Reflections of the Afflicted - The Decline of Kypros

[Thaldrac]

A journal, bound tightly in leather, kept upon the person of Kypros. Many pages have been torn out, to start anew.

Iyar 16,  IY 7787.

It is the time of Blossoms. In the dunes, I see budding colours spread rarely across the sands. I crave pick one and tuck it into a shirt, a splash of brightness. To feel the beating sun on my face, the caress of another.

But, I will not. To see the flower wilt and rot is a reminder of the affliction.

So I pluck the petals from the most fragrant, filling the small mesh bag that I hang around my neck. It is a small thing, and tries it's best to mask  the stench of that which wracks my body. It is a comfort.

What little comfort that can be had.

The ash storms blight the sands. I came as a train of those others from the Outer Rings who share the affliction - a columnar colony of the disgusting, the limping, the forgotten and shunned. The sands were not kind. Behind us, a trail of bones and blight.  Some suffered more than others, and with a rusted blade pulled from the dunes I sent them to find peace in their slumber rather than gasp their last alone. The heat and the storms were not the only dangers that lurked. Only I reached the Well, to find a place. Only among those poor and destitute did I find it. There I was nursed to what frail health remains, wrapped in white bandages to cover the marks of the affliction. The waters they let me sup from the Well hold the worst of the affliction at bay, and so I drink deep of them when I can. They showed kindness. They gave what they could, what little they had, to a man doomed to die. I have dwelled on this nightly since I arrived.

Nightly, I toss and turn, jaw clenched and breath hissing.

In return, I have donned the White League's scant adornments. Some in the League look upon me with curiosity, some disgust, but it matters little. Those bandages which I change nightly are mark enough for my loyalties, a pure white that covers maimed and lesioned skin.

Keep it hidden. Touch no-one, let no-one see.

Like the flower, I am doomed to wilt and rot, but until then I am a champion.

A series of scrawled notes follow the entry, and a small drawing in ink.

A vision of the chalice, came to me in the southerly oasis. Must it be sought, not for fame or glory, but to drench the sands? A way to lift my suffering or ease it forever?

Shisa, you are the sun. I would lay my hand upon your cheek, but I must not mar you.

Arterian and Aubrey speak with the tongues of Golds. Watch them.

Jabir, my companion. You share the same heart as I.

[Thaldrac]

Iyar 21,  IY 7787.

All around me in the Whites are preening politicians. They puff themselves up like birds to show off, and there is but Gold underneath. Arterian has come to realise this, and the perversion of the tenets of the White - but others twist what we stand for with their politicking. Ibn Ghalish was right.

The rot comes from inside.

We have traced the whereabouts of Diakos. The more I find on the trail, the less I think of him. Is he truly White, or is his soul black? Does he serve the Wyrm, and sent an assassin to stop us? I care little for the Voice as a bounty, but something deeper stirs here I would find the root of. I need to find companions I can trust, the White-Gold is of no use.

Uproot the weed. Burn it so it does not spread.

A Grey Render was summoned in the labs of the licensed, and those involved ran for help. Of all that stood there, Janissaries all, only Snorri and I took up arms to help. They are nothing but slaves to the Sultan and care little for the people. Even those that sign up to them now, I can feel the blackness in their hearts.

The affliction has halted it's progress. The waters of the Well keep it at bay, for a time, but it still wreaks havoc on me. There was word of a plague of iron, a spreading metal plague that turned a creature to metal from the inside out. Could this be the answer? Could it save me? When all is done and my duty finished, the chalice found and wrong set right, I would like to smell the flowers.

Do I want to be saved?