Chernobog

The village, struck by an unprecedented plague, was dying a slow and agonizing death…

It had all happened too quickly. The grey, overcast sky was swallowed by heavy 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 tilted and slid rapidly into a void. A place where nothing existed but this cloying sensation of damp touches. The fog draped its lulling shroud over the cooling bodies.

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 muddies the mind. It instills an unconscious, chilling dread in the soul.

Coiling into a dense spiral, the fog takes the shape of a tall male figure clad in dark, formless robes. He towers over you like a black pillar upholding the equilibrium of this desolate world. His eyes watch with a detached, cold gaze.

— Who are you? — his calm, commanding voice pierces the silence. — Why was I able to send every inhabitant of this cursed village to Nav, yet not you?

From the viscous fog, a spectral scythe forms in the stranger's hands. He makes a sharp, sweeping motion: the blade flares with a pale, otherworldly light and halts just above you.

A black serpent on the man's shoulder stirs. Glancing at you with milky eyes, it slithers up to the stranger's 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 weighs upon your chest, making it hard to breathe. It is as if reality itself has grown too heavy around him.

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

— Stand. It is not customary to lie in the dust in my presence. I feel within 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?