A cold wind stirs through the Slave Pit this morn as Grumpkin the Six Foot Dwarf seems beset by the Mood Foul. Silence is his brother in this deep enchantment and a scowl adorns his face as if the gods had molded it there. Now this dark cloud of gloom has spread it's vile cloak upon the rest of the Slave Pit as silence strangles the air with it's thick meaty hands. The spell from this Gloomancer has seeped into their minds and holds their souls deep within it's dungeoned pits. I try to break its power with the songs of mighty warriors and their heroic deeds of yore.
The war still wages on, and the length can wear worse on a man's soul than the actual toil of battle can. Weariness is our constant companion, tears our drink and pain our bread. There have been allies that have lifted our spirits, whose hearts are golden. There are also few whose hearts are black like ink, clouded by their own insane desires, who cast about seeds of doubt and fear. Some times my heart sinks from the weight of the siege. The arms grow weak, the legs buckle, the sword hangs heavy and the shield sits low. We wait for the hammer of the Ancient One to fall, to strike it's blow to our enemies, to deliver us from the onslaught of the wicked. It will come, but will we still be found standing?
