Corruption lay at the world’s dying heart, a putrid spirit that spread easily to flesh. Nothing proved immune, not even the hulking Varn. Once afflicted, a mere man must perish, by his own blade if he be loyal, his flesh burned to ash and scattered far, far from the tribe by the oldest and expendable among them.
Of the Varn, they had but their blood and will to check the rot, to remain themselves. Though madness sat their shoulder and whispered in their ear, they did not heed its words. No good ever came from self-pity, no solace from ignoring a harsh truth.
For the wisest among them, the only choice was exile, self-imposed, to submit themselves to chains of their own will. Let another judge them as the rot ran its course, another of the same mighty blood and spirit. One could accept Fate without embracing her. Was it trust? Or practicality? In rare instance, both could be found, even as the world burned.
