the needlemarchers wander the streets day in and out. tar coursing through their veins, scabs speckle their skin, yet it does not matter to them. they will always will march to the beats of their minds. no pus filled cavity would stop these soldiers as they are willing to die for this meaningless cause.
p.o.w.'s they are, sent to camps with others like them. the black death spreads throughout these confines, both killing the body and mind. plague doctors flog their writhing bodies and laugh. yet the needlemarcher's passion will never be extinguished.
sick and brave knights crusade through the slums after they escape, their fire burning brighter than ever. but when the needlemarcher finds their holy lance, that flame will soon extinguish to the indifference of the alchemists.