[The first pages are written in a neat, flowing script, undoubtedly by a professional.]

In order to lose its redundant moisture, let the peat moss, of which compost is to be formed, be thrown out of the pit for some weeks, or even months. Thusly, it is rendered the lighter to carry, and less compact and weighty when made up with fresh dung for fermentation. Also, the amount of dung required for the purpose is less than if the preparation is made with peat taken freshly from the pit.

The peat moss is to be taken to a dry spot convenient for constructing a dunghill to serve the field to be manured. Form two rows of the cart-loads peat moss and place the dung betwixt them. Consequently, the dung lies nearly on an area of the future compost dunghill, and the rows of peat should be close enough to each other, that workmen, in making up the compost, will be able to throw them together by the spade. In making up, let the workmen begin at one end, and, on reaching the lip of the dung row—which should not extend quite so far at that end as do the rows of peat on each of its sides—let them lay a bottom of peat, six inches deep and fifteen inches wide, supposing the grounds allow for it, then throw forward, and lay on, roughly ten inches of dung above the bottom of peat; then, from the side rows, add about six inches of peat, then four or five of dung, and then six more peat; then yet another thin layer of dung, and finally cover it over with peat at the end where it was begun, at both of the two sides, and above. The compost should be raised no more than four feet and a half high, since otherwise it is apt to press too heavily on the underlying parts.

Having made a beginning like this, the workmen will proceed working their way backwards, adding to the columns of compost, furnished with the three rows of materials directed to be laid down for them. It is essential that they not tread on the compost, or render it too compact; and proportionally to the wetness of the peat, it should be made up in lumps, and not much broken.

In mild weather, seven cart-loads of common farm-dung, reasonably fresh made, is sufficient for twenty-one cart-loads of peat-moss; but in cold weather, a larger proportion of dung is desirable. To every twenty-eight carts of the compost, when made up, it is of use to throw on, above it, a cartload of ashes, either made from coal, peat, or wood; half the quantity of slacked lime, the more finely powdered the better.

According to the weather and the condition of the dung, the compost sooner or later, after it is made up, gets into general heat. During summer, often no more than ten days, and during winter, depending on the cold, up to several weeks. In summer, a stick should be kept in the compost in different parts, to pull out and feel now and then; for should it approach blood-heat, it should either be watered or turned over; and, should that become necessary, advantage may be taken to mix in a little fresh moss. The heat subsides after a time, and, according to the weather, the dung, and the perfection of the compost, with great variety. The compost should then be allowed to stand untouched, till within three weeks of using, when it should be turned upside down, outside in, and all lumps broken. Again, the compost enters a heat, but soon cools, and it should be taken out for use. In this state the whole, save bits of old decayed wood, ought to appear a black free mass, and spread like garden mould. Use it weight for weight, as you would farmyard dung, and you will find that, in a course of cropping, the compost will stand to comparison.

Peat, no more than a little less dry than garden-mould in seed time, may be mixed with the dung, so as to double the volume. Workmen must begin with using layers, but, when accustomed to the just proportions, assuming they are furnished with moderately dry peat, as well as dung not lost in litter, they throw it up together as a mixed mass, making a less proportion of dung serve for the preparation.

The rich coarse earth, which is frequently found on the surface of peat, while making an excellent top-dressing, if previously mixed and turned over with lime, is too heavy to be admitted into this compost.

[Countless of pages are left blank before another entry is written, but this time the handwriting is different--not nearly as neat or flowing as before.]

Interesting turn of events. I was planning for my return when an unexpected encounter ended in my being... somewhere else. When I look up through the all-engulfing darkness, I see a wall of stone. Miles upon miles of it. When I look right and left, I see stone. Impenetrable walls whereever I turn. Naturally my first thought was that the Hathrans had gotten the better of me, but now I'm no longer so sure.

Sanctuary, they call it. An establishment of ex-slaves located deep within the Underdark, ruled by a sense of anarchy under the disguise of a democracy. Organizations battle each other constantly, all hoping to achieve supreme power, leaving in their wake a trail of death and destruction. Where I stay, in the Lower section, heaps of bodies, as a result of a recent riot I was lucky enough to miss, fill the streets, yet I get the impression no one is going to do anything about it. Legally, at least.

Granted, the sudden change has pushed me into a state of extreme cautiousness. I know not who I can trust, if any at all, and I can't allow myself to take any chances. Judging by some of the posters I have seen down here I do not think I am alone, but I still await confirmation. Ultimately I have been forced to play it safe. When I have learned the ins and outs of this 'safe-haven,' as some call it, then perhaps I can start 'forgetting' about the law.

But I have neglected my responsibilities, yes, and for that I deserve punishment. However, do not make the mistake of thinking I have abandoned you, my lord. Should I fail--should Kelemvor claim my soul in the end, may every single god forbid it, my loyalty towards you will endure. I will atone myself.

And so I pray. I pray to the Wise God that he might gift me with knowledge and inspiration. I pray to the Foehammer that he might guide my weapon in fights to come. I pray to Lady Doom that she might spare me of misfortune. And I pray to you, my lord the Vaunted, that you might show me the path to true existance. I pray that you in time will lead me home, and I pray that you will let me free my people from its century-long imprisonment.

