Morning came, a cold, gray dawn breaking over the plague-ridden city. The boy’s mother, driven mad by grief and fever, found her son and the old woman locked in their ghastly death-stare. A scream tore from her throat, and in her madness, she ran into the kitchen, seizing a carving knife. She turned the blade upon herself, gouging out her eyes with frantic hands. Blood flowed freely as she stumbled through the house, her sightless form fleeing through the streets of Lankhmar , through the Marsh Gate, and into the murky depths of The Great Marsh , never to be seen again.
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