“Thus I was told: beneath the Dragon's Wings, in the Mountains from the Skies, laid the Prophet Stone. And like ten thousand suns it shone indeed, white as pure as the brilliance of the stars; and who gazed unto it would see fates of all, as clearly as if he gazed into pure waters. Whosoever could find the stone was destined indeed: but was this destiny fair or ill? No man knew that.”
- - A fragment from the Saga of Luntaynor
The Tropical Lands, to the south of the human kingdoms, are a land of many, many legends, myths, and sagas. It is said that if one was ever to write down every single tale that was ever told in this exotic and untamed land by wise men, every myth recanted daily by the priests of the many ancient gods of this realm, on paper, they together would fill a thousand of libraries, dwarfing all the literary works of mankind and elvenkind with their magnitude. I once believed this to be an exaggeration, nothing but empty boasting. It is only natural for people to see their home as somehow superior or unique, after all... isn't it?
When I first stepped onto the soil of the Tropical Lands, when I felt the warmth of the southern sun, when I saw the land's people working underneath that sun, relishing in its rays, I understood: I was wrong. By Pheonas, I was wrong. Everything that was said about the South's myths, everything that I first dismissed, it was true. Not only there were indeed as many legends there as I was told by my acquaintances (I would not dare to say the word "friends" - that is too lofty a title), most of them - if not all of them... were not legends after all. The stories of gigantic snakes devouring horses, men and drakes alike? I saw one with my own eyes. Tales of a burning isle of fire and brimstone where a dead god from the seas slept? I witnessed it awaken.
But there was another legend, another saga that by Pheonas's holy will I had to prove true. Shortly after the aforemented... incident with the dead god, my master issued to me and a partner of mine a mission to find out the truth behind the legendary Prophet Stone, a massive rock embedded in a mountain that according to the Freelander Saga of Luntaynor could grand one visions of things yet to come. And as always, I shall not fail the Elder-Commander. Such is the vow of Inquisitor Javina, servant to Mankind, hand of the Empire, scion of house Desertsun.
Entry One: Bahamut, 12, 31 NA
Should I introduce myself?
I suppose not. These little notes of mine are of no significance for the generations to come, or for anyone from this age for that matter. For who am I? Merely one of the many. What is the number of those faceless, nameless inquisitors clad in black that every day hold an endless vigil to protect mankind? Have you ever seen a Klaxxa watchwork doll on the inside? It is an endless labyrinth of rusted cogs, screws and intricate mechanisms, all intertwined in some twisted concordance that creates a living, breathing thing. We are these mechanisms, hidden deep beneath a puppet's porcelain flesh - essential, but unseen. No, we are not the ones for whom glory is destined... and I find it better that way. Being good with people is hardly my speciality. For me, love for humanity has replaced the love for individual humans.
No, the only person I write this diary for is me. Ego. Hello, Javina? How does it feel there, always on the edge of the abyss? It feels great, as always! But enough contemplations. Let me tell you about today's ordeal with lord I'kan the Golden first.
It all began innocuously, like all strange things did in history, from the foundation of the world to its inevitable demise. I was striding atop my loyal faeles, Arya, through the Snakeblood Wilds towards the city state of Senateca, one of those few oases of civilisation that the Freelanders have managed to create in their poisonous, deadly home. My mission: to find out the whereabouts of the aforemented Prophet Stone. Did it truly exist? If it had existed once, had it survived the ravages of time? What powers did it truly contain in reality, not in myth? That I did not know. But, as always, my master was adamant. If lord Crimsonstone wanted something, he would have it; thus was the law of life, of existence itself, and I've learned to accept it, as I have learned to accept the fact that his judgement was always sound. I would have probably dismissed a suggestion to find a magical stone from an ancient legend as foolish if it was someone else, not him, that gave me such an order... but lord Crimsonstone did not make mistakes. The stone did exist, and it was of use to mankind.
My first step to the streets of Senateca was met with the opulent brilliance of its golden pyramids, the aureate radiance of the hot tropical sun - not harsh and deadly like in Alhassal but rather warm and caring - and of course the confused, scared looks of the city's copper-skinned natives. Kani'xat, they called themselves, the free men - and I doubt there could be a more fitting moniker for them. They were people of a peculiar and rare sort: friendly, open to the world, but at the same time, separate from it, and arrogant - arrogant to the point that no man or woman could ever unite all of them, despite them living in a land that was twice smaller than Alhassan and only marginally larger than l'Ammanori. The free men would not stand to bend their knee to anyone - not to one of them, not to one of us Imperials. I saw it in their eyes, the moment when they noticed the Inquisition's insignia on my clothing. Mistrust. Confusion. Loathing. Terror. They hated us, hated us for supposedly being warmongers and conquerors; they feared us, feared that we would take their freedom... and yet, we were kin - closer than anyone else in Koldenwelt. In a sense, I feel the same for them too. So close, and distant, they were.