It seems I am not the only one wanting to dispose of the many rotting bodies down here. Earlier today I encountered a man lighting many of the heaps on fire, mostly to no avail. I confronted him and suggested that instead of being burned inside of town, the bodies be moved to an isolated area outside town and buried. Surprisingly, I think I manged to convince him and the two others present that this was the better thing to do. Now I need only the resources to find a fitting spot; not too far away, of course, but not somewhere people would find themselves taking a casual stroll either. I suppose I might also have to get permission from the Council, but if it turns out I won't be able to get a such it is possible I simply conveniently... forget about it. We shall see.

On a completely unrelated note, the Spellguard--one of the two official law enforcing parties, naturally based in the Upper section--turns out to be nothing less than what I have fought against my entire life. Not only have they put down strict regulations on spellcasting, I have even witnessed them pop out of nowhere when a citizen breaks these laws, the punishment being, have I read, a fine and possibly jail time. The only difference between these local arrogant, self-serving Weave-leeches and those that haunt every nook and cranny of my much missed home is that, where the Witches outright kill you, the Spellguard is supposedly a lot more forgiving--though stoning is apparently regarded as a humane thing down here--and I have yet to encounter a female Spellguard. The funny thing is, the Spellguard was even founded by a woman, but now all the members appear to be men--something I can justify only with one of the following two explanations:

1. Women simply lack either the mental or the physical capacity to successfully wield the powers granted to them by Mystra.
2. Not wanting to sound derogatory, the Spellguard Agents are in fact all of them androgynus--or, at best, bearded women without breasts--performing women's jobs--just like home--which also explains why every single one of them wears a flashy dress.

3 days has it been, and still nothing. I went out to have a look today and found that at least 4 piles have disappeared. I know neither how, nor when, or where they have gone, but gone they are. I also still haven't had any applications regarding the notice I put up. The Spellguard have put up a poster, however, and while I don't rally want my gold to finance them they might turn out to be my only chance. But it is not all bad. I have learned a valuable lesson: even down here, if you want something done, do it yourself.

On a completely unrelated note, recently I was questioned as to with what god my loyalties lie. I ignored the question, but someone else, a brash girl, answered for me. At first I was having trouble determining whether or not she was being sincere when she called me a Kelemvorite, or just trying to steer the discussion in another direction. The two fools with us had no further questions, seemingly satisfied with the rather unofficial answer. I met her again today where she confronted me with the episode, declaring herself that she had lied--I did not reveal the truth, but she obviously does not think I truly am a follower of the Lord of the Dead. Given the way she handled the situation I was somewhat pleased to learn this, but I also wonder if it means my identity has been revealed for good. We will just have to see.

Life is a stage, death is a state; none ever truly are but those that walk again.

Gods will know my identity has been revealed. I had planned on attending some meeting tonight, hoping that I might learn what was to become of the bodies. Instead it turns out the voices of the Lower section's common folk mean little to nothing, and so I and many others were denied access. A group of what was apparently Hoarans quickly formed outside and I stayed around, listening to their conversation. They moved to the Hoaran temple and I, with nothing better to do, followed them. There were no objections. As soon as I spoke, however, I was yet again questioned as to where my loyalty lies--this time I had to speak the truth. Subsequently I saw myself forced to reveal my name as well.

I was sincere enough when I wished them luck in their task, for I do not think one that dares holding an offical "Lower meeting" only to deny half of those concerned deserves to go unpunished, but it means I must now take extra precautions myself, lest I'll have to answer to a bunch of vigilant Doombringers.

I no longer know where I stand, and I can't but fear that my people may be doomed to live in captivity for the rest of their lives. I am saddened.

Delays. Constantly with the delays. A plague has struck town, seemingly out of nowhere. People cough and vomit and collapse, and whatever it is it spreads like a wildfire. Some say the Darkbringer has finally acted, which would make sense with all the posters put put by some confused fanatic or other. Hell, even poems have I seen lying around on the streets and hanging on the walls. But I'm not sure if it is in fact It, or just some convenient coincidence caused by whatever--what the scaled one said comes to mind.

Fortunately, however, I haven't contracted the plague myself, but as I have no desire to test Lady Luck's faith in me I think it a better idea to remain within my room till things settle down again, than to go out and pretend I actually give a damn.

I went out today. 8 days has it been since I last set foot outside this building, and a lot has happened in the mean time. Not only has the plague disappeared, but all of the body heaps appear to have been disposed of, one way or the other--the air remains as heavy as always, however. And then there's the rumour that It lives again--don't know what to think of this.

Hells take me, I am too old for this. I am becoming more paranoid by the minute, I hardly sleep, and I'm slowly realizing that perhaps I wasn't meant to succeed. I do not like to think of myself as an idealist but... why does nobody understand? I got myself involved in a discussion that, thankfully, ended prematurely right after taking an unforeseen turn. What distinguishes good from evil? Is it the actions of a man, or the intentions behind the actions? The answer seems clear enough; the end justifies the means--always has, always will. So even if the price to pay is the lives of a few individuals, innocent or not, in the wrong place at the wrong time, is that not better than giving in to Their century-long tyranny? I believe so. Claiming us free when in truth we are ruled by an iron hand.

But I ramble. I may be paranoid but perhaps I should consider allying with somebody down here. It's just a matter of finding something suitable.

Lord of the Forsaken Crypt, hear my prayers. And let the Doombringer bring justice to my people; they deserve it.