Dead Rising.

8. Januar 1351, anno Domini.

2. Beheaded incendiary, dissected corpse on orders from local Priest.

Found nothing substantive of "devilish humors." Wasted a full day hunting for things the Priest was convinced resided within the executed. There were no thorns within the stomach, no blackened heart, no flies within the pupils, no evidence of the serpent himself. The only oddity about this corpse was that it reeked of smoke and was covered in a thick layer of ash that no amount of scrubbing could remove, nary a flea on him like they usually have. The Priest seemed perturbed by how quickly I cut and removed flesh and organ, does he not know that my station goes beyond hangings and beheadings? I am as much a practitioner as I am an executioner, in my spare time I dabble in medicine too. I strive to be knowledgeable enough to practice a second profession when my back grows too weak to lift the sword. I do not wish to be a burden any more than I wish to be useless, I am already at odds due to my work. Would the Lord consider it greed what I wish to do?

I did not share my ideas with the Priest. I do not think he would have agreed with me on what was more likely to cause this man to act as he did before his death. It is possible to understand things without education, the unlearned teach in their own ways, it is the educated that are hardest to convince of new information, this much I know.
This man undoubtedly heard of the spreading invisible death from other peasants fleeing into the hills, it is impossible not to hear rumors anywhere you go these days. His life was already hard, harder than most. His existence was one of constant survival, if he could not work and prepare for each winter he would starve to death. If his body gave out or he grew sickly he couldn't tend his fields and livestock if he had any, he lived in a constant precarious balance that at any point could have fallen into ruin. And it did.
All it took was adding something into that daily struggle that he couldn't prepare for, something he couldn't avoid. His every interaction with others was a reminder of this new thing, every passing bit of information grew to be more horrible and fearsome than the last.
He begins to fester within his mind like this, he does not know where the sickness gets in, or what causes it. Every moment of his strained life is now filled with suspicion and fear, he cannot get away from the thoughts about the plague. He begins to suspect it may be the filth of cats and dogs, so he kills any he can get his hands on and burns them. Maybe another passerby tells him more troubling news one day, he begins to think harder now. He knows that the fields near the cities where he hears it is bad are untended. Why would they be untended? The sickness only strikes man and beast...
Unless the sickness is in something that man and beast both eat.
Now he thinks it's some sort of rot or mold in the crops, he's dealt with spoiled crops before, so he burns the fields where he thinks the sickness could be. When the number of people he sees thins out, and the houses around him grow quiet with death, his mind shatters, he cannot think about what causes the sickness anymore, he feels surrounded by it now, he's consumed by a fear of everything he sees.
So what does this crazed soul do?
He takes up many torches and burns all of the neighbor's houses down, even his own, he burns and burns because so far it is only the fire that hasn't betrayed him. He begins to covet the flames, he bathes in smoke, he scrubs with ashes, this is his protection now.
He is lost to madness. Wahnsinn.
Now he wanders madly, burning anything he thinks can house the sickness, and it happened that one day he was caught trying to burn the local granary.
The trial was quick, there were too many witnesses for him to argue against it, and few wish to be so close together under a roof these days.
Stranger than that, he was happy to tell all of the onlookers what he was going to do, as if they were fools for being outraged at him.
I do not grow angry with this peasant man, it is similar to the type of insanity that strikes during drought or brutal winters, but I couldn't let him burn down everything.
The village here would kill me if I sentenced him any lesser than death, the granary may as well be the Lord's own house.
I cannot get him out of my mind though...
He thanked me before I struck the fatal blow, like a child might thank its mother for a treat. Those wild brown eyes were full of joy... It nearly stayed my hand...

Nearly.

What foul times these are.