I should have probably disguised myself, or at least dressed more in accordance to the Freelander fashion (I never understood their love for revealing clothing - what is the point of showing off your body? Flaunting your sins is beyond me), but in retrospect, this probably would not have mattered. No matter what dress I would take on, I would not pass off as one of their own. Being a Freelander, lord I'kan told me, is not in how you look but in how you act; my poise, my eyes, he said, would still reveal my Imperial soul to them. That, and Alfgund, ever my companion, would give me away anyway, with all his militant bravado. It has happened over a million times already: I try to approach the situation strategically, and then - voila - in he comes, swinging his mace and proclaiming his hatred for his enemies of mankind! Alas, for all his strength, all his zeal and loyalty, the man would never understand subtlety. Did lord Crimsonstone not tell him that fear and surprise are the chief weapons of every inquisitor? (Ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Empire, and nice black uniforms matter too, but that is beyond this discussion)
Finally, after an exhausting and somewhat disturbing ceremony of ritual anointment and purification - I can still smell the agonising stench of the Freelanders' so-called sacred oils - I was at very long last deemed pure enough to be granted audience with the Lord of Senateca, in his shining pyramidal palace; Alfgund remained near the gates to secure me an exit if need be. As I ascended upon the gigantic limestone stairs and reached the obsidian chamber in the pinnacle, I finally met the man himself, resting upon an aureatw throne surrounded by decorated images of his pagan gods, draped luxuriously in silk and gold from faraway lands; an ideal, if there was one, of Freelander love for splendor and excess. I'kan greeted me heartily, wasting all the time he could on praises, sweet-talking and incessant questions about the outside world; even as he spoke, his brilliant smile of silver never disappeared from his proud face, as if it was painted on him. I too smiled, though for a reason that was completely different; I was amused by the lord himself. How little had he changed from when I last met him! A child of a nobleman, he was from birth taught duties becoming a royal, yet his heart, in envy of me and others like me, had always yearned for adventure and journey, not governance and power. Alas, he was only to judge, rule and tax the heroes of his people, growing ever richer and more frustrated. When the young lord saw me enter his room, he attacked me like a parasitic insect, though instead of blood, he craved for tales and stories that I always brought to him from my many crusades and missions. And I was not the only one; this Freelander lord had been a benefactor for countless adventurers, travelers and treasure hunters, providing them from Senateca's coffers and reliquaries all they could need on their adventures. I think I understand the man. He hoped - and still hopes - that by aiding adventurers and then writing down the tales of their journeys, he could become something of an adventurer himself.
- Goodness gracious me, is it the most legendary Javina of house Desertsun, scion of Alhassal whose blade cuts down those whom the Empire calls enemies in the name of the five-faced god of the desert? - he started, his words ringing in my ears like the buzzing of tropical flies. I'kan loved drama and pomp. Oh, Asv'aldz be praised, only a few moons have passed since we last met, yet here you are again, with tales of glory and valour! Allow me to gaze upon you, milady. - I'kan approached, placing his hand on my cheek. Almost immediately I pushed him away and slapped him. We knew each other, yes, but there were still limits: no-one could touch my face like this. Ah! Oh, what a pity it would be if that pretty Imperial face of yours was bruised by some hellish monstrosity the likes of which you slay on a daily basis. Rumours say that you have recently faced and slain an ancient god of fire and brimstone on an isle south from here. Is that true?
- Partially. - I responded. We did wake it... and it went downhill from there. But now is not the time for stories, I'kan. I have more urgent matters to discuss. Are you familiar with the Saga of Luntyanor?
- Why of course, lady Desertsun. You will not find an educated Freelander who is at least marginally familiar with this great work, and I, as you can tell, is among the most knowing of my people. But what is urgent in that tale? It's just a legend, lady Desertsun... certainly nothing you would be interested in...
