around him. He strolled with a light, almost jaunty step, greeting the villagers with a smile and a nod, receiving warm responses in return.
As Jophiah walked, he paused to help an elderly woman carry her basket, shared a joke with a group of boisterous children, and tossed a coin he could barely spare into a beggar's cup. His actions, though small, left a trail of smiles and gratitude in his wake.
Jophiah's heart was a drum, beating a rhythm of exhilaration as he stepped towards the edge of the bustling town. Today, he was more than a mere blacksmith's son; he was the chosen one, the harbinger of a new era. His fingers danced over the rough fabric of his satchel, touching the side occasionally just to reassure himself that the contents were still there.
The town, oblivious to the monumental shift about to occur, was alive with the innocent laughter of children. Their joyous shrieks pierced the air, a symphony of hope and promise. Jophiah inhaled deeply, the air tasting of fresh beginnings and untainted futures. Today, he thought to himself, I'll rewrite our destiny.
As he walked, the town's edges blurred into the wilderness, the sounds of civilization fading into a serene silence. His mind wandered to the day he told the others that he was going to find the Crimson Covenant's forgotten temple. They all wanted to find it, but he had a feeling it was going to be him. And not only was his feeling right, but inside the temple he found the Jar of Blessings, its surface etched with ancient runes, untouched by time's cruel hand. The others had been jealous of the discovery. Jophiah was going to be the one to pave the road ahead. The others would merely follow it, and continue his legacy.
Just before reaching the tree line, Jophiah stopped and turned around. He looked at the sleepy little village, the rows of houses, the children playing kickball on the road a few hundred feet away. He took in the image, as if committing it to memory.
"This is it," he whispered to himself, a smile tugging at his lips. "In shadows, flames, and scales, we prevail. Long live the Ebon Triad."
With trembling hands, he carefully set down the satchel and withdrew the rune covered Jar of Blessings. He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding against his chest like a caged bird. Then, with a deep breath, he opened the jar.
At first, there was nothing. Then, a red mist, like the blood of a dying sun, seeped from the jar's mouth. It swirled in the air, a dance of death masquerading as beauty. Jophiah's eyes widened in horror and fascination as the mist brushed against his lips, like an icy kiss. Jophiah breathed it in with a shuddering breath and the mist disappeared inside his body.
For a moment, Jophiah felt a cool sensation grow in his chest. Then, without warning, pain speared through Jophiah, relentless and savage. Pustules erupted within him, blooming and bursting in a grotesque symphony of torment in his lungs, his throat, and his mouth. Each one was a star in the dark sky of his suffering, all of them charting a course towards his ruin.
A triumphant scream, alien and chilling, sliced through his consciousness, shredding his thoughts like paper in a tempest. The jar fell from his hand and clattered to the ground. Agony twisted in his bones and Jophiah crumpled to the ground beside the jar, his expression a twisted tapestry of pain and bewilderment, his body contorting as if life itself was being wrenched from his grasp.
Tears, stained with the crimson of his blood, trickled down his cheeks. There he lay, eyes vacant, a silent scream caught in his throat, strangled by the blood that flooded his lungs. His attempt to cry out, to give voice to his suffering, was lost in the maelstrom of his own failing body. A moment later, a final shudder, and Jophiah was still.
The mist, no longer contained by any vessel, billowed outward from Jophiah’s nostrils, hungry and unrelenting. It slithered across the ground, like a red tide of destruction.
In the distance, the laughter of the children continued, innocent and unaware. The mist, now a monstrous cloud, surged towards them, an unstoppable force born from Jophiah's folly.
Afterward, an eerie hush fell over the town. The laughter of children, the hustle and bustle of daily life, all of it was gone. Silence blanketed the streets like a dark shroud. Laughter would no longer grace this place. The
Red Death had returned, and Ustalav would never be the same again.
Report Date
20 Nov 2023
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