During a campaign in the buzzing south, a young mercenary had suddenly fallen ill. At first, and for many weeks, it merely manifested as boils in the crevices of the body. Painful if touched but discrete enough to go unnoticed by his comrades. But then came the fever, and the young mercenary spent more and more of his time retired in the wagons or in his tent. Until there came a time when the company had been camping for a week and he had not shown his face but once.
At last, his fellow soldiers grew worried. What they found as they entered the tent was as repulsive as it was horrifying. Sitting, hunched over and draped in ragged cloth, was a pale wretch of the young mercenary, surrounded by the rot and filth of numerous dead beings.
And he turned his head and spread his arms wide:
“I welcome you, my brotherssss.”
From the filth crawled forth numerous demons, cackling and grimacing.
