The Task Masters had hired the services of Ice Wizards to lay a spell across the Slave Pit and bring us relief from the harsh billowing winds of Weyland. But alas, their enchantment has worn off and once again the furnaces burn forth with an ungodly passion, drawing out the very life of us slaves. We lay about like the the great cats of the plains that are engorged on fresh kill. Tiredness overtakes us like a thief in the deep of night. I have within my grasp the great chalice that holds the magical orbs of an Ice Wizard and with it, refreshment is mine.
With the waning of the lordly sun Helios, the Sick Witch once again has returned and casts her spell across these lands, hoping to ensnare it's citizens in her foul net. It travels on the backs of the Goblin Hordes and their nasty ways. I and Tjorn the Hypercrybarian have succumbed to her wiles and walk the halls like the undead. Rest has eluded my company and I now turn to the healing potions of the alchemists and the Dew of the Mountain. May the curses of Caffeinus not rob me of it's joy.
