Flowers In Death

Corruption creeps through the ultraviolet glow of the river, making it fade to ripples of purple and even specks of blue. Mazan, guard and heal us. Alter this bitter karma. The chanted prayers rise through the heavy air, thick with desperate invokation. Forgive our sins, Ro. Remove your ire and turn away the face of your wrath.

A young Bloom kneels, distraught as her mother caresses her for the last time with a wilting leaf-tangled vine. The mother's ruffled torso of pink carnation petals falls slowly apart as the pestilence claims her. Even her legs, once strong roots, and her head, a bloom of red-tipped white, have begun to decay.

Around them, the dead and dying lay, voiceless in their agony as the glow of the life-water inside them darkens and turns to poison. The few still living refuse to cease from their prayers, imbuing their thoughts with all the power they can spare.

Their healing stones have failed to revive or even mitigate the damage caused by the deadly curse. Each Bloom becomes ill, unable to avoid the fate of their clanmates. And in the course of a single day, the sick Blooms weakens, brightness fading, until they fall apart and decay in a matter of minutes.

The young ones survive longer, a small mercy. The eldest of them sends an invokation to one last deity. Kor'zefir, spirit of hatred and war, hear our cries and give us vengeance for our mothers.

A week later, the children have all died from the pestilence eleven miles away from their village. They decayed into thick grass, surrounding the source of the curse, their duty finished. Vengeance has been meted out.

Sprouts eventually bloom from the fertile mounds of soil left by the dead. There's nobody left to share their story, but the testament to the clan's struggle lives on in the brilliant glowing blossoms.