- Indeed I wouldn't, under normal circumstances... but, lord Crimsonstone has reasons to believe that this legend is not mere fictions, and I have reasons to believe him. The legendary Prophet Stone, where Luntyanor the Feathered One foresaw his destiny... does it exist? If there is anyone who can know the whereabouts of this object, it is you, one of the keenest loremasters of the Tropical Lands. Does the Saga tell anything about its location?
- Eh... What?
I'kan's face immediately transformed into a grimace of confusion and surprise, so unlikely for the ever-cheerful Freelander lord. My question was without doubt shocking to him despite the seemingly innocous nature of my inquiry; his voice turned into a stutter, his arms shook like if he was struck by thunder and in his eyes was the look of such stupefaction and terror that my writing skills would be inadequate to describe it on paper, parchment or vellum. With a sudden, lightning-fast movement of his arms and strength that I would never expect from a spoiled, romantic aristocrat a head shorter than myself, the lord grabbed me by the arms and carried me to the chamber right behind his throne. I was too confused to struggle or to properly analyse the surroundings, but from the brief and sparse moments of lucidity I had I neverthless did manage to recognise the place the lord pushed me into. It was his private library, the one I'kan was so often speaking about. Dark, hot and damp even by Freelander standards, it was dimly lit with all sorts of lights from many different nations of Koldenwelt: intricate golden candelabres from my homeland, elegant oil lamps from the Dynasty with their exotic and soothing aroma, arcane fey lanterns of the Sovereign that shone with an iridiscent, alien glow - even the grey paraffin lamps from Ar-Klith were present in this strange rendezvous of civilisations. The books that laid on limestone blocks were likewise an unlikely convocation of countless literary works from all continents; the damnable elven vellums of Iudeili or Aureli laying on top of the sacred tomes of Alhassal the Great himself! What kind of blasphemy was this?
Suddenly I was awakened from my state of confusion by a shake from I'kan; immediately I rose to my feet and drew my scimitar, prepared to fight. Yet, strangely as it could seem considering what he did the moment before that, the Freelander lord seemed to bear no ill intentions; in his eyes, I saw no malevolence, no hatred: only the same intelligent and dreamy, if tainted somewhat by fear, stare that I'kan usually sported. Finally, he started to speak. His tone was weary, confused - I could tell that something in my request touched him so deeply that he could barely even form coherent sentences.
- ...Listen, lady Desertsun, I do not know how your master managed to even... imagine that the Prophet Stone truly exists... eh... legends... oh, how stupid is that... but... but... yes. He is right. - I'kan raised his head and looked at me in the eyes - I and some other lords of Freelander City States have been trying to find it... for decades. The power it possesses, the power to gaze unto the future would allow one to grow richer than even lady A'haw the Opulent herself... Not everyone believes it, of course, but I... I know. I'm known as the Loremaster Lord, after all, and I've been studying legends for decades. I saw it, in fact. Once. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. Warriors, standing at my side. A stone, shining so bright that I could not look at it. Visions, visions of the future I could not barely even understand... blades, claws, warriors and sorcerers... and then I saw it. A dragon, so powerful, so terrible. The White Seer of the Saga, the one that tested Luntyanor the Feathered. It gazed at us. We ran in fear. It breathed. All of my men perished. It was only I alone that this monster spared - but was it because he did not notice me in the chaos or because he allowed me to live? I do not know. What I know is that I was not worthy, not like Luntyanor... and nor am I now. Nor are any of the Freelander lords.
- And what if I am?
- Laconic as always, lady Desertsun, aren't you? Luntyanor too came from foreign lands, it is said. I would entrust you with the information about the Stone... but... are you truly sure that you Imperials have the inner fire to withstand it? Only those whose souls are pure white inside can - thus it is said in the Saga. And it does not lie.
- The Empire will take care of it, I assure you. And... Senateca will benefit from the Grand Monarch's generosity once the stone is found. - I smiled. Slowly, I'kan's face once again transformed. He, like so many other Freelander lords, had a weakness; greed. Slowly, he began changing his mind.
Still, he wavered. Every movement he made while staring at me was tentative, uncertain; doubt and apprehension were in his posture and in his eyes. He found himself between the two fires, confronted from my side with the gifts the Inquisition could offer to him and from the other side with his fears and phobias. It was not that he did not trust me, no - he did not trust the Empire. It was foolish of him, of course - the Grand Monarch's subjects would never subject other humans to misery or oppression! - but neverthless, I understood the man: it was intrinsic to him, to all people of the Snakeblood Wilds. To tip the scales, I had to provide him something truly substantial.
