The Priestess's Tale (Mural Copies)

Twelve winters have passed since the Day of Great Sorrow, yet my god has not returned. We offer the living heat of our blood and raise our prayers. They go unanswered. The sickness has not touched any of us yet, but I feel it—in the water, in the earth, in the whisper of grass beneath my feet. One day it will reach us. Our people in the mountain city live as though nothing ever happened. They raise temples to the Lord of Death and listen to the silence. They wish to forget. That is why we must remember.

Twelve times twelve winters have passed since the Day of Great Sorrow. And still I walk the earth. The mountain city grows emptier. My people flee the past as a jaguar flees a torch. Last moon, disturbed by the curse, Yuknom rose from his tomb. We barely managed to lay him to rest again. Where he fell, the soil was blighted. Two of my guardians smeared their spears with his blood: one grew stronger; the other succumbed to the taint. We are afraid, but not without hope. The curse itself may yet be the answer to our prayers.

Countless winters have passed since the Day of Great Sorrow. I stopped counting. Almost no one remains. Each act of resistance grows harder than the last. The mountain city stands empty. My people were wrong—and have already paid for it with oblivion. One final recourse remains: a relic from distant lands. With it, I will either restore my god… or perish. At the full moon, I will perform the ritual before the sacred beasts of the Lord of Death, upon the altar. I will draw my own blood with an obsidian blade and pray.

There's no reason left to resist. No one left to remember. This sanctuary will be my grave. It was all in vain.