Story Branch
I
do
not
often
speak
of
that
time,
for
dark
are
the
memories
and
vivid
is
the
pain
of
their
recalling.
Nevertheless,
I
am
compelled
to
commit
them
to
parchment,
for
much
suffering
could
have
been
saved
if
those
in
control
had
behaved
differently
and
it
is
my
sincere
hope
that
the
learnings
from
these
stories
could
one
day
avert
disaster
when
the
seasons
turn
again
as
they
inevitably
will.
[p]
It
began
in
the
early
days
of
the
Crimson
Year,
when
the
skies
took
on
a
hue
of
foreboding
and
the
winds
carried
whispers
of
discord.
The
omens
were
ignored
by
the
Council,
who
dismissed
them
as
the
ramblings
of
mad
oracles
and
superstitious
commoners.
Their
arrogance,
as
it
turned
out,
would
seal
our
fate.
[p]
The
first
signs
of
the
Coming
Rot
were
subtle:
crops
that
failed
without
reason,
livestock
that
grew
listless
and
sickly
despite
ample
care,
and
wells
that
tasted
faintly
of
iron.
I
remember
my
father’s
furrowed
brow
as
he
examined
the
wheat
field
behind
our
home,
its
once
vibrant
green
now
pallid
and
lifeless.
"It’s
nothing,"
he
assured
us,
though
his
hands
trembled
as
he
clutched
the
soil
that
crumbled
like
ash.
[p]
When
the
affliction
reached
the
people,
there
was
no
denying
its
unnatural
origin.
It
started
with
a
fever
that
no
herb
could
cure,
followed
by
a
rash
that
spread
like
wildfire
across
the
skin.
Soon,
entire
villages
fell
silent,
their
inhabitants
reduced
to
hollow-eyed
wraiths
or
unmarked
graves.
Yet
the
Council’s
messengers
rode
through
the
land,
proclaiming
that
all
was
well
and
urging
calm.
It
was
a
calm