Kahlo. Late Summer. 1348.
"The plague, it's spreading! Be warned! It's coming, it's coming for us all!"
News of this illness started off first as a little trickle, a mention here and there. But then, as it reached more villages, the true might of the dreadful plague was finally realised by all.
While physical sickness had not yet reached Kahlo, the piercing ghost of it had. Fear haunted everyone, driving some to madness at the mere idea of it. Cobbled streets lay desolate, not even the sound of rats scampering, or dogs barking could be heard.
And everybody was on the lookout.
Eyes remained glued to small cracks in doors as if one day the lone figure of Death would be seen strolling down the familiar streets and knocking on doors.
As days dragged by people got more desperate. Bundles of herbs were hung from doorways to ward Him away, and children were kept inside by their mothers, as if the plague would be unable to reach them there.
But nobody really knew if that would work, because nobody knew how it spread from person to person.
That was the scariest part of it all; nobody knew anything. People could only grasp onto whisps of faint ideas and rumours and hope they'd be safe.
In the end though, none of it mattered.
Rich and poor, young and old, strong and weak, the plague took them all. Only those with luck on their side, would survive.