The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of The Skeleton Crew (1|1)

Myths and anecdotes elucidating these long droughts, resulting in no harvest in autumn, with no pouring rain to nurture their fields and fill their stomachs, leaving them with substantially nothing to conquer long and vicious winter, with many children and men and women to succumb and decease in their frosty, ice-cold graves with nerve-splintering, wrecking abundance, so you might question, chilling with slender limbs and a growling stomach sprawled around a meagre fire, flocks and hoards of snow roaring around you as you mingled and shivered in a cave, if you are to be struck next by nature's unmercy to the point it will prove fatal? If you are to seek shelter next to your neighbours and friends and roost your last quarter now for eternity.

It was an easy explanation all together, an evil spell brought upon by an ancient God usually worshipped and deeply adored by the village and villagers and refunding their love and cherishment as much as his heart, diffused and engulfed with bleak golden liquid could, now offended for his worshippers missed a single time to sacrifice a tenth of their golden crops to him, grain to be devoured and purged within the fire, resolutely maiming them all with a barren glance and nothing more that was left to state to this obsolete audacity.

An unpleasant plague spreading effortlessly and decimating three quarters of an antique metropole, hotspot of noble high culture alike the contagious charm of easy dwellings and the promise of soon-found work in the ocean of millions of bodies, quite absurd the thought now to keep its oaths of health and safety, for when disease occured ironically, it would not quander long until spreading like a wildfire. With pinching rashes, smarting quite terribly and those mysterious yellow bulbs with urges to itch akin skin contact with the infamous rosehip, placed only by the most mischievous souls on the sheets of their arch-enemy, bulbs which would eventually contort, gifted with a will of their own, exploding into a sickening cascade of sombre blue gruel, infecting those who were healthy before and burning the skin of the person they stemmed from, where a ready hotbed would wait for more blisters and bulbs. Firstly, the size of a bull's eye ball, then proceeding to swell the magnitudes of fists, on its gruesome path creating the abhorrent, horrible image of villagers scattered with slender, starved limbs all in the valley, arranged in a sickening array, constantly coughing and throwing up in the tact of their blisters' ruptures. Black phlegm would run the canal way where before pure, clean water coursed, rain trickling and sprinkling the cherry on top of uttermost patheticness, of despicable ignominy in its basest form, the common man an obsolescent model, plotted with ailing disease to be suppressed by death in conformity with a last weak beat of his trembling heart, infamy the thing that remained for a tenuous species and one might assume somewhat pity regarding their deplorable shared misery.

Well, don't blame the poor conditions of sanitary systems and feeble knowledge of the human body, but rather a darkly brewed witch, ascended from genuine pandemonium, resurfaced to stir terror and demise over poor residents, disguised naturally as the prettiest, most radiant woman in town, uncaught and walking still with a nose proudly held high, since no one succeeded in relinquishing the hold of her claw-studded hand from this Earth. It was also for the pretty innocent women that would be erroneously accused in her stead.

Apparently, people always would find others to blame, to hate, to curse on, but never look as far as their own humane faults and mundane wrong-doings, when for this one singular instance, it really was their fault they leapt into this mess in the first place. That's another thing taught and drilled into the heads of the young impressionable. Sarcastically both principles facing conveniently each other quite confrontingly in being absolute opposites, a bothersome ambiance from the start.

Whether you think it was worse on midland, with two perfectly sound examples above, just consider the poor humans living at the shores of the merciless sea, occasionally being ruined by one single unfortunate wave to terminate their lives in drowned spectacle of bonkers elements or an unpleasant storm causing the sea to grow and thrive and attack and claim what it wants from land, by rushing in and finally eliminating all its natural boundaries, nature bribed to overlook this one faulty overstepping. The wild, untamed Sea being an element of itself too.