Alchemic Aberrations

From the Journal of Sir Turner, November 28th

November 28th

—I do not know what these horrors are; I know that they confound me at every turn. The corpse of the half-man Roscoe was the most powerful creature I have ever encountered. And as I came to keep him in the dungeon with the other, who the guards have come to call Aci, he transformed him somehow. He was no longer the mindless drone that I had encountered these previous days upon my visit; he was now a sworn protector to the mangled monstrosity that I had heaped and locked in the corner. He disarmed the staff I held in my hand when I attempted to knock him down. It took some time, but I managed to fell the abomination. I stuck a dagger in his head to make sure he wouldn’t wake up while I disposed of the remnants of Roscoe. Knowing better, I removed the dagger from him as I left with the other body.

—I carried Ros beyond the Wall, north of the camp, and buried his torso and head in a grave not less than ten feet deep. I had previously recovered his hands and legs and buried them in a separate grave some twenty yards away. I marked both graves with stones and painted the sigil of House Clarke on each. Gods help me, I don’t know what to do. This town, this kingdom is all I have left, and I fear it may be slipping away; that I may be slipping away from it. I fear there is too much ahead of me that I must do, and that I will not have the strength to do it.
Gods help me. What becomes of me?



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