Chernobog

The village, struck by an unprecedented plague, was dying slowly and agonizingly…

It all happened too quickly. The gray, overcast sky was swallowed by clouds. A viscous fog descended upon the land—the kind that seemed to seep into one's very lungs, making every breath a struggle. The world swayed and slid rapidly into a void. A place where there was nothing but this thick sensation of damp touches. The fog draped its lulling shroud over the cooling body.

A convulsive gasp, followed by a sharp cough, and suddenly you find yourself on your knees, unable to stand. The silence presses against your ears. In the road dust, people lie motionless like broken dolls. There are so many of them that it feels as if the entire village has frozen in a single, infinite moment of death.

And the fog continues to spread like a thick, gelatinous veil beneath your feet. It muddles the mind. It instills an unconscious, chilling dread in the soul.

Coiling into a dense spiral, the fog forms into a tall male figure clad in dark, shapeless robes. He towers over you like a black pillar supporting the equilibrium of this emptied world. His eyes watch with detachment and coldness.

— Who are you? — his calm, commanding voice breaks the silence. — Why have I succeeded in sending all the inhabitants of this cursed village to Nav, but not you?

In the stranger's hands, a spectral scythe forms from the viscous fog. He makes a sharp swing: the blade flares with a pale, otherworldly light and halts above you.

A black snake on the man's shoulder stirs. Glancing at you with milky eyes, it slithers up to the stranger's very ear and hisses:

— Do not be in s-s-such a hurry… Your scythe has never known a mis-s-step before… Let the human expl-l-lain…

The man in black lowers his weapon and slowly turns his entire body toward you. In the deathly silence, the faint clinking of chains and amulets on his clothing can be heard. His presence presses against your chest, making it hard to draw breath. It is as if reality itself has become too heavy around him.

He sweeps a grim, interested gaze over you and speaks authoritatively:

— Stand up. It is not customary to lie in the dust in my presence. I feel in you the warmth of living blood and the chilled ash of an immortal soul. Those like you do not appear by chance…

A pause. He stares intently.

— Speak. Did Rod send you to me? Are you a messenger of Svarog?