28 Kythorn 1489

I write now with a shaking hand, unable to steady my quill on the page. I died. I am dead, murdered by contemptible villains and wretched dogs of the darkest, dankest hells. Yet I am not dead, for I breathe, and I am writing–illegible though the script may be. What cruel joke is this that I watched my friends suffer and I myself perish for the entertainment of an unseen ghoul? We six walked into a darkplane and did so blithely and unaware. The signs were there if only I were clever enough to have read them. If only I weren’t so entrenched in my own contemplation about my family, about the mysteries of this cloak that now hangs from my defeated shoulders. I am shattered by my own ineptitude, for I failed to see the trap that was lain and I further failed to dispel the dark magic that tormented us so. What an unworthy instrument of Corellon and the goddess Sehanine I have proved to be. I am despairing that I shall ever be worthy of this calling.

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