Arethe von Gratch's Story

Ivory stared ahead, her body shaking, a trauma she had recently experienced causing her own self to be mildly shocked. She felt drained, fatigued, and she wished for that memory to be banished from her own mind, but relentlessly, she ventured on. What she had witnessed was the death of a fellow citizen, one having the sickness, their pale skin, the dark boils and bruises among their skin—and for a cure to be found, it was almost pathetic for the doctors to continue their own research. Ivory needed to settle herself somewhere, whether it be in the confines of a cold ditch, or the main trail she walked upon, leading back to the town. For being such a noble figure to the town, she hadn't done such a good deed to the many beings who stared at her, expecting her to do some triumphant, god-like action. She hadn't saved the poor boy, she stood there, her eyes wide and her hands clutching the fabric of her cloak. Ivory wasn't sure if it had been shocked by the slow crumbling of his own lifeless body, or the fact that she knew that she could not do anything. It was horrible, which had led her to the mountain trails, which did not belong to Watchers, but rather the merchants and soldiers, a band which stretched far out to the North, nearing a harbor which was merely deserted ever since the land started dying.

"Damn it." Ivory muttered, clenching her fists as she paced back and forth, an action which she had been doing upon the path for the past twenty minutes. She hadn't expected much, if she was internally hoping for a Watcher to pursue her and question what was wrong, or a civilian to tell her it wasn't her fault, she was lost in her own conscience. It was all her fault, although it naturally wasn't, as she could not get it through her head that she had witnessed the death of a young boy, who could have gotten far in a career, whether it be as a doctor or a mere, petty blacksmith. Clutching her head, she finalized her decision, descending the steep hill. How foolish of me, to go running up here like a stubborn, little schoolgirl who didn't get what she wanted. I am pathetic, that is what I am. I shouldn't even be a Watcher, for I am such a degradation to our little group that barely even manages. Pity, anger, distraught, they were combining throughout her mind, creating a storm of emotions. The townspeople would judge her, they would spit at her feet, they would go through with physical contact, punching out her teeth, pummeling her skull until it was a fine pulp, but when she arrived at the town, holding her breath, no one even bothered. It was the same, dreary, depressed atmosphere. Nothing had changed, none had gained anger, for they were all too lazy to bother with such an excessive emotion.

Ivory heaved a sigh. She would have to contact some form of a Watcher, but she hadn't an idea how. It was likely they were all asleep, or they wouldn't even bother opening their door, discovering Ivory to be pouting on their porch. Instead of taking any action, she sat on a wooden bench. Perhaps a Watcher, when woken, would discover Ivory and speak to her—or not. She hadn't an idea of what would follow her sitting pathetically on the bench.

Ferrous gasped for breath after pulling his head out of a barrel which was collecting water from gutters hanging on the nearby inn, his eyes wide with panic. He holds himself up by the mouth of the barrel, his legs weak from what he had just gone through... Or thought he went through, he didn't know anymore, everything in his head was jumbled roughly together and he had no idea how to make sense of it anymore. He takes a moment to breath and stare at his own reflection in the water he looms over, hoping it would give him clarity. "Ugh... Gods damn my heart." He finally speaks, grasping at his chest with one hand and leaning the rest of his weight on his elbow instead. His memory finally begins to repair itself, the past hitting him like a pallet of bricks dropped from a tower. Warm summer days with friends, time spent scaring away gypsies and settlers, training sessions in the militia, fights and brawls with local bullies, a childhood he had spent well. He remembered his friends, the term "watcher" drifted into his mind, but then came their names along with his own. "Sorn, Ivory, Arethe, Bambi... Ferrous." But these memories weren't the ones that scared him so, no, it was what happened next that made him ill. They all died, one-by-one, until it was only Sorn and himself left, his best friend was all that remained. He knew the plague was dangerous, but his parents and himself, they were hardy folk who were at least resistant to it's effects.

He then remembers a riot, scared people who were afflicted and quarantined in the poor-district, they tried to escape and the guard was mobilized to keep them back. That night he was with his best and last friend, the half-drow, knocking skulls of a few brats who thought it was fun to pick on his best friend, but he was called away to help with the riot... He was one of the first to go in, and at first the wall of halberds kept the crowd at bay, but then a few of the plagued-wretches started throwing things, and Ferrous took a firepot directly to his face. He screamed in agony and clawed at his face, trying to peel away the boiling oil and burning pitch from his skin, but to no avail, it took him minutes to finally die, and he was in pure horror for every moment of it.

He snaps back to reality, his face is now pale and he broke out in a cold sweat. "Gods... What is this?" He moves a hand up to his face, feeling his cheeks and with a sigh of relief finds them to be as blemish-free as the morning before that horrific event. His mind begins to race with thought, something clicked in his mind, the word "watchers" appeared over and over again, and he knew what he had to do. "I gotta find them... Whoever they are..." He stepped away from the barrel, looking behind himself to find his trusty halberd leaning up against the wall he awoke to find himself leaning against. He grabs it and hurries off into town, a haunted look in his face.