The Tall Queen of Dumland of the Great White North unleashed the Unholy Dogs of Blame upon me yesterday as I toiled in the Slave Pit. They gnashed and bit the flesh, but I was able to escape.
The Fog of Sickness has stretched it's clawed hand around my throat and is trying to drag me down. Like a fool, I partook of the Iced Milk of Carbos, and thus weakened my defenses to it. May the renewing of the Ancient One strengthen me for this battle.
