Dance of Death

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It is only just now passing the hour of nine in the evening but already the festivities of the masquerade have escaladed to an unheard of level. Everyone fears for their life. Everyone fears the plague that has desecrated the lives of many and buried them with these unhallowed grounds. The invincible falling at the sweep of disease. Medieval honor ended. And yet, it’s invisible. The constant fear is hidden beneath diamond encrusted masks, beneath vibrant colors. But tonight, tonight, fear has dissipated. Faded into the temporary realm of the forgotten.
They laugh as they dance - shrieks of ghosts, coos of doves. A terrestrial sea of hues dances across the worn marble tiling, lost in a never ending beat. Its here, indeed. Quietly stalking its next victim, attempting to suffocate and cease life. Thoughts of crimson splatters and weakened breaths. The plague stalks.
A stealthy figure wanders along the crowd, a clear sign of a host of the disease. A crippled hand clutching just below his stomach, as though in excruciating pain. His lost gaze seeks out the form of his debutant, painted in royal silks. The hand draws away from the abdomen, bringing with it what is necessary. Enough to strike her down.
The petite form fades to the floor, a soft blonde curl laying in the mess. Finally, crimson splatters and weakened breaths. He has stalked.





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