Work Text:
This journal's leather binding is scarred, its centre decorated with a simple phoenix insignia, now faded and barely discernible. Nearly all of its pages are full, most filled with text, others with drawings of various quality; maps, portraits and anything in between. You read through some of the more important looking passages:
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A week ago Renthar nonchalantly pointed out that a ranger ought to keep a personal journal, for the sake of themselves and their comrades alike. He hasn't said anything of the topic since then, but I know better. There are few things Captain Hawkspear does - says - without purpose in mind; if he believes a journal is a necessity, then might as well.
Named Valodis by my parents, I am of no noble house or notable lineage. Born in Tranquillien twenty-three years ago, I lost my family to an Amani raid on the eve of the last Midsummer Fire. I, too, would have perished if not for the sacrifice of my brother Ithillan. Just like my mother Meneris and father Gel'an, he is gone now, torn to shreds by the trolls' axes. Perhaps I will write of that night, and of those lost to me, into these pages sometime. But not today.
Exhausted and mad with grief, I fell into a ravine during my escape. There darkness took me. The next thing I recall is a spartan, yet undeniably comfortable bed in an austere room, my wounds bandaged and my throat sore. Not a moment passed before being offered calming words and a jugful of herbed water by a harsh-looking man. He told me that he found me, a body with merely an inkling of life left within, just beyond the pine forests that separate our lands from those of the savages. He brought me into his small lodge, healed my body. Then, once retelling of my own terrible tale came to close, he gave me a chance to heal my spirit as well.
That is how I met Captain Renthar Hawkspear, he who would become my mentor on the path of a ranger.
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The ceremony was simple and short. At the Farstriders' Square, each student was awarded a cloak by their mentor, marking them as a full-fledged ranger of the High Home. I do not wish to presume, especially now when it is but a memory, but I could swear I saw the tiniest of smiles on Renthar's face then. I like to think it was there.
As the rest of the day required of us no further duties, Fiora, Arushel and I decided to take in the sights. I did my utmost to remain stoic, but their excitement was contagious. It was my first time in Silvermoon and I already wish I had more time to explore its wonders. From the radiant Western Temple of the Light, to the imposing Sunfury Spire and the venerable Great Library of House of Scribes, the city seemed like a different world to me. It was the latter that spoke to me the most; it has been so long since I had time and desire to simply sit down and read. Maybe one day I will be able to enter and find some nice historical novel, I pondered as we walked through the azure-cobbled streets. Fiora noticed my far-away look, and after my explanation promised to accompany me here someday. I am not opposed.
Towards dusk, Arushel left us to visit his relatives, while Fiora insisted we must visit one of the inns in the Augur's Row. The food and drink was nice, but I did not enjoy the place. It seems there are parts of the capital I could do without seeing after all. Fi seemed cross with me afterward, though I know not why so.
The last experience aside, this day I shall treasure for the rest of my days, I think. For as I laid into my cot in the barracks, for the first time in a long while I felt some modicum of peace.
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Today I told Nemeth what I think of his so-called stratagems. The man thinks himself superior to us, mere rank-and-file, but the fact of the matter is that his experience with the jungle trolls is useless against their forest brethren. The Gurubashi do not fight as the Amani do, nor do we wage war as the humans of Stormwind do. I cannot understand what the Convocation seeks to accomplish by assigning him here. So he assisted the humans in Stranglethorn. So he made some kind of discovery concerning their blood rituals. So what? Captains Hawkspear and Theron were put in charge of the Enclave by General Windrunner herself! Should she have no final say in the matter? I understand the lords and the magisters are concerned about recent events, but do they have so little faith in Farstriders to halt the Amani incursions to interfere with our hierarchy so directly? More importantly, of what use is a man who thinks the best way to defeat the trolls is a cavalry charge? Yes, that's right! A cavalry charge, that's what he suggested with conviction of a priest at sermon! A cavalry charge! By Sunwell's blessed waters, one has to wonder how did that even work in the jungles of Stranglethorn Vale, as Nemeth is adamant that it were these grand melee that won the war. I, for one, think he got his head hit by a club.
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While on patrol, Fiora offered to teach me how to paint. Or, well, provide pointers, as she put it. I am hesitant to accept, but Arushel thinks I should. He seems to believe it would be 'good for me' and that Fi would 'enjoy it immensely'. The way he said it made me consider what precisely swims within that head of his, but maybe that is for the best.
