Notes on the Grippe

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 Twenty Nine

Last night I dreamed the dread lord grippe reborn visited me in my chambers. He stole inside, a shadow in the darkness, and loomed over me. I awakened to his presence and watched, helpless to do anything, as he extended his hand to touch me. His icy fingers scorched my flesh, burrowing deep within, his face expressionless, his eyes filled with a blackness deeper than the dark.

I felt no fear, only a sort of exhilaration at his touch. He grasped my heart and pulled it from my body, feasting upon it like some ancient god, to the very last drop of blood. I wept with joy to see it, offering myself to him body and soul, begging him to fill that emptiness he had carved within me.

In return he gave me some small part of his dreadful power, in a charm I wore about my neck, so that I might go out and bring others under his shadow. Together we would swear our fealty to his undying power.

I rose from bed after he was gone, eager to carry out his work. Try though I might I had none of his terrible charisma. No matter how much I exhorted, shouted and forced myself upon my fellows, they passed me by without a glance. It was as though I was invisible.

I slumped to the ground, dejected and scorned, wondering why the dread lord had forsaken me. As I sat there weeping my bitter tears someone noticed me and came over to offer me their hand. I seized it and did not let go.

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