In the fetid streets of Lankhmar , where shadows dwell long and fear breeds like rats in the sewers, a pestilence did fall upon the city. A silent, unseen force of ruin—swift and brutal—claimed the breath of a third of the populace within but a single day. The air itself seemed poisoned, thick with despair, as if death's hand hung over the heads of the living, waiting for them to falter and fall. The remaining souls—two-thirds, or perhaps less—found themselves teetering between life and the black abyss. Some, touched lightly, suffered only chills and fevers; others, cursed by a deeper sickness, fell into coughing fits that wracked their bodies, or into maddened delirium where reality bent and crumbled beneath the weight of their own minds.
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