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Five years ago, humanity died.
Some say the plague started in the south, in Chevil. Others say it was first seen in Skarhold in the north. In these journals, I’ll record only what I know to be the truth: that once it began, there was no stopping it. It burned through the five kingdoms like a fire, killing kings and peasants alike. What’s left of us cannot truly be called humanity.
The symptoms are as such: a rash that begins first between the toes or the fingers. As it spreads up over the arms, it eats away at the bones. Often, within a week, teeth fall from the sufferer’s jaw. It is impossible for the body to support itself. Once the infected has lost the ability to move on their own, the body succumbs. Pustules follow. A burning in the bowels. The tongue swells. And then, ultimately, death follows, within two weeks.
I write this down so that you might know. If there’s anyone left to read these writings.
We do not know yet what brought this fate upon us. Whether it was the judgment of the gods or the cruelty of a necromancer. We don’t know if it will come back.
In this journal, I record the truth of those of us left, we few survivors. We peasants made kings. This is the journal of Agapios, once of Tira, bard to the last great king.