Richer Blood: Werner recoils

Werner creeped down the corridor, poorly lit by torchlight and entered into yet another deranged room. The smell of the abatoir had taken on a slightly discordant note; a hint of rotting fruit perhaps. His face crumples in disgust as he gets a better look at the well appointed body lying upon the floor.

"Ugh, that was not a healthy man. I'd not touch him with your hands if you can avoid it" Werner proceeds to wrap the hood of his cloak about his lower nose and mouth muffling his already deep voice, "They say a miasma of disease may drift off of the plague ridden."

An childhood memory intrudes of the panic at mittelmund when rumors of the plague abounded. Burly men surrounding a house, wrapped with more clothing than during a harsh winter, despite the heat of summer. A fire...

Moving around in obvious nervousness at the perimeter of the room, Werner looks for more clues to this dead man's tale. The knick knacks of his desk spill across the floor, a goose feather quill soaking up ink into it's light coloured feathers. The oil from a shattered lamp merge with the large congealed pool of blood about the corpses ragged stump of an arm. A chilling after thought occurs to him, "Try not to trip over that missing arm either," he shudders.