MMGDemo - Pentitents of the Fevered Host

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The Last Procession of the Fevered Host

They were once known simply as The Pilgrims of the Ember Reliquary, a humble procession tasked with carrying sacred fire through the mud‑choked front to bless the dying and purge the corrupted. Their chants were soft, their steps steady, their faith unshaken.
That was before the Hunger found them.
It began as a tremor in their bones — a gnawing ache that no prayer soothed. Then came the visions: a great, yawning maw beneath the earth, whispering in a voice like grinding stone. When the first Pilgrim collapsed, vomiting black ash, they understood the truth. The Great Hunger had taken root in them. Their bodies were already hollowing. Their souls were next.
Instead of despair, they chose purpose.
Led by Brother Malachi the Withered, they bound their failing bodies in chains and scripture‑cloth, sealing their armor with wax and blessed tar to slow the rot. They extinguished their lanterns, leaving only the dim glow of the Ember Reliquary to guide them. And they turned their procession toward the front lines — not to minister, but to kill.
Every Pilgrim knows they will not survive the journey. The Hunger will devour them from within, reducing them to husks or worse. But before that happens, they intend to carve a path of holy ruin through the forces of Hell. Each battle is a sacrament. Each kill, a stave against oblivion. Each step, a defiance of the abyss gnawing at their marrow.
They march now in silence, save for the grinding of teeth and the rattle of chains. Their eyes burn with fevered devotion. Their relics drip with wax and blood. And behind them, the trenches whisper of a warband already half‑dead — a procession of martyrs who refuse to fall before their work is done.
They are the Fevered Host, and this is their final pilgrimage.