Creator be Cursed, Sellaville Options

[Will]

The peddler came into the village of Gerrard’s Folly as he did around this time each spring, his trusty but surly ox slowly edging his aged cart along the simple grass covered track. He was looking forward to picking up some of the local honey and the fiendishly good berry jam one of the old wives had cooked up every year that went spectacularly well on a butter drenched crumpet.

He’d been so lost in his own thoughts, mainly involving jam related goodness, that he hadn’t realised he didn’t see any traces of folks gathering in the wilds, white smoke drifting up from the chimney fires, nor the expected sounds of the village such as the blacksmith’s hammer ringing out as he approached.

He stepped down from his cart and picked up a worn cosh from beside his seat. Slowly he made his way cautiously in the direction of the crude smithy. The open sided building which housed the forge was silent and the forge was cold and lifeless.

Next, he made his way to the largest house at the centre of the small selection of homesteads which acted as the tavern, meeting hall and barter based market for the village depending on the time of day. Pushing open the door with his cosh he was greeted by a sight and smell of the villagers crammed into the place, the sound of his footsteps made all their heads swivel to meet him, he peered back at them as his eyes slowly adjusted from the bright sunshine to the dimness of the completely unlit room. He saw each face was eyeless and the flesh around the sockets of their eyes was either blackened, decayed or seemingly peeling away.

“Creator be cursed” he uttered aloud as a cacophony of desperate voices all began pleading for his help.