The Spine of Kallemor

A Vilnian stumbles across the dry and cracked landscape that surrounds him. This was the third day of wading through the fog since he had lost his caravan. They told him stories of how the fog drew people in with whispers but, he was young. He did not believe. The fear had left the morning before. The fear that his red eyes would soon turn to dark, empty, sockets and his mind nothing but evil and darkness. Now, all that remained was the occasional illusion of something familiar, something that told him that was the way he had came three days ago. The way out. However long he would stumble around following the sign, he never found the way. His fingertips would turn into a spreading sickness that steals all of the color from his skin. It would fester up his arm, to his chest, up his neck, and to his eyes where it would envelop him in a madness he could never escape. He would live the end of his days as an empty shell for the corruption to control.