Imizael Volkov. Dispelled by a priest. Clawed by a ghoul. Battered by a blunt instrument. Executed by a spear. Powerful curse cast upon her not long before her death, but the curse had faded or was otherwise left incomplete by the time of her autopsy.
Other details, best left unwritten.
You have my condolences about the disfavor of the Wyld. I might recommend that you make a plea to the Wroth to adopt you as his own; his morbid sense of justice might suit your priorities better.
It's taken some doing, but we've gradually learned more about the red potion that Lucia was ruining herself with. Our first encounter with it, before we knew what it was, came about from unknown actors distributing it among the hapless refugees invited in by Ricario's folly. A few scores of them had taken shelter in a vacant property. Most of them were dead by the time the Janissaries opened the doors; the few that yet lived, dying, kept muttering again and again about a "drink" we found half-empty in their hands. Hand-dug tunnels had broken open the tiled floors and burrowed straight down, crude passages choked wall-to-wall with mindless undead monsters that used to be men, women, and children.
We have since had ample time to study specimens of the "Dretch Drink." As you've no doubt inferred already, it builds up cumulatively in the imbiber's system like the Sibylline Drink does, but the corruption is much more blatant and far more profane. Every dose rots away more of your humanity until nothing remains but a broken slave, bound forever after to whatever necromancer is behind this.
We're not sure if we can reverse the process. We are willing to try if Lucia has some regrets about her decaying organs, but it would come at no small risk to the patient.
We don't know where it's coming from. None of the guttersnipes found in possession of the Dretch Drink have been able to speak coherently on the matter. The Sibylline Priory, the House of Baharu, and the Dread Rock are obvious suspects, each unambiguously capable of brewing this blight in forceful quantity, but there's no solid evidence pointing in any of these directions. For all we truly know, it could be the madness of an obscure renegade.
Whatever your poor life choices, I doubt that you approve of how this filth has preyed upon the downtrodden.
Apothar Mevura
Other details, best left unwritten.
You have my condolences about the disfavor of the Wyld. I might recommend that you make a plea to the Wroth to adopt you as his own; his morbid sense of justice might suit your priorities better.
It's taken some doing, but we've gradually learned more about the red potion that Lucia was ruining herself with. Our first encounter with it, before we knew what it was, came about from unknown actors distributing it among the hapless refugees invited in by Ricario's folly. A few scores of them had taken shelter in a vacant property. Most of them were dead by the time the Janissaries opened the doors; the few that yet lived, dying, kept muttering again and again about a "drink" we found half-empty in their hands. Hand-dug tunnels had broken open the tiled floors and burrowed straight down, crude passages choked wall-to-wall with mindless undead monsters that used to be men, women, and children.
We have since had ample time to study specimens of the "Dretch Drink." As you've no doubt inferred already, it builds up cumulatively in the imbiber's system like the Sibylline Drink does, but the corruption is much more blatant and far more profane. Every dose rots away more of your humanity until nothing remains but a broken slave, bound forever after to whatever necromancer is behind this.
We're not sure if we can reverse the process. We are willing to try if Lucia has some regrets about her decaying organs, but it would come at no small risk to the patient.
We don't know where it's coming from. None of the guttersnipes found in possession of the Dretch Drink have been able to speak coherently on the matter. The Sibylline Priory, the House of Baharu, and the Dread Rock are obvious suspects, each unambiguously capable of brewing this blight in forceful quantity, but there's no solid evidence pointing in any of these directions. For all we truly know, it could be the madness of an obscure renegade.
Whatever your poor life choices, I doubt that you approve of how this filth has preyed upon the downtrodden.
Apothar Mevura