I found more of the stinking ichor. Followed a trail of it along the river’s edge to the roots of a mangrove, where it had collected and congealed into a teeming boil.
The veil is thin here, too. Like the last. Why does the blight creep so close to our ritual sites?
It was not possible to toll the dead—the bones were too many. I burned it all. Next time I’ll plug my nostrils with biteberries first, the stench was unholy.