The City of Katurová

An old fable spoken to children around the campfire told of an ancient forsaken village south of France named Dessen. The people of this village, long ago destroyed by a pout of drought and a wave of Black Death, left scars throughout the French countryside. Cracked rivers and bones of age-old homes lay littered about the dry grass hills, and the twang of sulfur in the air hinted that Dessen was once a prosperous homeland. Long since forgotten, Dessen laid in pieces. Almost totally wiped from the map, Dessen was never spoken of. An ideal plaything, of course, for my young team of thrill seekers. These three men, including myself at that time, loved the aspect of Dessen. I had only happened upon the location and name of the village from an aging military document of my great-grandfather's, showing the place as roped off for public transit. And until a bloody night in October, the tattered town was just a patch of cracked concrete and dust to me. This square land was soon to be known through word of mouth as the city of demons, wrath, bloodshed,  and beauty; the city of Katurová. My name is Josiah Laurel. I don't know what I was thinking.