In the attic of Dunwall Tower, there is a graveyard of sorts.
The eyes of dead emperors peer out from faded portraits. Last year's fashions overflow from overloaded chests. There is a case of tarnished cutlery, a whole host of old light fixtures abandoned to the mess when the palace staff replaced them, a box of china that had once belonged to the Olaskir dynasty and has not been used in a banquet in some fifty years.
There is one corner with a darker purpose. Here is stored the remainder of the old Lord Regent's things. His clothes were distributed to the poor and his valuables, invested in the rebuilding of the city. His books were thrown out and his furniture, used for kindling. What then, remains to be hidden away in the sole place in the tower that emperors never set foot?
His secrets.
Here are the plans he didn't burn, the schemes he kept behind lock and key. Here is the map, yellowed with age and crumbling at the edges, with which he planned his clandestine expedition to Pandyssia to fetch the rats with which he tried to murder a city.
Though the text is dimmed with age and the writing is small, there is an X marked on that map. Penciled in below are the words "Rat Plague Origin."
Did you ever wonder what that expedition found there?
*.*.*
The city happened slowly. At first it was a crumbling wall here and there, a hunk of antique masonry long overtaken by the jungle. Then they found the paving-stones, many of them sunk deep into the ground; overgrown by grass and trees and shrubs. They followed what ones they could see as a guide. But the path vanished often without warning, the jungle having consumed it, like it had consumed the lives of so many who had ventured this far into the dense interior of Pandyssia.
As they trudged onward, their ears ever alert for the rustle of branches, the structures they passed grew larger and more complete. Their dank interiors smelled of mildew and glowing-eyed things snarled at them from the darkness inside.
And then, it was as though a veil had been lifted from their eyes. The jungle opened up and the city - Arouraíos Póli, the marooned sailors had called it, spitting on the ground and making the sign of the Evil Eye as they said it - lay before them, mile upon mile of cracking street and ruined building.
A hush fell over the company as they entered. They were philosophers and soldiers. Only a handful among them knew their true purpose in coming here. But all were awed. They trod on sacred ground, bearing witness to an empire fallen before their time. Many more than one of them wondered silently at what calamity had befallen the place to put it into such a state.
No one spoke as they walked through the empty streets. Not a sound was heard save for the echoes of their footsteps and the lonely whistle of the wind through the wreckage that towered above them. It seemed that the wildlife that had been so pervasive and troublesome for the greater half of their journey had abandoned this place too.
The danger here was not to be underestimated.
Day by day, they worked their way around blockages, over chasms and through groaning structures that threatened to collapse on top of them. It was hard, slow work and the Pandyssian sun beat on their brows all the while. But by the end of the week, they had made it to the center.
The final obstacle was a dense tangle of vines that lashed out at you like a thing alive when you touched them. Incendiaries were prepared and a path to the other side, burned through. The screams of the plants sounded eerily human, though the party's naturalist assured them all that it was merely the escape of steam.
From there, they slipped through a blasted-out crack in the wall surrounding their goal and found themselves looking upon the Inner City.
The place was swarming with rats - unnaturally big ones with staring pits of coal for eyes and teeth sharp enough to cut flesh. They scurried over unwary toes and nibbled through rations if they were set down for more than a moment. The faint-hearted stayed behind, clinging to the relative safety of the wall to do their calculations and check their maps. Those of stronger stomach kept walking, cages and traps in hand.
Every morning, their catch was thoroughly inspected. They were to bring to Dunwall an equal number of male and female rats - enough breeding pairs to make a difference. Those not of the Lord Regent's circle were told that they were to be shipped to the Academy so that they might be studied and perhaps, a cure found for the malady they brought when they snuck onto ships. The healthiest ones were kept and the sickly ones were released.
It was not a task so easy as it appeared. The rats were wiley and they worked as one mind, dodging traps, snapping up food and steadily growing more hostile towards the invaders in their land.
On the eighth day in the Inner City of Arouraíos Póli, the cabin boy, while avoiding a particularly big specimen that seemed to have it out for him, fell into a nest and was consumed, screaming, by tiny teeth in mere moments. The chaplain said a litany over the pit, no one daring to go down there and fetch his bloody bones. The rats watched the proceedings, chittering, their coal-black eyes glittering with malice.
It was decided that they could stay no longer in the hope of safety. With that, they packed up and left with their terrible cargo.
No one ventured to look behind as they fled.
Notes:
Arouraíos Póli is Greek for "Rat City." It's the nickname bestowed by shipwrecked Serkonan sailors specifically.