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Recent skirmishes have ended well, but there is unease in the air. For every one of these Light-forsaken beasts we slay, two more take their place. Renthar claims the Amani haven't been this aggressive, nor organised, in centuries. I am not privy to what is discussed at officers' meetings, but there are whispers that the trolls have a new warlord, someone as cunning as he is cruel.
There hasn’t been any large-scale attack on our settlements for months now, but every now and then news of a scorched farmstead or a razed estate stirred through the Enclave. During my last patrol we happened upon one such farm. I am ashamed to write here that I was close to collapsing once we found the half-consumed remains of the family and the farmhands. Sathein and Lyrel stayed to bury the bodies.
At least Nemeth has relented and begun to compromise, in no small part to Captain Theron's smooth words. I understand why he is so popular. He is quite a charmer, that one!
Nemeth still believes that we need to meet the trolls in direct battle however. As loath as I am to write so, I am beginning to agree. Our standard tactics are not working as well as they should, and the foe shows no signs of relenting in their sacrilegious incursions. But I am still hesitant to admit his idea of bringing in heavily armoured horsemen is what we need. Brute strength is not what will earn us victory, cunning is. Besides, Farstriders are too proud to accept the royal army’s help in such a direct manner.
To Nemeth’s credit, he has ceased proposing that we do just that. He probably realised there are only a very few better ways to get his tea spiked with something around here.
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The trees' whispers are filled with anxiety. A storm is coming.
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The Amani have launched a series of attacks along our borders. We are receiving reports all across the kingdom, from the first Moongate to the Inner Runestones. We are not certain yet, but it appears the trolls are decided on waging a true war, just like they did millennia ago.
If so, they shall die in pain and disgrace, reaping what they had sowed. So I swear, by the blood of my kin.
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It is difficult to anticipate their strikes. And when we do, we only barely manage to push them back. At least I am not in danger of running out of trolls to slaughter, I suppose.
Arushel has been reassigned elsewhere. I missed his departure, which does not sit well with me. But such is the ranger's lot.
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Renthar suggested forming squads that would strike deep into the Amani land, returning the favour in kind. He believes it would force the trolls to withdraw some of their warriors to defend their territory. We know the location of the village only half a day from Sanctum of the Sun. It is a highly risky assignment and thus given so far only to volunteers. When I said I would go he remained impassive, but I could see the conflict in his eyes. In the end, he said nothing against. Fi too volunteered, though I suspect she did only because of me. At first I intended to talk to her about it, but then I realised my hypocrisy. Hawkspear respected my choice. Should I not do the same?
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Our hunt was a success. The captains were pleased. So much so that there are more to come.
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In spite of our victories, the Amani are unwavering. However, one of the groups managed to capture one of their headhunters. If the rumours are correct, he had the honour of being interrogated by the Trio themselves and, needless to say, told them anything they wanted to know. Out of whatever secrets he spilled, one name became a common knowledge quickly: Zul'jin, master of Zul'Aman. Furthermore, the first battalion of swordsmen from Sunsail arrived. They are pretty to look at, I do admit. Their full plate spotless, their winged helmets proud, their broadswords and shields at the ready. Let us see if they fight as well as they look, for Sunwell knows many of my comrades still think their presence is not needed.
As I was penning this entry, a messenger arrived from the Enclave. I am to take charge of our squad until further notice. Despite my reservations, if that is how I am to serve Quel'thalas, then it shall be.
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Fiora is dead. A spear pierced her lung as we were withdrawing from our raid. She held onto me as I attempted to bandage her wounds. She urged me to run. She was right, even the most talented of priests and surgeons could not save her. I could not save her. I still tried to stop the bleeding after her eyes grew dim.
I am sorry Fi. By the Sunwell, I am so sorry.
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Halduron told me it was not my fault. It did nothing but put salt on the wound. He told me that I should not strain myself, that in my chase for troll’s blood I will only lose myself. He knows nothing.
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A week ago, I nearly died. I allowed myself to be separated from my group, a foolish mistake deserving the fate I nearly met. Five of them pursued me through the trees, though I kept them at bay with my arrows. Three fell, their necks and hearts pierced. But once my quiver became filled only with air, the remaining two descended upon me, hate and triumph mixing in their eyes. I killed another one with my blade, just barely. But their leader proved too much, though it was not her physical prowess that felled me.
