The blasted undead have almost taken one of us to the depths. Of all the creatures, it is they who confound me most—these abominations that haunt Wild Earth surely risen from the egos of craven gods.
Dginger lies in recovery. We dragged his limp body from the thieves guild. None can say we were blameless. Our own egos—his most of all—whispering in our ears to stuff our pockets when they were already bulging. I admit, my own head was ringing with the thought. I was naked but for my clothes, wanting revenge for those who robbed and tied me.
I wanted my White Knife back; my skull pipe with mouthpiece worn to my lips. But at what cost? I whispered to myself; perhaps audibly to my companions, “Let us stop now. We can buy 50 knives; 40 pipes. Let us consider ourselves lucky, and ascend from this dark place.” But whispers are whispered; they are not heard when blood is pounding. No longer can my indecision allow the loudest to prevail.
I was blinded by conceit. I carry the weight of this. I pray to Obad for strength to guide our young and eager party with a thoughtful and strong voice. I pray to Ehlenestra to restore my friends—to ease the half-orc’s pain, to focus the dwarf’s concentration, to soothe our Gnolls as they lick their wounds. We have been lucky; we will not last on luck.
-LTR
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