The City of Pilta had never seen famine. Certainly, there were those who would go days without eating, but such experiences had always been reserved for the homeless and unfortunates of the glorious Duchy. On the morrow of the sealing of the City, the aristocracy and the dredges alike awoke to find themselves in alien territory- locked within tall, sturdy walls without a word as to why.

All had seen the fires the previous evening and by their own investigations, many- particularly those who had the time to spare, discovered what had burnt down, but why was still up for anyone’s guess. As some would claim to be typical, those few who discovered that every warehouse within the walls had been set aflame, had kept their secrets and had instead spent the day traversing the city- purchasing every can of food and preserved goods their golden coins could buy. Particularly, those who were in the business of supply and demand had been eager to hoard what little supply remained, having already speculated that, by the end of the day, their prices would soar.

Fore, in essence, this was the general assumption- that the doors would open, as soon as the Duke’s men found the ones responsible for the fires. None thought to ask the heavily armored and armed guards at the gates how long they would be sealed within the City, but rather, they concerned themselves with the why. Their answer was the same- in the north, south, west and east, the guards had been instructed to explain that, until the Guilt had been purged from Pilta, the gates would remain closed. The People did not like the news and several- especially the ones well-used to voicing their concerns to the attentive Duke, himself, attempted to approach the Garrison to debate this new rule. Titus had, with the use of his own, two hands, used their heads to decorate the Garrison’s walls.

On the dawning of the third day, men and women gathered in the plaza. Never, in the history of the City, had the poor stood hand-in-hand with the rich and shouted their demands at the guardsmen- their knees weak and their minds strengthened by the hunger. But the guardsmen, in their heavy armors and with their blades and pikes at their sides, had spoken nothing. Enraged by their stoic silence, the hundreds of citizens had devolved into shouts, but the plated men moved not the least. Not until one, poor, misguided, enraged child had leaned down to pick up a misplaced stone from the cobbled plaza and charged through the long procession of demonstrators- his weapon raised high above his head.

The guard he had chosen to unleash his outrage upon had stood there, disbelieving as the young man- no older than fifteen, had charged at him to strike his breastplate with all his might. The courtyard, the sixty guards, the tall clocktower and the fountain- the city itself, had stilled as the stone clanged against his steel plate. The collision had not left a dent in his armor- as expected. But the act of defiance had signaled the beginning of the next stage of Pilta’s subjugation- a plan that Titus, himself, had laid out for the men now raising their blades on what had once been their allies and neighbors- extended family and friends.

Before the echoes of the clang could fade, the guardsman had swung his blade down on the young, dirty man in his tattered rags and carved cleanly through his face- cleaving his chest open to cover his fresh, purple tabard in the arterial spray of war.

“Charge!” The Captain of the Eastern Guard had screamed and commenced the battle.

The few who had held their ground had sought to arm themselves with whatever weaponry they had at their disposal. Alas... Knives, sticks, stones, teeth and nails were naught in comparison to steel plate, chain under-armor and finely crafted swords. The courtyard’s cobbled stones were bathed in the blood of a hundred hungry, desperate citizens- some cut, while others were simply trampled to death by the panicked masses.

By noon, the fountain in the shade of the clocktower no longer graced the courtyard with its prismatic splitting of the sun’s rays. Instead, it gushed the same, viscous streams of blood that now carpeted much of the plaza’s storefronts- a sight that would discourage the rest of the populace from attempts to rise up against their overlords for weeks to come.

The astute observer might’ve noticed a shift in the guards’ apparel. With the donning of their tabards, their smiles and helpful attitudes had disappeared beyond visors- allowing all of them anonymity and with this concealment of their identities, a cruelty took seed. Where they would once brighten up the city with their helpfulness and their kind smiles, the Guards now sourced a malice that seemed to spread like wildfire in between the ancient walls. As food and water grew ever scarcer, there were precious few who still looked to the Inquisition for assistance and the few who did, would inevitably meet their ends by long- either for having been branded a traitor or to bemuse the guards.

The Necromancer would behold the city’s downfall- the fires and the destruction from her rooftops through the eyes of tall, naked, green-eyed women. From there, he could hear as the screams grew ever-less-frequent as the populace changed... The ones with a propensity to scream were the first to die, leaving only behind the hardened- the ones cool enough to weather the horrors. The tall, pale women watched as building after building was abandoned and the ones which still housed the starving citizens of Pilta were- by the end of the first week, like fortresses- modified with barbs, spikes, needles and heavy reinforcements to counter any weak points in the original construction.

But Asrael’s army of the dead remained hidden, all save for a few... The People spoke tales of the ‘Banshees’- the naked women, covered in magical runes, who seemed to always be there- watching as Titus’ men unleashed their cruelties. Sometimes, they would grab guardsmen and there were a few, kind souls who would later claim to have been rescued by these naked monstrosities... alas, they would not make their claims for long. Asrael knew- just as Bartholomew knew, that this City- this world was not a place for kind souls. Those misguided fools could not survive in a world where the next-door child was a direct competitor- another mouth to feed. The kind ones were either the first to starve to death or to be killed in a foolish attempt to do battle for the scarce food in hopes of feeding others.

Groups had formed throughout the city- gangs, clans, brotherhoods; like-minded individuals who would hunt in packs- raiding houses and looting abandoned houses for scraps of food... but none were as successful as those who had embraced their dark future and discarded what remained of their humanity. Cannibalism was no longer something that books from the Wildlands spoke of- it was a real, life-extending, disease-promoting phenomenon that promised strength as the rest of the populace weakened.

There were those who believed that She was a cannibal, whereas others thought her a rumor- a myth to inspire hope in the few, remaining children of the City. The white-robed Angel- a being who would wander the night and gather the children with a promise of salvation at the Garrison, but all knew... those who followed in her lengthy procession would never be seen again.