DATE: January 5th, Year 2
LOCATION: The Grand Palace Cathedral
TIME: 10:00 A.M.
It was for the Saints that they gathered, for the promise of hope that was entailed in the title. Into the cathedral they herded themselves, faithful sheep that longed for a shepherd that would deliver them from their suffering – as a person, as a people, and as a nation. As a nation they were represented in the pews of the grand cathedral of Os Alta, in the back sat the peasants, the farmers whose clothes were torn and frayed, the cobblers whose hands were roughened with work, the blacksmiths who carried with them the scent of a furnace burning, the sailors whose faces were weathered with sun and wind, and the First Army soldiers who shifted uneasily from foot to foot, faces upturned in equal parts hope and scrutiny. Closer to the stairs of the altar were those whom had their servants, both human and Grisha, stake their seating out for them. In their finery and silks they sat with quiet, excited muttering rippling from them like a drop of rain in a pond. It would start with one word from this lady or that lieutenant, muted talk that bespoke trepidation and nerves. They were here for the Saints and they were here for the reassurance that the plight that they had been so unduly handed would soon be ended with the blessing of those above. But that is a lot to ask from those whose bones were eaten by the earth and whose souls were as far to reach as the stars in the skies.
There was one whose reach was much closer, whose reach was as far reaching as the winds that swept through the cathedral on occasion, filling the lungs and caressing the faces of peasant and noble alike.
She did not bring blessings, though. What she brought was terror, was damnation, was curse and abomination.
It did not come in a furious gale, like one might have suspected. It did not come as a ruthless wind that tore the roof of the cathedral and stripped the breath of life from the lungs of the faithful. As gentle as the hands that bade it, as inconspicuous as the dust that catches a person’s eye as the sun turns it gold. No one noticed, for their eyes were turned towards the Apparat that made his way to the podium, his movements like that of a phantom, his features like that of a shrewd rat. He squinted at the flock that was gathered beneath the podium, his eyes lingering on the individuals that occupied the balconies. Selected members of the Second Army, the Darkling and the Sun Summoner who sat at his side. Across from them sat the beloveds of Ravka, the Lantsovs whose names was almost as ageless as the book that sat was open in front of him, the Book of Saints.
Anastasia fidgeted in their seat, their eyes always glancing at those who gathered beneath their balcony, their eyes shifting away whenever they met one of the peasant’s. Viktor need not glance at those beneath him, so he sat stoically next to his siblings, lips pursed in a look that could only be described as distasteful. Contrarily, his brother sat next to him with a look of effortless ease, one which was not mirrored in the least by his personal guard or his advisor. The two women seemed equal parts unhappy and apprehensive, Iskra’s expression carrying one more than the other. But, whoever could be unhappy sitting next to the great Sankta herself?
The people looked up surreptitiously every couple of seconds, as though they could not believe what their own eyes were telling them: a new age was dawning on the fingertips of all those who gathered above them.
Slowly, a smile crept on the Apparat face, easing its way there like a wolf’s when it has found its crippled prey. Little did he know, that with this smile he invited death, that as he inhaled to let his voice bellow out a great sermon, death clung to each and every one of his words. As did the people who worshipped beneath his feet.
“People of Ravka,” he began, his fingers slowly curling around the edges of the podium as he leaned forward. “Let us recall that we are often punished as a means of repentance. What did your father and mother make you do when you tarnished your room, your home? When you, in your impudence and selfishless had little thought for the cleanliness of your household? Did they allow you to wallow in your filth, to bask in living as a pig might – in a den of castoff and mud? Bah.” He sneered, lip curling in disdain. For he knew there to be sinners sitting in this hallowed place that did just that. Soldiers who frequented the houses of the night, nobles who indulged too often in spirit and wine, peasants who deserved not even the scraps of a dog.
There was a gentle cough in the crowd, the sound of uncomfortable shifting – guilty glances cast, heads bowed in shame. They were used to his sermons of fire and brimstone, yet it did little to alleviate the guilt that colored their cheeks pink, that made them glance away from the sharp features of the Apparat. His eyes glared down at the congregation of the faithful, the sweat on his brow there for all to see. He could very well sweat blood for the whole of Ravka, proving to them that repentance for their sins was necessary and imminent. Yet, even then, they were likely to continue in their path towards condemnation.
“You think that because your Sankta has arrived, that she will pay the price for your transgressions. But no one can cast that burden from your soul,” suddenly, her inhaled a ragged breath, the knuckles of his hands white as they gripped the podium, “not even a Sankta who was meant to burn it away with her everlasting light.”
And with that, he fell to the ground. Dead.
DATE: January 9th, Year 2
LOCATION: The Grand Palace War Room
TIME: 8:00 A.M.
A couple of days later and they still do not know how the Apparat died. He showed no sign of foul play, although his attendants filled in some of the lingering questions. The man had been in unstable health due to a fever that had been plaguing him for the last week. They had, apprehensively, elaborated on how it had began, how his ghosts had plagued him, and how he had recovered - only to die. It all begins with a fever, they murmured, with your skin growing hot as a furnace, with sweat coating your skin. Sleep is stolen away from you, because fevered dreams would be too merciful. Instead, you are subjected to laying with your eyes open, ‘til they grow red with weariness. It is then and only then that your demons haunt you, plague you for all the wrongs you have committed. Fire and brimstone, hellfire and screams of agony. Their mouths shut, they avoided each other’s gaze. Then, they quickly made their leave, the dark circles under their eyes the only hint of grief that they were willing to give. It was all the gossip of the Os Alta as to who would be the new Apparat, but the discussions of their superiors were less inclined towards religion and more inclined to politics.
Politics and warfare, for the two often went hand-in-hand.
