And All Things Will End
With one terrible motion, you extend a tattered bone. The plague sprouts from it like a rose from a garden of weeds. It caresses the populace with its soft and alien embrace, gifting the Others with blessed lesions and holy yellow miasmic bile. The metamorphosis is extensive, mutilating the Others into unrecognizable shapes and forms. Some cry out for death, and it is swiftly granted. The disease rampages throughout, affecting the material as well as the organic. The earth is reformed into something new and, you desperately hope, uninhabitable.
There is one final pleading cry, and Silence reigns.
The disease does not differentiate, and the locusts tear that tear into your flesh and conume your muscles are not gentle. Your last thoughts are pain intermingled with peace, for you have succeeded in bringing peace
But that most virulent disease known as life is not so easily destroyed, and eons later it crawls back to the world. It lies dormant for a time, adapting to this new face and the environment. Then it spreads.
There is one final pleading cry, and Silence reigns.
The disease does not differentiate, and the locusts tear that tear into your flesh and conume your muscles are not gentle. Your last thoughts are pain intermingled with peace, for you have succeeded in bringing peace
But that most virulent disease known as life is not so easily destroyed, and eons later it crawls back to the world. It lies dormant for a time, adapting to this new face and the environment. Then it spreads.