Work Text:
Italy, 1347.
The sultry smell of rotting flesh filled the small inn room, and the melody of anguish and fear rang a sweet tone to his ears. The plague had begun only a week prior, and the results were, to say the least... ripe.
He scribbled on a piece of partially damp paper, careful to avoid the edges so the ink wouldn't spill over. A pile of stacked sheets lay across the infested bed. A few rats squeaked from across the room, and he tossed a piece of bread at them. One of them grabbed it and a small fight broke out not a second later. He smirked, then peeked briefly out of the window. He leaned onto his palm, observing the same thing, albeit on a bigger scale play out on the streets.
The lights were glowing an unnatural green and pale pink, as if the spirits of misfortune themselves had descended onto the city. People scurried across the cobblestones in rags, boils and despair of knowing they wouldn't live to see another day. He observed them fight over scraps, bargain with invisible forces, and even take their own lives as means to cope with the situation. He loved to watch them deal with stressful situations, no matter if he came victorious or they managed to hold out. He loved both of the outcomes. It allowed him to be more creative next time.
He returned his attention to the pile of papers he left on the bed. Satisfied the one he was using had dried out at last, he continued writing. Chalky stirred besides him, and the dry wooden frame of the bed creaked beneath them both. The sound made a few spiders run up the wall above their heads.
„Careful, Polly. I'm still writing here.“ he peeked over at their back, their face buried into the dirty pillow. They turned on their side and groggily replied.
„It's late, Emery. Go to sleep already.“ both of them knew sleep was not something they needed, but was a well deserved privilege they liked to use whenever they could
.
Pollution turned to the other side and a few bugs scattered around in confusion. One climbed onto his arm and up to his neck. He didn't mind it. He lifted the sheet up and admired his work. He spoke to his half asleep colleague with delight.
"Imagine this, Chalky. In perhaps a few hundred years these psalms will reach millions of ears. My blood boils with excitement with the thought."
"That's just your boils talking. And where would you even get the chance to bore people with those, old man? No one is looking forward to hearing songs about death and disease during these times." Pollution mumbled.
"You underestimate me quite a lot. Besides, I won't be around for much long anyway, so it will eventually go away as well. It won't be any fun simply winning in one move. I want to see the empires fall little by little."
"So you want to continue Conquest's job? Don't shoot too high up into the sky, Copia." Pollution rolled over just enough to look him into the eyes.
"I'm not. I have it all planned out. Once I cut my hair, I'm sailing out to Sweden to join this church." Copia carefully stacked the papers into piles.
"Won't you run out of victims if you're lying dormant in a church?" they asked, tossing some trash over his head and out into the street. It seemed it hit someone.
"No need for concern. I'm never out of victims, Chalky. Go to sleep. I need to fix this last verse..." he smirked, picturing his next life and all the things he wanted to do with it.