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The year is 1782, Katla was born to an unassuming pair of parents that lived humble uneventful lives. She was a normal girl, with her own dreams and aspirations befitting herself, she didn’t conform to what others wished of her instead taking pride in her own free thinking and spirit.
The type of girl that will not take statements of fact without challenge. If people say she cannot do something then she will do everything in her power to achieve it for the sake of herself. So when society told her that she could not become a doctor then a doctor is what she would become. She would spite the doubters, and prove that it could be done.
Her time in education had its trials and tribulations, namely from people looking down upon her telling her that she could not achieve what she had set out to achieve, but at each turn and each shortcoming she overcame it. She would achieve what she had set out to do and nothing was going to get in the way of that.
Standard conventions at the time lead her to apprenticing under a doctor who was studying a particular disease. Though the vector of the disease itself was unknown. The symptoms most noticeably the coughing and damage to inner tissue were very noticable. A particular incident involving the transportation of a patient, led to her receiving a face full of the infected individuals coughing. Indeed even though washed off the phlegm from herself. She would soon find herself contracting the pathogen.. Wasting away as a patient to the very doctor she had apprenticed herself to. She couldn’t help but feel like life had played a cruel trick on her by taking away her chance to be a doctor through an untimely death. At the very least she could donate her body to medical scientists, after all when people died that was it. There was nothing beyond the finality of death. So what did it matter to her what a few scientists did to her body after she departed from this mortal coil….
That was true for just over a century at least with the advent of the 1900’s cult activity was at an all time high of activity, with more and more abominations of rituals taking place across the land. One particular ritual took place in a forest near her burial site. One that required a corpse.She wasn’t chosen for any grand reason or great idea. She wasn’t chosen because she was fresh or new or someones loved one. She was chosen because her gravesite was old and abandoned. Uncared for and not often checked that a body snatching could easily occur without so much as an alarm being raised for the longest time. No police would be able to interfere with the cultists activities. Just the way they liked it. Nobody would be coming to disturb them.
The ritual took place under a blood moon in a forest clearing, the ritual practice very clearly laid out in an organised manner these cultists had been preparing to weave their dark magics for a while. The magic that they poured onto her remains was dark, vile and twisted, the type that seeped into the very essence of her being and stitched and repaired against the flow of time, sinew and muscle regrowing from ash and bone. Hair spilling forth as the follicles were regenerated by the magic pouring into her being. The cultists would have had cause for celebration. If she hadn’t woken up screaming.
A guttural scream, a very primal scream that only something animalistic could muster. One of pain, confusion, agony and grief, something that didn’t deserve to be alive, something that was very clearly wrong. Yet still here. Still cradling some shell of a life. The cultists had paused their ritual, like deer faced with a predator they were at a loss of how to react. She was pulling herself free of any bindings they had placed on her. Betraying these cultists as fools over their heads. All hell broke loose the moment she rushed at once, A scream in his throat as his paralyzed body fell to the ground helpless like a fly in a spider's web. It was at that point that all hell broke loose. Cries shouting, screaming to run. All of it only served as ways for the monster that they had unleashed to find them, to locate them. Even if she was only operating on her most base instincts, a loud cry of shock would quickly draw her to them…
Soon there were 8 paralyzed people…8 delicious meals. She might have vomited if she had any sense of reason at that time. But the flesh was soon pulled backwards down her ever-hungry maw.
Satiated. The primal instincts would rescind themselves as her higher brain functions would slowly come back to her. She was alive. How? Why? Those were questions she had to sit down to answer. How was obvious by mere observation of her surroundings. Why was not obvious. Pure cruel chance it seemed..
But the cruellest thing of all was the fact that she had indeed come back to life. But she had come back incomplete. What remained inside her chest was rotten shards of lungs and a heart, long since cold, and now unfinished. The muscles that pumped blood inside of her, and provided oxygen to her lungs were now contained, only held together by her rib cage which was tinted green from her dried defiled blood. The scent from her chest was earthen, like decaying fallen leaves at the end of a rainy November. She could smell the pungent necrosis off the liquefying chest wound. Touching it brought pain. Almost agonisingly so.
Her mind was a mixed maze of emotions and fractured memories. Why did she still exist? Why was she still alive? There was no hell that one could conceive that was worse then the one that Katla had just found herself in.
