The entire city is on lockdown. The spotted sickness has come. They were calling to all who were willing, please help. -- Anon Guest
The disease was a terror. The young could survive it, true, but if they were too young, it could kill them. Similarly, if they were too old, it could also killed. Those lucky to survive could be scarred for life. Rendered blind, deaf, or pock-marked from their encounter. Some were turned simple from the fever. Some were impaired in other ways. Otherwise unscarred, but they had difficulty moving or making fine work ever after[1].
It was a terror. A nightmare. A silent killer stalking their streets. The city of Jaklita ground to a standstill. Food was handled with mage's summoned hands, or by elementals that could neither catch nor carry disease. They tried constructs, but they somehow carried the infection. In desperation, they called for help.
It came in forms less than welcome, but they were welcomed nonetheless. They came with the Whitekeep coat of arms as their rally banner. They came with potions and unguents. More specifically, they each came with a needle made of ivory. Hellkin, Halfbreds, those deformed or disabled, they came. An army of healers, sent by Pax Infernus to aid an ally.
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