As we traded blows, my eyesight grew blurry, my skin becoming as if on fire. Only too late did I realise that I faced one of their accursed witch doctors. Her demonic magic sapped my strength bit by bit, and, in the end, my scimitar fell from my hand by just merely parrying her incoming slash. I moved to the side, her next strike denting my breastplate. On a brink of falling to my knees, I summoned the last of my will to dodge and to punch and to claw. All in naught: by that point, I could not defeat her, and so the spear, too alike to the one that took Fiora from me, would find its mark eventually, as it inevitably did.
Though I recall I had intended to let out a last cry of defiance, one of pain was torn from my lips instead. Pinned to the ground I was, my shoulder drenched in blood. I knew this to be the end. It should have been the end.
Yet, in that moment I underestimated the cruelty of the forest trolls, the needs of their basic primitive natures: the Amani wished me dead, oh yes. But first she wanted to hear my scream echo through the night, and as she twisted her spear, I did. I screamed. It wasn't enough for her.
Pulling out a curved dagger, its rough blade shimmering with a thin layer of purple liquid, she cut the underlayer of my scale mail first, then the fabric of my tunic below. Only then she began to carve red lines on my arms, my lower abdomen, slowly, deliberately. I am not a physician, my knowledge of the body is limited to basic healing methods. But it was obvious she sought my most sensitive points, infecting them with whatever poison coaxed her knife. Weak as I was, I could not even muster enough resistance to make her job harder at that point.
Whatever she did, it made my entire being trash in anguish after mere seconds. The sensations constantly shifted. It felt like I was being submerged in the scorching magna of Blackrock, only to feel the icy depths of Northrend claiming me next.
From that point, I cannot recall much more, beyond my desire for it to end, all notions of defiant warrior death left behind.
The rest is a blur. After what seemed like eternity, the pain ceased in its beat, a constant ache stealing its place. Only now I know that the troll, fixated, hypnotised by my suffering, reacted all too late to the rapidly approaching horseman’s lance. It skewered her as I faded out of consciousness.
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The knight to whom I can credit my survival, Tolin'dran, has visited me thrice since I awoke in the field hospital five days ago. He told me he hails from Goldenmist Village, which made me realise where I had seen the emblem on his cape clasps. He is a Flamechaser, one of the minor noble houses that had sometimes participated in summer solstice tourneys and festivals.
At first I felt unease by his presence - surely there were more important matters than serving as company to a bed-bound fool. I voiced my thoughts, and he assured me that he does not neglect his duties by spending some time by my side.
He talks more than I do. Just like me, he also has a fondness for history, though our favourite time periods differ. He is slightly older than me and already went on quests beyond the borders of our kingdom. He knows how to use a bow, but his weapons of choice are lance and swords with a straight blade. I was surprised to discover his family has some ties to the Church of the Holy Light from Lordearon, an unusual curiosity to be sure. As such he had the opportunity to live among the humans for a time. Even though I most assuredly do not share his curiously positive predisposition to the sons of Arathor, he spoke of them well and I enjoyed his tales.
I tacitly admit I do not mind his visits.
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Back in the field. It feels good - right - but a gnawing doubt lingers at the back of my mind. It is constant, not unlike the Sunwell’s warmth, if it were a chill instead. I can only pray that I do not fail again. I sense Lor'themar nor Renthar would not be as understanding or forgiving a second time.
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The Amani hesitate to challenge us in open battle now, granting us the opportunity to return to our traditional tactics once more. I heard someone compare our current situation to the Troll Wars, where it took the barbarians from the south to even the battlefield. I suppose there is some truth to that, though this time we are more than able to deal with it on our own.
By chance, I crossed paths with Tolin'dran while passing through Dawnstar. It was a pleasant surprise. He invited me to visit him in Goldmist once this is over. I am uncertain whether to accept, but I promised to consider it.
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I doubt historians will consider this a war. Our losses, though not insignificant, pale in comparison to those of the Trolls Wars. Rebuilding the settlements razed by Zul'jin’s horde will take years, but I have no doubt it will be done. Handpicked by the Convocation, the workers and engineers are already on the task.
As for the vaunted chieftain himself? He fled to his overgrown capital with what little remains of his forces.
At the procession through Silvermoon, General Windrunner gave a solemn but stirring speech. She made it known the Farstriders will remain vigilant, that we know that as long as the warlord lives the trolls shan’t abandon their reemerged ambitions aimed at our destruction. Once they gather enough courage to reveal their fangs yet again, we will be ready. Such was the rangers’ promise.
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I met Arushel. The joy of recognizing his face turned to sorrow once I beheld his right arm - or the lack of thereof. We talked, filling in blanks that formed since his reassignment. He now lives not far from Farstriders' Square, where he was given a place to call his own in one of the residential buildings close to the Temple. Over tea, we shared our experiences and decided to visit Fiora’s grave together, for both our sakes.
