(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

initiates stood in a circle, murmuring simple catechisms by rote until the
words grew numb on their lips and the meaning of them fell dead. There was
no meaning, no purpose, other than the slow tread towards True Death.
The embalmers washed Dhall's body: naked and pale and spotted with age,
withered with time yet delicate as a babe's. His quill had run dry. His
coughing had ceased. His suffering was at an end. One wiped the blood from
the corner of Dhall's lip. He would be given the same treatment as the
greatest king or most wretched beggar today. All were equal in the eyes of
Death.
The eldest embalmer placed the scalpel against the corpse's chest, and
prepared to press.
One of the clerics blinked and looked up. Another licked his lips and turned
his head, as if suddenly nervous that something was staring over his
shoulder. One of the morticians recoiled from the corpse, and the jar of
embalming fluid he held shattered on the ground.
Even the initiates fell silent and glanced about nervously. They could feel it
too.
A chill was in the air with silent fangs and ages of hunger, clawing blindly for
its prey.
The Dustmen should have found its presence familiar, perhaps even
comforting among the younger acolytes. Yet to a head they pulled their
robes close, not daring to meet each other's eyes at the ancient and alien
force that swept through. The long sticks of incense snuffed out, and the
threads of smoke vanished in the air.
Soon the chill was gone, but the initiates still trembled.
The eldest of the embalmers closed his eyes, scalpel paused over the corpse's
sternum. He considered delaying the ceremony. A message needed to be
sent to Factol Skall.
Death was coming.
~~~~~
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