Well, Molynire is dead. His end was especially grotesque. First, sliced in twain, then diced by those energy beams that emit from the walls. The buffoon thought himself nimble enough to avoid them. Didn't even make it past the first set before he tripped on a loose rock.
The Dwarves' sense of security surpasses practicality and moves into the realm of cruel humor. Imagine the mind that invents such devices. Highly focused magical energy like these beams could be used for so much good. Instead, the creator hid them here on this godsforsaken island. Whatever they protect can't be worth it.
Reader, have you heard the voice yet? Calling from deep within the bowels of this station, mocking us as we head deeper within? Each word sends cold spike into my mind. What is this place? Mara protect me.
Taludilwen insists that we press on. Why just sit here to die, she argues. Fair enough. I don't have enough curiosity to learn more, but also don't wish to have an undead ghoul chew on my guts. I suppose I'll follow her.
At this point, I'm writing to calm myself. It's no longer about warning future survivors. It's about keeping my sanity.
