The fiends who plague us may well have dropped from the sky. They came upon us midday, with the sun casting naught a single shadow. I have no idea how.
They move like men, kill like men, but don't speak. Can't be reasoned with.
We don't presently hear them, nor see them.
But they're there. They slayed scores of us in an instant, in a hail of arrows, and fire, and blades.
The others fear to move. If those things don't kill us out on this bridge, the sun will.
All you who read this, for I wish someone had told me: turn back. Turn and flee as fast as you can. Nothing good will come of approaching the Citadel.