Tentatively, I put my hand beneath my coat and began searching for an item that, I was certain, would win the lord's favour. A necklace of Karacay origins, shaped like a little golden sun, inscribed with runes and enchanted with powerful thaumaturgic magic that made the round azure gemstone in its center shimmer and glow. It was painful for me to even remember of it, let alone look at it, yet still, I could not just throw it away. Memories permeated that... thing, clinging to its magic, memories I loathed with all of my being. To give it to an old friend? That would be a fitting end for it.
- You can also count on my blade and the blades of my comrades whence your city is threatened. Here. Take this. - I showed I'kan the necklace - Many years ago, a... friend of mine made two such necklaces as a sign of loyalty and comradery. One of them she gave to me, the other - hers - I now give to you. It's steeped in powerful magic. With it, you can call upon me whenever you need; whisper my name when danger comes, and I shall answer.
- Let me take a look, please- oh! Such magic... such... beauty. I... I can feel it. - I'kan gazed, enthralled by the enchantment of gold and the magic that surrounded it - Well... I am not sure... but... I agree, yes. Here is the map. - for a few moments, I'kan vanished in the darkness of his chambed and returned with a thin, tablet-sized stone codex, made of green, granite-like rock and inscribed with countless Freelander symbols and signs that made it resemble an arcane runestone more than a map had it not been for the thin, barely visible outlines of the Tropical Lands' geography. Still, I could make some sense of it; thankfully for my companions, I knew the Freelanders' tongue and their hieroglyphic writing. - A bit heavy compared to Imperial scrolls, but you can carry it. There are my notes on the codex that will explain the map to you... if you manage to endure the trials on the way, of course.
- I've endured worse. - I said, quietly turning away from I'kan and making my leave - Numquam cademus, Freelander. May Pheonas protect you.
Entry Two: Bahamut 13, 31 NA
Now that the information I needed was mine, there was no time for wait for us anymore. With the map in my hands, and my course of action certain and clear, I and my companions moved on, leaving behind the gilded squalor of the Freelander city - thankfully. As much as I enjoyed - almost - lord I'kan's company and, what was more important, his knowledge of ancient lore - to stand the corruption of his domain, its wretchedness and decay hidden behind the thin veil of extravagance. Strange as it was, it was actually a relief for me to stride in the jungle again, with all its humidity and wildness and unbearable heat and ravenous snakes... it felt like home to me. My lungs longed for the breath of moist wildland air, my eyes craved for the overgrown canopies of emerald and gold and bronze to gaze upon, and my ears - in the cruel hisses of serpents slithering from tree to tree, they heard a wondrous melody. For a second, I questioned myself. How did this strange metamorphosis come to pass? Why did the land I once saw as alien feel so... right? My mind - no, no, my mind remained focused on the mission, but my heart - the subconscious, that intangible part of our souls that does not bend to our will but instead wanders at its own volition through the mazes and corridors of our psyche - my heart questioned itself, as it did many years ago, in the Inquisitorium...
And it found the answer. Why did the jungle feel like home to me? Perhaps because only there, outside of civilisation and its comforting lies of safety and stability - lies that I have sworn to uphold - could I feel truly be myself? The Wilds were a place much akin to the soul of an Inquisitor, after all. Ordinary men and women - be they commoners, nobles, knights, or, by Pheonas, even the Grand Monarch herself - do not truly comprehend the extent of the danger our order faces. They do not understand what we have to do in order to withstand such dangers. To them, we are wild, cruel creatures, like the jungle. Barely even humans! Barely even humans! These are the praises the unsung heroes of the Empire recieve. In the Wilds, there was no-one to look at you but the predators, no gazes of fear or hatred. Where wildness and savagery ruled, there was silence and serenity. Ironic, isn't it? Only in the place that teemed with life of all sorts could I feel truly at peace with herself, truly alone...
I was not completely alone, though. There was one companion that strode at my side, one that could possibly understand me - if only partially. One of two partners back from my days in l'Ammanori. The one that survived. Alfgund Stonesoul. He stared at me now, smiling faintly as he saw me riding on my faeles, my eyes locked in thought. "What are you thinking about, princess?" - he asked, the toxin of satire concealed in his words - "Reminiscing of Carlini again?"
Oh, yes.
That incessant question.
He would never stop reminding me of her.
"Remember the day we three met? The day we arrived at the Antha Isle? This place reminds me of it a little. It got the same... spirit. Do you agree?"
