Tj'đwĕẓm: The Miasma of Illness & Decay

I. Bear Witness to the Fevers of Desiccating Death "Have you beheld that which leaves you bereft of those you love? A merciless fever which leaves naught besides bones and dust. In spite of this, there remains one small glimpse of hope: a small root entrenched in that deepest Wood of Death." II. Here They Nest Among the Blistering Pustules Upon entry, light fades fast, a strange fog obscuring most sights. Densely packed trees, wide and withered, lie before me, with no clear path between. The lantern I carry only shows a small space before me. Many strange visages appear out of the haze: a weeping figure who will not respond, an elder begging for a finger, a clearing of blistering pustules, a nest of large wasps with human faces. A large equestrian figure, taller than three men, with 12 mouths and 16 eyes covering its body, speaks a language unrecognizable to my ears. And yet, I hear a message: “A futile effort…” A gap between trees with several large bones growing holds reeds which whisper bizarre oddities. And still, I hear the message: “A futile effort…” I come across a large hole, too dark to shine light into, which I am told to jump into by a man with a beetle’s face. The dark fills me with fear, but the man gives me a strange sense of calmness. I brace myself and dive in, abandoning all sense. III. Behold the Shroud of a Suffocating Abyss A darker wood, vision is further obscured. Breathing has now become labored, and my panic increases. Now a lake of blood, at the shore of which stands a figure with an unrecognizable shape. They turn to me, uttering only one chant: “The Roots. The Roots. The Roots.” I suddenly understand the meaning, and find myself scraping bark. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Blood leaks, a path clears. That Great Tree, which stands like a god over the others. “A futile effort…” A familiar voice. “Useless, fruitless.” My love, my darling, dried and withered. A wide, wide maw. “I am already dead.” In disbelief, I throw my lantern, lighting the Tree ablaze. IV. Tap the Root, Drink the Sacred Blood Home at last, home at last. Lying in bed, as before. Snap the root and peel its skin, boil the spilling blood. Add a finger, pray to Death. The eternal formula, innate knowledge. I apply it to the skin, before collapsing into deep slumber. A familiar voice in my head, “A futile effort… Useless, fruitless. God is coming.”