Biscarsh
Legacy Name: Biscarsh

Before The Great Pandemic, Biscarsh earned his living as a gravedigger. He took an odd pride in his work, burying the remains of people’s dearly departed. While others viewed the subject of death with unease, it was to him an ordinary part of life. His family owned and cared for the Final Rest Memorial, one of Subeta's oldest cemeteries. The shovel he used had been passed down through generations, and over time, he developed a peculiar attachment to it.

When The Great Pandemic struck Subeta in 2009, Biscarsh, like many others, fell ill. After days of tormenting pain, he felt his heart stop beating, but death, as he would soon find out, was far from the end he had imagined...

Biscarsh awoke in a disorienting haze.

The world around him was a distorted blur, as if viewed through a thick fog. His hand, cold and stiff, reached out and clenched around a familiar object: his old shovel. The handle felt strange, icy to the touch, but he gripped it tighter, trying to anchor himself in this overwhelming confusion. He could remember only fragments of his life... and death. The last thing he could recall was the sharp pain in his chest, the slow fading of his breath, and then... silence. Darkness.

But this was not peace. He could feel the weight of something else, something wrong, pulling at his consciousness like a dark tide. He could feel a cold ache within, where there should have been warmth. He touched his face, recoiling at the strange texture under his fingertips. His skin, or what remained of it, was leathery and shriveled. His fingers passed over hollowed-out cheeks and sunken eyes.

His feet shuffled against the floor as he stood up from his bed, the small, dusty room where he had once slept and dreamed. But the space felt unfamiliar, foreign, as though he no longer belonged here. As he stumbled toward a mirror, a creeping dread overtook him. His legs moved with an unnatural stiffness, his joints aching in strange, painful ways. When he finally reached the mirror, he hesitated before lifting his eyes. What would he see? Could this be real? Could he, Biscarsh, truly be standing here in this grotesque form?

He looked.

Shock froze his expression. The reflection staring back at him was no longer his own. His face was half-rotted, with patches of skin hanging loose like tattered rags. His once-brown hair was now a brittle mess, clinging to his skull like strands of dried hay. His eyes, though still open, were sunken and clouded, unable to reflect the light of life, only a dead emptiness. The sight made him recoil, but his body refused to obey, frozen in place. A tremor of fear flickered within him. How could this be? How was this possible? Was he alive or dead? The line between the two had blurred completely, leaving him adrift in a nightmare of confusion.

As he stared at the horrific version of himself, a new thought gnawed at his mind. Was he the only one like this? ...

- - - Credits - - -
Original base code by dreamsky
Background by myself.