Ageing Insomnia.

61st of Hunter's Moon, Ava. 719

A most enlightening day, indeed.

The town, appearing most deserted, was in fact filled with cowering peasants.  I presented my patents to the mayor, a fattened calf named Jurgen.  He eyed the scroll and waxed seals nervously, then relented to their obvious authority.

He then proceeded to stammer out the story of a local thatcher who had returned to the village after a journey, bleeding and near death.  Once he had reached the chapel, he fell dead at its doorstep.

What came next confirmed my suspicions that this was the man I was sent to find.  The mayor led me to the graveyard, where  a grave ringed in red dirt resided.  This blood-soaked grave could only be the final resting place of the man who had been kissed by the blade I seek. 

To the sheer horror of the humble townsfolk, I ordered his body exhumed.  There was much protest, but the power of the church prevailed and the digging commenced.  The work proceeded until dusk, when the worker's shovels at last clanked against wood.

The simple casket was saturated with blood, its timbers nearly falling apart.  Once opened, a bloody tide poured forth, to the screams and gasps of the gathered locals.  Floating within, the headless body of Pitre the Thatcher rested.

Just as Father had told, his wound continued to pump forth blood.  It is no wonder the people of this town feel they are cursed.  After sketching the message that had been carved into his flesh, I had his remains purified by fire.  May Avacyn show him the mercy that this life did not.

Raben