I would like to say "no". I would like to slap him in the face like the brute he was. But... he was right. There was but one place I knew that had the same cruelty to it, the same brutality, the same honesty... and that was Antha, the isle stronghold of the Inquisition, the place where we became what we were. I remember it faintly now - time flies fast for a hunter, after all, and bloodshed quickly washes away the memories of old... and yet the images will never completely go away. Crags, fortresses, mists and forests. Black, brown, grey and green. Howling bells, howling winds, howling wolves. Savage, harsh, unforgiving like the storms that always clouded around it. So much unlike the jungle... and yet just as cruel, as brutal, as comforting. A decade ago, I stood there with Arya, just like now. The day of recruiting, when we were called to service. And Pheonas sees, it was the same. Just like the perching jungles surrounded me now, so did the faceless black-robed figures of my fellow comrades surround me then. We were all alike back then. Nothing. Formless masses ready to be shaped like desert terracotta - all in trance, hearkening to the old overseer's preaching. Even now, I remember it - not word-to-word, perhaps, but the voice of the man still rings in my ears.
"Acolytes of the Imperial Inquisition, I am Dominique Freespear of the Culter Sanguineus sect, High Overseer of the Imperial Inquisition and your new lord and master. From now on, once I lead, you shall follow, and once I command, you shall execute. If you believe that being here makes you special in any way, you are gravely mistaken - and your death shall be the price of that mistake. One day, some of you might become the spearhead of the Empire, the unsung heroes of mankind - but now, you are naught but children, barely a cut above the rest - and only through complete obedience will you become something greater. My first decree is thus: abandon your compassion. - the pale, wrinkled face of the old man, already twisted enough to make a Loron shudder, suddenly transformed into an even more diabolical grimace, completely devoid of any humanity whatsoever - Your friends, your family, your old life - all these things are gone forever - and your fellow acolytes are not your comrades, but your rivals, here to be pushed aside before they do the same to you. The weaknesses of empathy and mercy shall be purged from you - or your corpses will feed the worms of Antha. Have I made myself clear?
The question of the overseer was not even rhetorical - it was a command. Lose your humanity. Bury your emotions. Become killers. Become monsters. Forget your old selves and become one unstoppable tide of darkness.
There were two figures I remember in that tide, though - those two that stood at my sides, and those two would accompany me... for the time being. The one of the left... Stonesoul, of course. Alfgund hasn't changed much since then: bombastic, courageous, loud he was on Antha and still is now. His face too was almost the same - chiseled, like if it was made out of rock (very dumb rock, I must add). He sure wasn't that sedimentary during that time, but, alas, the mastery of the Source among men has a high price.
And then there was her. How could I describe her? Anyone who reads that (and is not me or Alfgund - and in that case he is probably lying dead already) would probably never have seen her visage, or heard her voice, or gazed at her sillhouette, and thus I would have to weave her portrait in verse - a crude instrument even in the hands of the most gifted literators, let alone myself. Where could I begin? Shall I describe the iridiscent brilliance of her shimmering courscant eyes, which gleamed like a dyad of scintillating gemstones? I can still see them. I can still lose myself in them. Two glistening rondures of indescribable grace - one of pure sable onyx, deep like the sacred pools beneath Khardemav, the other, the Source-touched one - a paragon of emerald so lush in hue that the very forests of the land I now walk in would look dull in comparison. I still remember them gazing, gazing into the dark starless sky above Antha as our lord addressed his new followers. The beauty inside them was captivating beyond all limits - a hunter that, instead of giving her prey a clean death left it in chains, a thrall forever to her grace and power.
Or could I describe the radiance of her face? I still remember the moment, the moment she ceased her placid stargazing and turned - and thus our gazes met for the first time in our lives. The smile, her smile! For a second, a sudden spark flashed in my mind, and my soul asked my mind - why, why? Why would someone like her - an incarnate devi, a heavenly spirit in shape of a girl - be condemned to the life of eternal battle and servitude to the Inquisition? I was awestruck - and I did not even understand why. And neither did she. The flower of the Serene Land closed. She just blushed, and hid her radiant face with her delicate hand, looking at me as if in shame. Shame? What shame could be there with beauty like that? Alas, words, words fail me! The cryptic code of metaphors and epithets could never, never truly replicate the real thing, just as the paints of even the most accomplished of artists could never truly match the perfection of creation. Her perfection.
