Limos de Morbus

Herald and priest of Morbus, God of Disease


“I’m often asked by those I meet along the roads, “Why have you pledged your life to Morbus?” Granted, the way it is phrased is seldom so lacking in passion. The soft folk of the cities do not understand that the world is full of weakness, that society protects those who only weaken humanity. Civilization has taken upon itself the privilege of naming who is weak and who is strong. When the gods of the Wild turn their eyes upon the city they weep, save one, Morbus. Morbus, the God of Pestilence, it is his purview his rite to test us all for weakness. When his eyes turn to the glowing lights of the cities he does not weep, no, he sends his agents out to those tumorous growths of weak flesh and he does his duty. Why have I pledged my life to Morbus? I once lived in the city – then I was a barber. I would bleed the malnourished and the obese, I would feed my leeches upon the tainted humors of the diseased and the paranoid, and I would saw off the limbs of the dead and the living. There was no reason to it! I served the weak and the strong in equal turn and feed our state of stagnation. I began to think myself weak – never turning a patron from my door and supplicating myself to the affluent for their favor. My frame grew thin and my health declined under the pressure of humanity – that stale air. My patients began to question me – a doctor who so allows his health to decline, how could he care for me? Society deemed me weak and I began to believe it as well, till Morbus sent a gift to me upon the wind. "

“At first I thought I was dying – the cold sweats, the puss filled boils, and the stink of decay upon me. Weeks past and I began to have visions – Morbus watching me and waiting to judge me. I would not be judged weak again and it was only a handful of days before the fever broke and my strength returned. Morbus showed me my strength then – his gifts are a test to show us the truth about ourselves. He enlightened me and that is why I serve him – to repay that gift and to visit it upon others.” The crowd begins to break and whisper in tones of fear and anger to one another as the priest smiles in the darkness of his cowl, “Fear not my brothers and sisters, the gift has already been given…”

Limos de Morbus

The Age of Myth Langy Nehebkau