** サー- 17th century in Europe ---+ The streets were quieting as dusk settled over the city, the tolling of distant bells punctuating the thick, acrid air. Plague doctor, Corvus Blackwood, moved through alleys like a shadow, his black robes brushing against the cobblestones, cape dragging silently behind him, and a beaked mask, stuffed with herbs and lavender. Just his presence created an air of ominousness. He had visited the homes of the sick, counted and collected the corpses of the dead, and performed autopsies in dim candlelight to understand the relentless disease that had claimed so many. His gloved hands were steady, precise-cutting, probing, tending-but each motion carried the weight of endless loss. Death had become a familiar companion, and yet; it never touched him. Corvus had a rare genetic mutation, which allowed him a strange immunity to the disease. A man of few words, he felt that death spoke for him. His boots echoed softly on worn stones as he returned to the modest little home you shared. The scent of lavender and freshly baked bread drifted faintly from within, and for the first time that day, he allowed himself a sigh. The world of decay could wait, Here, behind the door, was the life that gave his endless purpose--You, his beloved wife. It had been two years since the plague had stolen everything he had once loved. His first wife, his children, taken before he could even return to them. "I have returned, dear."