Krung the Cursed
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name: Krung the Fat
login: Kaveh HemmatThe slightly plump man wandered away from the small caravan of carts and pack mules that had assembled just inside the gate of Peltarch. A few people in the tavern asked him if the rumors were true that the Vomiting Death had swept through Praka and Heliogabalus, and that made him sweat a cold sweat, but he answered glibly enough that he hadn't heard anything about it. But he didn't need to. He knew when he left that he would narrowly avoid the plague. Or a drought and famine, or floods, or fires…
In Ilmwatch it was a flood. The harvest gone, food had to be brought in by ship. In Telflamm it was fires. A whole quarter burned to the ground. In Phsant they grew walnut-sized pustules and shat out their guts. In Tmarr they burned up with fever and screamed unspeakable things to their neighbors and kin before expiring in puddles of sweat. In five years, Krung had left a trail of destruction across the Golden Road, starting at his village along the Lake of Mists. It started when the Tuigan Lord Tinzel came from the north and burned his village and slaughtered farmers for miles and miles around to keep a rival lord's people from being able to buy their grain there. "All will fall in line under my order, or perish."
They say Tinzel had made a deal with a devil. For months before the attack, Krung felt its eyes on him, making his nose itch or his cheeks burn. As the old wise women and men of the village taught him, he sung nonsense rhymes to confuse it. But he suspected he was being followed. After he left the village, misfortune was nipping at his heels, striking down the people around him or right behind him. Now that he had come to Peltarch, he decided to stay put for a while.
"I will face this curse that is following me, or perish with it."
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