Surprise, you get two blog updates back-to-back. I hope you have a good Dia de los Muertos.
In the chilled autumn air, a gathering commences in the center of an apple orchard. A half-moon hangs above at the 3:00 hour. The morning fog clings to the damp soil, increasing the late-night wet chill. Three masked figures stand apart at ease with each other despite it being their first meeting. It is the tallest masked figure to introduce themselves.
"Greetings," says the Person in Red.
"Hello," the Woman in Blue eyes them.
"Salutations, new friends!" the Man in Yellow grins.
The Woman in Blue, a native of the local village, questions the two strangers, "Are you both willing to reveal who you are to me?"
With giddy energy for such a late hour, the Man in Yellow replies, "Why, of course, my dear lady, I am a poet of Vilhilrel. Allow me to familiarize you with my home." Thus, the Yellow Poet speaks of Vilhilrel.
An Ode to Vilhilrel
Nestle, between folds of honeyed wheat fields, is the golden city of Vilhilrel.
Where regrets stalk doubt-infested wanderers,
Immortal children swallow falling stars and thus become mortal gods.
The twin moons compete for the affection of the black sun,
Raising zealous cults dedicated to one of the twin moons.
The Red Moon Cult paints glittering roads with decapitated red tulips,
While the Dark Moon Cult rains plucked petals of unstained gardenia.
But the black sun bleeds the twin moons' affection into the populace of Vilhilrel,
Guiding a frenzy of living dreams and unconscious daydreams,
With the whispering winds enchanting a cycle of life and death.
The Woman in Blue scoffs, "Vilhilrel sounds as believable as the ramblings of a nightmare-scared child."
"Believable or not, my dear lady, now that you and our red soak friend know of Vilhilrel, you can never unknow it," the Poet in Yellow ends with a giggle. His companions are a part of the fabric of Vilhilrel. He looks to the Person in Red, "My beloved friend in red, could you enlighten us on who you are?"
The Person in Red slightly bows their head in acknowledgment before answering, "I am the red illness."
"What are your signs of sickness? I demand to know," the Woman in Blue steps closer to the Red Illness.
The twinge of fear tickles the ear of the Red Illness. Wanting to divulge the symptoms their presence causes in their victims, they answer, "I start with giving the unfortunate soul hot red hives. Either ointment or ice can temper the unbearable itch. Only scratching themselves raw will do the trick—next, uncontrollable bleeding combined with red, runny eyes. Finally, the eyes crust over because of the eye residue blinding with a wall of red. While continuously bleeding with a low chance of surviving the blood loss." After briefly pausing, the Red Illness turns to the Woman in Blue, "Why did you call for us?"
"Do you even know why you called us, my dear?" said the Poet in Yellow.
"I know why I called you both, for I'm the Mourner of the Lost," says the Mourner.
The Red Illness sneers at her as the Poet in Yellow laughs at her words. As the threat of the early morning comes, the Mourner finds no time to be insulted by the other two. The sickness spreading from village to village is set to doom her old home. Only the embodiment of the disease can answer her questions. The foolish Poet can wander in his nonsense for all she cares.
The Mourner asks, "Red Illness, will you be plaguing the village this orchard belongs to?"
"I cannot say," the Red Illness abruptly departs from the orchard.
The Poet in Yellow spins in as he laughs, "Are you, my dear lady, going to mourn any villagers who die of our dear red disease?"
Squeezing her hands tightly, "If they are forgotten dead because of sickness. Then I will."
"Then the tears you shed for the poor forgotten souls will be penned for all of Vilhilrel! Rejoice, as not all newcomers receive such a privileged treatment."
She huffs, "Tears that I may or may not shed can't be transcribed!"
He waves her off, "Sorry, all who know of Vilhilrel are subjects for my poetry."
Horrified by the Poet in Yellow's callous behavior towards her, the Mourner flees from the apple orchard. His taunting laugh chases her.
A Mourner's Tears
Your tears are precious.
Let yourself drown in your red sorrow,
Allow the red illness to take you and your village,
And trap you all in the city of Vilhilrel. END.
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