There, once again I told Fi I am sorry. For everything.
It was there that I decided. It has been on my thoughts for some time now: I have enough of blood, of war. Mother. Father. Brother. I hope the war I waged on the monsters gave you some measure of peace.
Sunwell knows it gave me none.
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If Renthar had been surprised by my request to leave the corps, he did not show it. Sometimes I wonder how can he know me better than I know myself. I was not his first student, nor will I be the last, so perhaps the answer is experience. Perhaps he himself went through something similar in the past. Or perhaps he is just good at pretending. Be it as may, he wished me well and allowed me to stay in the barracks until I decide what to do next.
I spent the next week discovering the city. It wasn’t as pleasant as I had hoped, a lack of companion a constant reminder of how things changed for myself. Funny, that. I like to tell myself that I learn from my mistakes, yet this is the second time that I began to appreciate something only after it became lost to me.
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I made a trip to Quel’Danas. Tolin'dran, whose arrival I had been anticipating since he informed me of it in a letter, was willing to accompany me, but I gently declined. I want to make the pilgrimage as it should be done. That is, if no family is left, alone. He nodded with a kind smile, words of understanding on his lips.
Security on the isle has increased in recent years, or so I was told, but Renthar’s commendation allowed me to pass without an issue. How he slipped it into my discharge documents without me noticing I know not.
The isle itself is magnificent, serene and austere. Initially I was nervous to approach anyone, but even the local Magisters were kind and helpful, a stark contrast to their mainland brothers and sisters.
The pilgrimage across the island was not a trying ordeal, but I suspect that was never its point. After a whole day of visiting the shrines, it culminated in the heart of the Plateau itself.
I am uncertain what to write here next. To stand besides the cradle of energy that is our well was indescribable. As I stood there, basking in its radiance, I recalled a tale of antiquity, one of banishment and exile. Our ancestors refused to give up the gift of such wonder, preferring to leave everything they knew behind instead. It was only then I truly understood their reasons, and that they made the right choice.
I almost hope Zul’jin gets to experience its power one day, just for a moment before being extinguished himself. For that single moment, he would understand: a century or an eon, as long as the Sunwell endures, the Quel’dorei shall stand proud and powerful.
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It has been difficult to adjust to civil life, but I am managing. Tol’s presence helps. We talk and take strolls through the city and the surrounding countryside. It is very different from my former home; even the wilds - if the term can even be applied - are focused, refined. I admit that while I see beauty in it, I do miss the untamed side of nature now and then.
We visited the Five-Thousand Crystals Museum at the Walk of Elders, then the Great Library. I had avoided the latter since arriving in the city. Somehow, Tol knew of my desire to wander its shelves - I must had let it slip in one of our conversations.
I told him of Fiora’s promise, and while he understood my hesitation, he believed Fi would not want me to act this way. He was right, of course, but it is one thing to know and entirely another to act. Ultimately, he convinced me to enter the marble doorway, doing his best to distract me with smalltalk all the way. It helped. Only as we passed deeper into the building did I allow myself to focus and see familiar rows of bookshelves before me.
We did not stay long, but it was a visit I will remember fondly. I bought several books, including an old edition of Empires' Fall . I used to own a copy, once, a gift from father.
Towards the end of our time together, we sat down before the Shepherd’s Gate. After a while, Tol began to caress his eyebrows, his gaze distant, fixed on the forests of Eversong. I know now that he makes this motion only when something troubles him. I did not pry, aware he would share it with me eventually. Indeed, it did not take long for him to reveal he has to leave Silvermoon for Goldenmist soon. Before parting, he softly reminded me that his offer still stands.
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I have decided to accompany Tolin'dran. In spite, or perhaps because of its splendour, Silvermoon is not a place for an elf like myself. At the very least, not as a home. I am not certain of what I seek, but staying here does not feel right. I bid farewell to Arushel as I departed, giving a promise to visit him again.
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We arrived at the manor. I tried to hide the relief I felt from showing on my face when I beheld the lack of extravagance that imbued every corner of Silvermoon. In retrospect I suppose it is silly to think a small estate would rival the capital in such a manner, but during my time as a Farstrider I had witnessed many noble dwellings that seemed to do just that. I am glad the Flamechaser are more attuned to their surroundings.
