Quiche
A report log was handed to you by Darrick. You turn to the first bookmarked page.
Day 127
Nothing to report. The Mistvale remains as quiet as it ever does. Practised shooting arrows to keep my mind busy.
Day 128
Nothing to report. The blasted Dustravens have come to roost along the thicket line. Their caws at dawn keep us all awake. Only two more seasons of this outpost before I return home.
Day 129
Nothing to report. Ivar made Black Hills Soup with Tundra Turnips he managed to sniff up. Good lad, we’ve had nothing but Windborne Rations and bread for days.
Day 130
Nothing to report. Sune swears he heard the Dustravens bickering over something green. Noticed Ivar tucking away his green cloak that night.
Day 131
We no longer hear the Dustravens chatter in the morning, they’ve all flown off. Virgil reckons something big is spooking them. Perhaps an Enderling has come down from its nest on the peaks and roams the woods now. We’ll be sending a scouting group out tomorrow.
Day 132
Spores of an Enderling have been found, but not like any we’ve ever seen before. The scales smell like stagnant water and are a sickly shade. The lads made sure not to touch them directly lest they were diseased. We’ll keep a nose out and see if we manage to spot the little guy.
Day 133
Virgil spotted a pair of lights in the thickets last night, seems like the Enderling is hovering around our outpost. We’ll wait till they approach us so we can help.
Day 134
Something large attacked us in the night. We sounded a retreat and made a makeshift camp. Ivar got hurt, but no other casualties. Whatever that was, it couldn’t be an Enderling, no Enderling makes a sound like that.
Day 135
Spent the night by Ivar’s side as he came down with a fever, Virgil will be taking over at dawn.
Day 136
Ivar has gone missing, his sword with him. Sune wants to look for him, but Virgil orders us to stand down. Our priority is getting back to home base and reporting the change at the border.
Several pages are torn and wet with a black liquid, which stings to the touch.
Day 148
You’d reckon stories that your elders retold in the dead of winter were just nonsense. The sparks of magic as my grandfather whisked his paw over his eyes, making them look green for barely a moment as he whispered, “Beware The Consumed.”
Now, here I sit by the campfire, Ivar’s sword in front of me.
The green glows multiply along the withered thicket drawing closer.
Orrin, defend us.
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