Varak’s Journal; The 10th day of the month of Firewane, according to the reckoning of the Severed Hands.
Darkness, pain, dizziness, my limbs don’t seem to respond as they should. Where am I?
And then memory comes flooding back.
After some discussion, we decided to push on to the elven capital with our remaining soldiers, escorting wagons. When word came back from the scouts of a village, a small group of us went forward to investigate.
The village seemed abandoned, but I noticed a lot of tracks, heading towards the central building, with two smaller trails to outbuildings. Alana had drawn her bow, and I knew Cadrel was mounted on his warhorse, so I headed to one of the outbuildings and prodded some strange mounds of dirt with my dagger. The mounds proved to be grimlocks.
Alana and Cadrel quickly arrived at my side and we dealt with the grimlocks. But another wave was coming through the village on our flank, and more were massing to our front, backed up by three drow. Things were starting to look bleak. Thrace was facing maybe a half dozen grimlocks by herself, Cadrel’s horse had gone down with a drow bolt buried in it’s flesh, and the drow were casting their darkness spells. We were cut off from the woods we had come from, and we needed to take shelter in one of the nearby houses. Alana had gone down somewhere in the darkness, but I tied up three grimlocks and Thrace was able to reach Alana. I was bleeding from numerous wounds as we fell back, finally collapsing just before reaching the house.
Here I sit, disabled from my wounds, apparently carried in by Torent. If I can do nothing else, I will sit, facing the door, with my blade in my hands. I only ask for enough strength to take one of my enemies into death with me.