There are only a few people living within these walls. Eleria and Talmar, cousins and knights like him, are the only of his family present. They both share Tol’s kindness and bravery, I can tell, but otherwise share little. Eleria is warmer and is not shy to say what she thinks, while Talmar is more contemplative. He does have a flair for dramatics occasionally however. Of the servants, I had the opportunity to meet only the cook, Vara. She was surprised to find I am not of noble blood, but otherwise was pleasant enough.
The absence of the patriarch, Lord Flamechaser, appears to be the norm. I am told he does not stray far from Silvermoon often since his wife’s departure. There was an odd glint in Tol’s eye when he explained his father’s absence. He never talked of him before, and I am beginning to suspect why.
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Tol has been trying his utmost to improve my Common. He claims the accent, although charming to the little ears of humans, makes my pronunciation nearly incomprehensible. That will not do.
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Eler has invited me to accompany her on a trip to Tranquillien. Though slightly confused at my unwillingness to elaborate on my decision, she was not offended when I declined.
I am not ready to see the town again. Not yet, at least.
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I delight in the manor’s library. It is nice to simply sit down and read.
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Tol surprised me with a lovely picnic during our evening stroll on the beach today. I cannot begin to describe how agitated the tips of my ears became when he took my hand and led me to the water, shedding his shirt on the way. We swam for hours.
We spent the night there.
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I asked Tal to teach me the basics of alchemy today. He agreed under the condition that I gather my own supplies. I would not have it any other way.
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A letter arrived this dawn. Tol is excited about something, but so far declined to share.
He shared tonight. Mostly. He is invited to Stromgarde. He did not say why yet, but he wants me to go with him. As I beheld the way his eyes sparkled, how his lips formed that half-smile I adore, I knew there was only one answer.
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We depart for Arathi Highlands tomorrow. I have decided to leave this journal behind. Somehow, I feel the need to record my thoughts has come to pass, at least for now. I am a Farstrider no longer, after all, so it does seem fitting.
Who knows? Perhaps one day I will find filling its pages once more.
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Of all things I could take before our estate had been consumed by the darkness, it was this old journal that I found in my hands hours after we left our burning home behind. It should have been weapons, or medicine, or some of artefacts or ancient tomes we had collected over the years.
No, instead I took this decades-old trinket of no value.
I am a fool, no matter what my beloved says. I do not even know why I am writing this.
Tol believes if we make haste we could make it to Silvermoon before it is besieged. Rejoin the defenders there. We both know we will not make it in time, but as long as the city holds, we might assist in different ways. Run sabotage, perhaps? I know not where to begin against a foe like this, but there must be some ways how to fight back. There must be.
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Silvermoon is gone.
Sunwell is gone.
I know not what to do.
I am scared.
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On the move. Only death and ruins remain. The undead hunt those who are left. Each day we lose someone.
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More refugees. Most do not stay with us.
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The undead ambushed us in a small overgrown canyon. Eler and Tal stayed behind to cover our retreat. Tol, me and four other fighters are all that is left to protect the group now.
Every death weighs on my beloved, but I can see their demise carved out wounds that will never heal. For with them gone, of House Flamechaser only the two of us remain.
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We burn the bodies of those that are lost to injury and sickness.
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We no longer encounter any refugees.
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I am unable to enchant my arrows with the arcane. I had to ask Tarodin, a former apprentice to a magister, to infuse them in my stead. He did as I asked, but it drained him. Such a simple matter it should be, yet his skin turned deathly pale even before he finished.
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We march for the eastern mountains. From there I suggested we descend south before turning back west. By avoiding the open plains, I believe we can evade the undead and reach Quel’Lithien Lodge. Small and hidden by ancient magic, there is a chance it may yet stand. With no better ideas to share, the others agreed.
In the deepest corner of my being, a small inkling of hope persists: perhaps some Farstriders live and gather there. Perhaps we shall find at least some of our kin still standing.
Tol presence is the only thing that comforts me. I do not know if I had the strength otherwise.
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We ran into what appeared to be remains of a skirmish between the undead and the trolls. Kor’in’s family took solace in the fact that our enemies are fighting one another. As if it matters. There is nothing left to protect from either.
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I haven't cried in years.
Not when the trolls murdered my loved ones: I was terrified then, consumed by fear of the impending end, my heart pounding as I fled.
I haven't cried when Fiora perished: though the icy grasp of sadness claims me when I think of her to this day, I did not cry then, my only thoughts those of vengeance.
Last night, after tending to the few who remain, I crawled into my bedroll and began to wonder if Renthar or Arushel still live.
