We are fighting a battle that was lost before it had even begun. To follow the Black King into a war against Westmarch was folly of the highest order. Each day only brings us closer to complete and utter defeat, but our commanders refuse to surrender.
It is decided. We will flee this doomed war. I had hoped to find solace in this decision, but it brings only more uncertainty. We will never see our homes again, and our names will be dishonored. But what choice do we have? Certain death in the service of a madman?
We found what was left of Raston yesterday. The wretched creatures of the bog seized us without warning. We are being punished by the gods. I would laugh if I had the energy. We fled the war to save ourselves, but it seems death already knew our names.
This cave has killed even more of us than the bog we sought to escape. We must leave at once. But to where? The only choice left to us is: where to die?
We are men without a country, shamed and cursed for fleeing an unjust war. We should have stayed and died with our honor intact. Instead we are slaughtered like pigs by beasts that feed on our remains. Death on the battlefield would have been far better than the fate we have chosen.