The second half of the page is crossed, although from the remains of it, one can discern lines like supple contours of dark mahogany and something about orbs.
No, no, that was too much, no. Better start off again next day.
Entry Three: Falak 8, 31 NA
Between the last entry and this one there are several pages worth of crossed text.
Days, days go by so swiftly. The endless trek through the jungle is as exhausting for one's mind just as it is for one's body. The soothing, calming embrace of vivid veridian became dull, then monotonous, then disgusting, then painful, and then - it simply vanished from sight. I have simply ceased to percieve the green of the jungle, just as the oceanic worshippers of the anti-gods may not percieve the blue of water or the fire-breathing monstrosities of that damnable tropical isle do not percieve the blazing orange of their hellish volcanic abodes. It happens day after day and night after night - no matter how far we stride, the jungle remains the same. From time to time, I do notice a particularily a large, ancient tree, a burnt clearing, or an old ruin marked on the map - these marks we navigate by - but only Pheonas knows if our calculations are even vaguely correct. The Stone might be ripe for the taking, right within our grasp... or it could be thousands of miles away from where we are now. Had it not been for Lord Crimsonstone's command, I probably would have damned the whole prophecy affair and just tried to escape the cursed jungles - or at least die trying. I am an Inquisitor, and I would gladly sacrifice my life for the Empire and its people... but not for nothing.
But it was him who ordered the Stone to be found, and I would not fail him. Not now. Not ever. Not as long as I live.
Fortunately, a slight glimmer of hope appeared today. This morning, after Arya had woken up moodier than usual and had strided further into the jungle, opposite to our planned direction, we stumbled upon a rather strange-looking Freelander ruin which, if I have not completely lost my mind and started hallucinating, might be the key to finding the Stone. While much smaller than Senateca - though still large enough to have fit perhaps a thousand of denizens in its prime - its architecture was much more ornate and sophisticated, but also... incoherent. Rows of rows of carved stone houses curved from the central plaza like crawling serpents, adorned with golden plates that glistened in the wildland sun - most of them nothing but piles of rubble and metal. Those buildings that still stood did so in defiance of all laws of physics, their shapes bizzare and otherworldly: it brings me pain to even imagine someone could even stay there for more than a day, let alone live there. It was obvious that those who had once built this city were both brilliant and insane - or perhaps driven insane.
However, it was not the strange architectonics of the ruins that drew my attention, but rather what stood in the middle of what was once the city plaza: a massive golden stele no less than sixteen feet tall, relatively untouched by the jungle, covered in its entirety by ancient Freelander glyphs, all of which said (if my knowledge of Kani'xat language has not failed me) one thing, over and over and over:
BLOOD FOR BLOOD
THY PAST FOR THY FUTURE
THE PRICE MUST BE PAID
These very same words I'kan has written on his map, on the place marked by a square and the label that says "FIRST TRIAL". I am still not sure what trials are these, but on the map there are a few more similar marks, named "SECOND TRIAL", "THIRD TRIAL" - and so on, each mark closer to the Stone itself. Arya might have inadvertedly lead us on the right path to our objective - that, or I might have misread the stele and we are going in the completely wrong direction...
First trial. For some reason, these two words are chilling. Maybe because they remind me of days in the Inquisitorium, and of our first trial in particular? I still remember it, Pheonas sees. It happened during the first months of my training, if my memory serves me well, without any warning whatsoever. We were simply awakened by nights, beaten unconscious by the guards and then abandoned in a middle of a forest, left to fend for themselves. I am not sure what Alfgund thought - he probably enjoyed it, given what he is like - but for me, it was a living nightmare. I woke up at night, surrounded by savage beasts and endless wildlands, with nothing but a training shortsword at my side - my breath heavy, my mind clouded, my body freezing from the Anthan cold. At least half of us died that very day - some eaten by the island's wildlife, others slain by their own comrades-in-arms in order to steal their food and supplies. I would have died too, had it not been for someone else's kindness - the same kindness that our overseer had implicitly forbidden...
...Curses. Whatever this place is, it is sinister indeed - or I might be losing my mind. Either way, I do not need the Prophet Stone to see that our future is definitely not very bright. We've set camp near one of the larger buildings and are now preparing to stay for the night. Alfgund has been checking the nearby jungles and has found a few abandoned encampments - relatively recent, unlike the city - that do not seem to belong to Freelanders. It looks like the trial I'kan has written about will soon be upon us. Let it come. We are not afraid.
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