I could not stop the weeping that began to shake me next.
I cried, until my eyes stung red, until my throat felt as dry as desert itself.
I cried, knowing my home is dead.
I awoke with Tol’s arms around me.
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Even this high up, the nights are mild at best. Still, it is so cold. We have little in the way of protection, though over the past week I managed to hunt some wild animals, from rabbits to a lynx. Kor’in and her children helped me to stitch some basic winter clothing from their fur.
It is not nearly enough to cover us all, but strangely only some of us seem to need them.
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The taste of ash and decay no longer clings to the air. I might call it a silver lining to our misery, if not for the knowledge that the taste will haunt my memories forevermore.
I found some briarthorn. Should be enough to make at least one small batch of healing potion.
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Tolin'dran and I argued. He claims the Light hasn't forsaken us, that it is still with us. How? How can he say this after the horrors we have witnessed? I do not understand. How? How? How? How? How?
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Kor’in’s son did not wake up. I helped her to bury the remains.
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I try to hide my shivers, but I fail miserably. We left the mountains behind a week ago. Why am I still so cold?
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We have arrived at Quel’Lithien. The ancient runes held, and the lodge remains hidden from the undead. Yet it is deserted. I feel as though my soul has not stopped weeping since the day the monsters breached our gates. The emptiness of this place strikes me like a spear. Like a spear, twisting…
A small victory, some around me whisper as they see elven walls around them. Fools. We are out of food, with our supplies of water soon to follow. In Quel’thalas the land itself still struggled in defiance, giving us just barely enough to survive. The further we stayed from the destruction, the better chance of finding clear streams and wild game not riddled with disease was. But here? What is left for us here? Just like its inhabitants, this forsaken land has been drained of its life. How are we supposed to provide for ourselves here?
I find myself drifting further from my husband with each passing day. We barely talk when we are alone. I know it is not fair of me. But his hope, his faith - these are the cornerstones of who he is. They are what endeared him to me all those years ago. Now I cannot stand to listen to his promises of a better tomorrow. How can he still believe? HOW?
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There is something within me. Or maybe it would be more acute to write there is something missing. I know others can feel it too. I noticed it first when we reached the mountains, and it has only grown stronger since.
Even then, Tol remains as stalwart as ever. He is the only inspiration the rest can draw from. It keeps their flame alive, if weak. I feel ashamed to not be the beacon of hope like he is. But I simply cannot. Each time I am on the hunt I see nothing but death and corruption. What hope truly is there when even the land itself, its forests and rivers, has resigned to its fate?
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It gnaws and tears, this hunger. It is not one of physical needs. I still do not understand what it is. What is the cause? It is like something was torn from my body, something that was there all along.
Kor’in had suggested searching for seeds we might use to grow food. Tol agreed, as he believes he can use his powers to help the seeds to survive. Ridiculous. How many times do I have to tell them what their own eyes see? Lordaeron is dead, murdered by its own prince. If the almighty Light could help this kingdom, it would have done it already.
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I had to sneak into one of the ravaged villages that dot the land to get the seeds. Nearly got split in two by a skeletal warrior on my way back. Only Tol remains to infuse the arrows I craft with the Light. I try to use them only when no other course of action remains viable. He shows no strain using his powers, but I have no desire to test his limits. We still talk little. I have trouble sleeping without his body resting next to mine.
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For the first time since our arrival, I spotted a group of humans. Heavily armed, tattered tabards on their plate. I did not approach them.
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Deformed shapes and rotting meat stalk my dreams. Faces with sunken eyes and barred black teeth. Renthar grabs my arm, biting. The pain is terrible, but through it even greater horror takes root within me: I can feel its corruption spreading, turning my skin ashen, my hair white. As I struggle to escape, Arushel begins to chew on my legs. More and more walking corpses appear, each and every one wearing a familiar visage. No longer I struggle or wail, my arms and legs heavy with weakness. The undead release me and I fall. Yet it is not the end, for I rise again. My beloved materialises before me. He defends himself against my claws and bites, but refuses to deliver the killing blow. Bit by bit, his armour falls apart, his sword begins to wither and rot away. He attempts to summon the Light, but I bite his hand off.
He screams as I tear him apart.
I hate this.
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I cannot sleep anymore. Each time I close my eyes the shadows return. But when I am awake I cannot stop shivering.
I am cold.
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Tol says I should not go out hunting anymore. I want to argue, tell him that we need the scraps I bring back. But it is so cold.
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Why is it so cold?