Setting
A narrow, cobbled street in London's Cheapside district, lined with timber-framed houses leaning precariously over the roadway. The gutters overflow with refuse and dead rats, their bloated bodies attracting clouds of flies. Doors bear red crosses and the words 'Lord have mercy upon us' scrawled in hastily-applied paint.
Characters
The figures in this scene as an entity network — co-presence links everyone in the moment; speakers who trade lines are bound tighter. Turn the resolution dial to reveal depth the engine actually computed.
Plague Doctor
primary
A tall, gaunt figure in his late 40s with a slightly stooped posture from years of bending over patients. His face is entirely concealed by a distinctive waxed leather mask with round glass eye openings and a long, bird-like beak filled with aromatic herbs. Thin wisps of graying hair escape from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His hands, visible when he gestures, are long-fingered and stained with various medicinal tinctures.
Baker
secondary
A middle-aged man with flour-dusted forearms and a ruddy complexion from years tending his oven. His thinning brown hair is tied back with a leather thong, and his hands—still clutching the loaf—show old burn scars from the trade.
Gravedigger
secondary
A gaunt, wiry man in his late 40s with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes visible above his vinegar-soaked face wrap. His hands are leathery and cracked from constant labor, with dirt permanently embedded under broken nails. A permanent stoop bends his shoulders from years of hauling heavy loads.
Child
background
A small, pale face with wide, curious eyes, framed by unkempt light brown hair. The child's features are delicate, with a slightly upturned nose and a smudge of dirt on one cheek.
Dialog
Plague Doctor
Mark this one for the dead-cart—pestilential buboes at neck and groin, God's reckoning comes swift.
Baker
Christ shield us! That's Goodman Fletcher's boy—fresh bread I gave him yestere'en!
Plague Doctor
Your loaf killed him no more than the moon causes madness, baker. Though I'd not eat from that oven 'til it's scrubbed with vinegar.
Baker
The doctor's comin' like Death's own peel—should I burn the shop? The College says fire purges miasma!
Plague Doctor
Cease your foolishness! The visitation spreads not by bread nor air, but by proximity to the afflicted. Keep to your kneading and pray.
Baker
But the rats, doctor! They swarm like unbaked dough—should I—
Plague Doctor
Leave them. The searchers will deal with carcasses come morning. Now bar your door properly—you're letting in night air thick with God's displeasure.
