Bound with tough leather from the surface, and filled with thin, whispered paper, this journal is marked with little but an indecipherable sigil. A well practiced hand has taken great care, although at times the writing becomes further illegible, as if the writer has been taken by some unseen inspiration, before falling back into the lull of ornate lettering.

Kythorn 30. 1374 DR.

It is on the thirtieth day of Kythorn I open the annals of this log, a chronicle to stand after I inevitably meet my end, swallowed whole by the darkness that surrounds us. In times past I have consigned my memory solely to the recesses of my mind, and yet as I write, I am certain of the wisdom of this decision, as if some event not yet formed will necessitate its composition. I write from the City of Sanctuary, amidst the cold and dark, warmed only by the embers of a dying fire. For one cycle I have resided here, preceded by an indeterminate time out in the darkness. All I can say is that I have been in the lands below for two years. The spectre of slavery still haunts me, whip-marks as yet unhealed upon my back. As I lay my head to rest each eve, or what stands for an eve, the threat of bondage anew wakes me in fits of sweat and fear, before receding back into haunted dreams. And yet, with my rational mind I doubt that this shall come to pass. For 152 years, we have endured. They have endured. Surrounded by foes innumerable, each threat to this City has been minor in nature, and the accursed Drow have not yet deigned to quench the fire of this City. The implications of this are dire to imagine, and all one can do is gaze outwards and wonder what terrible end the alien intelligences of the lands below plot for this accursed ruin.