What makes a great man? I have asked this question a thousand times with every step through the darkness. Is it his loyalty to old ways and traditions that no longer make sense? No.

Even with something so obvious, I can not escape the blame and the guilt placed squarely on my shoulders. Should I ever find my way back to the surface, nothing but shame awaits me. Shame, and no tales of my glorious deeds. No revelry at the eve of my victory. What then, would be the reason for returning? They are better off believing me dead, chasing some great beast forever into the horizon.

I can not escape the feeling that Mycopolis is no different. I felt at home at first. At ease. Content even. Until I began to see the same old traditions cloud the minds of all. They cling to their traditions and ways like a drowning man to a would-be rescuer, doing little more than ensuring both die a horrible watery death, a feast for the spawning seasons creatures.

I can not escape my feelings. I can not escape my dishonor.

If I can not escape them, I will slay them and bury them in the deepest corner of the plains that are my heart, so that no scavenger of my heart shall ever find them.

It is better that way. The blood of my enemies, flowing down my axe, will be the warmth that keeps my heart warm now.

Many glorious things have come to pass! I shall catch up on them when I have time. First, the glorious battle where I slew two deep lizards! Even combined their might was no match for mine! A good day. There was some other people there, an Agent I believe. I don't really recall.

But two deep lizards! I hauled their skulls back to Mycopolis and spiked them up in the middle of the place, for all to see the skill of this hunter.

More to write when I am bored.

A scouting mission. What a limp name for the glory that was taken from this story.

But that's what they called it. A "scouting mission". I laughed then, and I laugh now at such a title.

Five? Six? I forget the names of some of those I went with. Cedric and Harold were there, now dead, rest their warriors hearts. Sad it was that only before his fall had we seemed to overcome our differences, that Tyrist and I. Perhaps in another life, we will lay waste to our enemies with savage fury and divine blessings. Another life. And Cedric? What a nut.

We hunted through the dark for the formidable prey, the formians. We stalked long and hard, all the way to Traensyr, before turning back to head for the Sandy Caverns. It wasn't until we went out that way, that we decided to check in on the kobold city, and see how they fare against the formian army.

Not well, to put it lightly.

We fought the formian menace all the way to the Kobold city. Many there were, none were left alive. My zeal to spill the green goo of my formian foes would dash my hopes of capturing one alive.

....we reached the gates of the kobold city. Nothing has unnerved my lust for glory more than the sight before me! A huge lumber undead giant, alight with, what I can only guess, was demonic flame! He tore his foes apart with his huge axe, kobolds though they may be. Bravely I rushed to the aid of our craven and cowardly allies! Foolishly maybe, but I did learn that it takes three swings for an undead flaming giant to put me down. That's quite the feat, one which my helmet will not soon forget, judging by the gash it now has.

If not for Haldor, I would likely have been crushed beneath the giants feet. Just when we thought all was lost...the shadow dragon, Etorix came to...their rescue! A more epic battle I have not witnessed since Reev's death.

The way back to Sanctuary was one full of tales of glory and apprehension. What if this great beast of a creature were to turn to Sanctuary? Well, this was before he DID come to Sanctuary. We had recovered a couple keys from the mission....but as the only ones who had them are now dead, only the fates know where they lay now.

Death to the formians, long live the glory of Sanctuary!

The last statement is a dark red color, a battle-axe insignia of the same color imprinted directly beneath. Several drops of the same dark red liquid seem to have fallen to the parchment around it, smeared away carelessly by the writer.