Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.
Day Two Hundred and Three
Two hundred days under the quarantine protocols. Two hundred days of the grippe reborn on our streets, in our homes, in our lives.
There is no end in sight. We knew that of course, but that knowledge is sitting differently now as the reality of these endless plague ridden days becomes apparent. Two hundred days and how many more to come?
In the Eastern Dominions cases have been rising precipitously causing panic and consternation, accusations of failure on the part of their leaders. Here in the west the dread lord has reasserted himself as well, though not to the same degree. Yet we still feel trepidation that all our efforts thus far may still be for naught if we cannot somehow hold the line. And all the while those of us in the Greater Dominions look at the grand old empire to the south with the fear that that may be what awaits us.
There is a sort of hysteria to the way people speak of the dread lord now, brought on by an exhaustion, of having to worry about this for months now. Of wondering if what you are doing is keeping you and everyone safe. Scolding others for not doing the right thing.
For a time the protocols and measures were easy to follow, especially when the results were clear. We were holding the dread lord at bay, perhaps even driving him from the Quarter. Now it is plain that he isn’t going anywhere, that we shall have to maintain our vigilance, no matter how sick and tired we are of hearing of all of this. No matter how much we long to venture outside our homes without giving a thought to protocols and measures, masks and distancing and hand washing, and the dread lord.
The night is long and the road is winding and we have far to go.