Against the chorus of countless voices in unison, as though a massive gathering at a market place had taken place, church bells rang as far as the straight and pedestrian-filled streets of Erthyl travelled, swimming against the current of voices.
Once beautiful white and grey brick homes, each with three stories distinguished by their narrow, broken rectangular windows, lay side by side, leaving little to no room for even a squirrel to pass through, save for the rubble of the fine handiwork of hardworking men. Adding on to their ravaged beauty were the designs of dried blood scattered aimlessly across the houses, staining the plain bricks, as though someone meant to paint the houses a new colour, but went mad in the process.
The stench of blood, decaying, and burning bodies reeked throughout the narrow, cobble streets of Erthyl. Churchlike rooftop finials littered the ground, and men worked hard, cleaning up the mess.
Although the orange and partly cloudy sky—one that looked like an artist created out of watercolour, indicating a day not too old—men embroidered in lavish and shiny red coats approached what little remained of working gas lamps, turning them on for the coming evening.
Alongside such distinguishable people were those who bore an impoverished look, wearing ripped, black overcoats. Under it, black ragged waistcoats and grey trousers. They heaved large and heavy bags into the trunks of stagecoaches, causing them to bounce up and down with how heavy the bags were.
The denizens of a once—or perhaps never—lively town fled in the stagecoaches, unable to live in such a place of ruin, as madmen walked around chanting:
"Fear the Black Sun! Fear the Black Sun!"
Their chants were followed by maniac laughter until a nasty and dry cough would drown out their voices.
But even so, many did not have the liberty of simply choosing to leave, unlike the others and instead, had no choice but to barricade themselves inside their decaying homes. While most of those fleeing also shared a look of poverty, no such look would spare anyone in a time of ruin; not even the nobles—with all the coin to pay the costs of repairs ten times over—could bring themselves back to their reputable status.
Of course, however, there were always the few who remained lucky, or so that's how the rumours would go, if anyone buys into that in such a time of despair.
"Noblemen lucky enough to be this far out in Erthyl and 'ave manors unscathed by the scourge, ye say?" a man yelled, in a rather thick accent with his gruff voice, wearing a sweaty top hat that lost its shape. "Blimey! 'Tis nothin' but a lie I tell ya! Nothin' but a lie you're bein' fed, Ulger!"
"By the one named Sabaoth, hold your tongue, Wendell!" Ulger yelled back in an equally thick accent, as he quickly looked around from one side to the other, darting his head around like a bird's as his body trembled. His clothes, once a pristine, brilliant white shirt and pants, and a green waistcoat, were now ripped, damp with sweat, and stained with black markings.
"Oi!" yelled one of the men wearing a red coat. He walked over from a gas lamp, removing his baton from its holster as he added:
"What's all this ruckus about huh? Scourge got to your feeble minds?"
"N-no, good watcher… sir," stammered Ulger, cowering behind raised hands as he averted his gaze from the wrath of the watcher, joined by Wendell. "Forgive us old geezers, please. We're but two friends havin' a good ol' talk, ya know?"
The watchman, annoyed at the sight of the two old men cowering, holstered his baton as he stared them down, before slowly walking away.
"Best ye feeble minds get out of here while ye can," said the watchman, glaring at the old men from the corner of his eye, over his shoulder. "Not much need to take care of ya if the scourge makes its way back. It's Totalis this year 'round."
"Sabaoth's grace be with ye, watcher," replied Ulger, letting down his guard as he watched the watcher walk off, before mumbling, "lousy twat," under his breath. He quickly took his attention to his friend as he leaned forward and whispered:
"Oi, ye can't be yellin' 'round like that no matter where ye go! Those nobles will have it off with your head. For Sabaoth's sake, even the crazy pilgrims don't speak a word 'bout the nobles 'round other folk like us!"
"Piss off, Ulger," said Wendell, waving his hand over his shoulder as he too walked off. "It's 'cause of people like ye that we're all sufferin', 'cept those nobles. Ye bloody bastards can't even save face and stand up for your own rights!"
"Come on, lad, what are we commoners s'posed to do? It's not like I don't understand ya."
"I don't give a shite… Too old and blind for this mess," Wendell mumbled, looking back up the street and watching Ulger stare back at him. "Best try an' save yourself while ya can, Ulger. Like that watcher been sayin', 'tis Totalis this year 'round… Sabaoth be with ye, old friend."
He walked off, leaving his friend Ulger to only stare, helplessly.
Ulger, not too fond of the idea of staying put, decided to leave as well, walking up the street that carried along with it the pungent smell of a coppery metallic burn as he drew ever so near to the sight of a public cremation of hundreds of corpses.
To his left, a shore that reflected the bright orange sky, as though it were on fire, where those who could afford an escape by boat did so, heaving whatever belongings and family they could gather.
To his right, none other than the poor laying along the rubble filled streets, homeless and starving to the bone. They begged for any help; to be spared a shred of mercy, only to be returned with a silence filled by the cries of children.
Some resorted to cutting off their limbs and using such sickening methods just to feed themselves and their children. Some were beaten off the streets, regardless of what state they were in. Even if one had no means to travel long distances by stagecoach or boat, Erthyl had no desire for letting people just loiter around.
"Three hundred years ago and that's all life has to offer ya," mumbled Ulger, shaking his head as he stared at the cobble road. His heart sank for those who had no means to be better off. "Maybe that old chap is right abou—"
"Sabaoth's favour be with you, Mister Ulger!"
The old man looked up upon being abruptly cut off by the sound of a lively voice, unlike everyone else. Up ahead, a young man walked towards him, staring into his brown and lively eyes.
Truly, his face was a shining light in the face of darkness. Where everyone was gloomy and reeked of nothing but despair, this young man single handedly seemed to radiate a joyous aura, no matter how terrible the environment was.
"Ah! May Sabaoth's favour be with ya as well, laddie," Ulger replied, smiling as though his mood went up upon hearing such a cheerful voice. He patted the young man's shoulder as he asked:
"What drags ye out of Sir Bertrand's manor? He hasn't been causin' ya too much trouble now, has he?"
He studied the young man, who wore clothes in a far better shape than most. He wore pristine brown trousers with braces and a white buttoned shirt. Certainly, his clothing was what should've been the standard for the denizens of Erthyl, though the opposite held true.
The young man chuckled in a light-hearted tone as he slowly rubbed his hazel hair. "Sir Bertrand hath not laid on the lash too heavily, of late. But by mine own—"
"Oh please, laddie," Ulger cut him off, cackling as he covered his grin, "ya need not speak in that absurdity 'round me, or anyone else besides Sir Bertrand for that matter… No one else can understand ya!"
Again, the young man chuckled in a light-hearted tone, rubbing his hair while looking at the ground and said:
"Forgive me, Mister Ulger. I'm so used to speaking like that around Sir Bertrand's demesne that it's become a part of my life now."
"You're fine, laddie. So, what brings ye out here? I expected ye and Sir Bertrand's company to be on your way to Central Erthyl? The year's Totalis, is it not? The monsters are coming, Arthur."