the first year of the plagues the priests said it was god's divine
punishment. they claimed it was a test of our faith and that those who
succumbed were sinners. the second year the priest in our village burned
down the church where the sick were being taken care of and ran into
the woods yelling about demons coming for his soul.
they
found his twisted body two weeks later, bloated and showing the
tell-tale signs of sickness, neck at an unnatural angle from his fall
down a small cliff.
slowly we returned to the old ways
of our ancestors. the priest's god had not saved him and was by no
means a mercy or comfort to us. the old gods, spirits, and creatures of
lore were more certain and benevolent by far.
by the
third year, when the spring rains brought with them news of yet more
plague spreading, we barricaded the road and did not allow strangers
into our village. we had fared better than most the previous years, but
we refused to take any chances. while the rest of the world slowly died, we tried our hardest to persevere.
