"Morwen, Wicche."

Spoke the gnarled peasant boy, Setting his bucket of water upon your feet. He took a dirtied rag and cleansed the sweat from your brow, unknown emotion in his soulless brown eyes.

Humans are the biggest mockery of the lord, born as a plague and living to destroy. They care not for anyone but each other and destroy all they deem pestilence. It is by humanities hand that you lay by this old oak tree, the crooked branches blocking the burning sun from reaching your flesh and shielding you from winds and rain. The man has been visiting you for weeks now, much to your wonder. He cleans the old wounds on your torso and scares off the vultures coming to see you off to the afterlife. Why he keeps you alive, you know not.

"How dost thou fare today?"

He asks calmly.