“We can’t have blatant animosity between both the Fjerdans and the Shu Han,” Konstantin said impatiently, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl.”We are choked by that scar upon our coastline and demons who want our blood surround us and wait for our death.”
“You think I don’t know that, general?” the Crown Prince asked quietly, brow arching as he studied the man. If he had glanced to his right, he would have seen the satisfied twitch of his brother’s lips, but instead he gazed steadily at the man.
Ilya and Maksim glanced at one another, before turning their attention back to the map that took up the entirety of the table. The whole of Ravka laid out before everyone’s eyes, with those who held its future under their thumb gathered around it. Including the messenger boy in the corner of the room, whose eyes were dark and red, whose fingers twitched and trembled. Iskra had been watching him the whole time from her nook in the corner, eyes unblinking as they studied him. Her arms were crossed as she leaned against the wall, exchanging glances with Inessa who was across from her every so often. The bickerings between the men gathered in the room, Arisha chiming in every so often. But, as all things do, they eventually quieted down - many of the people gathered somewhat breathless, undeniably red in the face.
“We should have invited the ambassadors,” one spat.
“To do what except dangle the prospect of all out war in our faces?” hissed another.
The boy’s eyes flickered and fretted, his fingers slowly curling into claws.
“These matters are best discussed between us,” Viktor said. “Including anyone else would have been a sign of vulnerability – the extra counsel unnecessary as well as unwarranted.”
“The only counsel needed is mine.” Arisha said, her voice sharp and firm, her eyes daring anyone to claim otherwise.
Iskra glanced away from the boy, eyes flickering towards Arisha, then to Anton.
“I think we should have brought the Sun Summoner.” All the heads turned to her, her gaze holding Anton’s. “She’s just as much a part of Ravka’s future as the Crown Prince’s.”
Maksim cleared his throat.
But the tension in the room was broken by the man who burst in, Feliks - and with the open door came the sound of a bell tolling, confusion quickly marring the looks of everyone gathered in the room as they stood up. Iskra and Inessa moved to the Crown Prince’s and the prince’s sides, their hands already on their swords. Before saying a word, Feliks glanced around the room, looked at the boy and grabbed him by his throat, forcibly throwing him out of the room with little more than a blink. The sound of footsteps running up and down the hall, people shouting this and that - mayhem, utter mayhem ruled over the Grand Palace. Grabbing one of the bottles of spirit from the buffet table, he poured it over the hand he had used to grab the boy with, still not having said a single word. As he wiped his hand against his uniform pants, he looked up until his eyes met that of his future king and the fellow guards.
He walked over to the three, bowed, then whispered to the Crown Prince. Anton’s lips thinned, his jaw clenching as he closed his eyes briefly before nodding. Turning to the table that had been holding their breath since Feliks first entered, he met the eyes of every person in the room. When he opened his lips, they expected him to say that there had been an attack, that blatant war was finally upon them all and Ravka had no choice but to defend itself until it broke a part. Perhaps their ships had been attacked by parents, maybe they had lost someone else to the Fold. But what came from his lips was much more dreaded, was much worse.
“Plague.”
OVERVIEW: All characters are affected by this plague. The least affected are the Grisha, but they still suffer from the symptoms. As far as the medics know, there seem to be three stages of the plague:
Stage One: The Onset
Raised temperature
Insomnia
Profuse sweating -- often leading to dehydration
Inexplicable twitching and trembling -- muscle spasms
Stage Two: The Demons
Onset of hallucinations -- typically deceased loved ones
Stage Three: Death
Disappearance of symptoms, often times resulting in death
The fever escalates over the span of a week for humans, about 13 to 14 days for Grisha, and there have been cases of recovery, although they are few and far between. The most affected at this moment are the lower class of Os Alta, the working class on the outskirts of the city. Anton has ordered Corporalki healers to gather in the cathedral and tend to those the best that they can while Alkemi and the Grand Palace’s healers attempt to create a cure. Please date interactions between JANUARY 10TH and JANUARY 17TH. Also, please check your inboxes every couple of days in case some tasks or clues have been assigned to your characters. You may tag this event as EVENT: PLAGUE. We hope you all have fun with this event!
date: january 14th, year 2
location: grand palace cathedral
time: 9:20 pm
availability: open to all
The plague seemed to swirl and eddy without warning, like an invisible smoke within the walls of Os Alta and everywhere it went carrion followed soon after—the poor falling dead and prostrate on the streets of the capital while the rich die as comfortably as they could in their homes ( if one considered going mad and hallucinating their demons anywhere close to comfortable ). Wave after wave, the death toll mounted as if a gruesome Sankt swept the kingdom and called home the faithful and the faithless, to what end, even Arina could not fathom for which Sankt devoured so ravenously and so mercilessly.
The ill and plague stricken families spilled and overflowed from the infirmaries having nowhere else to go for a cure, a cure which the Alkemi and Healers were tasked to concoct. A miracle in a vial. Making poisons was easy compared to reversing its effects and less so remedying a plague the likes of which have not been seen in a long while. The first batches of treatment have been distributed but only time will tell of its effectiveness. Until then, the otkazat’sya will slowly continue to fall like ants, the Grisha slightly more well off.
"What an odd feeling saving a life is…” she muttered under her breath as she prepped the next batch of miracles in neat syringes on a medical tray. It was no different from one of her experiments—she had an objective and was aware of the variables, one of which she was suffering. “Saints,” she cursed just as quietly as she put down the needle with shaking fingers. Stage one. Without a doubt, she knew the symptoms were manifesting slowly but surely.
She watched as her fingers trembled, unable to do anything other than let it pass when she became aware of a presence watching her. As fluidly as she could, she let her hands fall to her sides, hiding her trembling digits behind her. “What do you need?”
