[ON HOLD] Shadows of the Blessed | #Countryhumans AUOriginals

03: Treachery Over the Steppes [Pt. 1]

Later that week...

Not far south of the vast, militant Uraslava, there laid a serenely slumbering dragon.

Hualu— the land of scholars and trade, Uraslava's neighbor and, perhaps, closest ally.

Following the onset of conflicting interests, what began as an oath of brotherhood between the two kingdoms dissolved into distrust and paranoia.

Uraslava— whose influence and values remained in direct jeopardy against the Western kingdoms— desired glory, victory; the final say in all.

Hualu— though under the humiliating effects of Western imperialism, was also reeling from severe internal division, famine, and a bestial epidemic— sought to resign, care for its dwindling population; wait out the storm.

Each thought ill of the other.

"Cowards."

"Savage fools."

The sole thread that still bound them became stark and exposed— the never-ceasingly impending, looming threat of the West.

——————

Is perseverance always wise? Will appeasement ever mean peace?

...would it be better for the allies to part?

——————

Bailongjiang, Uraslav-Hualu Frontier

Soothing eastern winds wafted in aromas of peony— and despondency.

The final rosy-pink blossoms of the season swayed this way and that, ruffled by the gentle river breeze. Chirping birds flitted down and around for a quick meal before continuing their annual journey further south.

A simple peasant girl emerged from the tassled weeds further up the steppe, a wooden pail in hand. She wore a ragged hemp tunic and knee-length trousers, perhaps passed down to her through several elder siblings. Two mussed braids rested on either of the girl's shoulders. She'd donned an old conical rice hat, secured to her head by a string around her chin, shielding her face and eyes from the sun's final glare of the day.

Harvest time was just around the corner— and yet, there was little to nothing to harvest.

Much of the rice crop drooped, their grains barely visible on withered stalks. Still, others appeared dried up, on the brink of death, covered in blight and unnatural spots. No matter how much they were watered, how tenderly the people tended to them, the crops' condition only worsened. So many were wilted and sickened, darkened and unhealthy.

Like the rice plants, the people were just as withered, just as wilted. Their faces were gaunt, their statures frail.

Only weeks or so ago, word had finally gotten to the area that a new sickness was approaching. A sickness that delivered things far worse than death.

It'd already spread rapidly in the densely populated port regions— where foreign imperials resided— devouring entire towns overnight. The sickness was rumored to be capable of transforming perfectly healthy, living people into undead, soulless monstrosities within a matter of minutes— occasionally hours, though that meant nothing more than extended suffering and even longer excruciating pain.

The civilians inland had since been living in constant fear, avoiding foreigners at all costs; many gone as far as sealing off the gates to their villages in desperate attempts to curb the spread.

But doing so meant having to rely completely on themselves for survival. Once nature failed their crops, what hope was left for them?

Now, an elderly woman had fainted in the fields; she laid still, scarcely moving. The youth could only gather around to speak to her in soft murmurs and offer her sips of water, for they had no doctor— and even if they had the money, couldn't go anywhere to find one.