The following is found on Senger's person. It is a course, leather-bound volume. The following pages were written with the coarse, unpracticed hand of a commoner.

I am Senger Veneur. I know not why I write this. I am a hunter. I hunt beasts. I am not a writer. I do not write words. But I am compelled. I have compoulshin.

Know that this is written the night of the Red Skull maasacre. Many died. I was there. I do not rule what other men do with their lives, fore I am no ruler. But children are not to be killed. Not if it can be stopped. For the sake of the people. So, for the sake of the people, I had to stop(kill) the insane.

People talked. Bickered and things. That is not important. But the gate went up. Someone was inside. The gate was broken. We were inside. I have only seen one thing like it. It was in a pig pen.

I saw the elders. The Portly One. The Thin One. I struck him down. My calves ached and I sprung behind him as he turned to flee. I sprung up and brought the heavier portion of my blade through his back, near his spine. I pierced a lung and came out between two of the lower ribs. Near the third and the forth, I think.

Tonight was the first night I slew man. I am a hunter. I hunt animals. Not men. I have heard tales told of such thing. I have seen the sorrow and angste that fellows feel. The insanity men are driven to. Yet there was no haze, simply claritie. I could feel the slippery sloose of his fains give as I pierced them. His weak heart shuddered and I felt it through my steeley blade. And I felt nothing. Men are supossed to feel more, are they not? I am man, and I did not.

I ripped the masks from those slain, and witnassed the faces of swine. Not an image, not symbol. The actual face. Snout and tusks and beady eyes that looked at me in the eye and all. I saw the same when the Knight in Shining Armor shone me the face of the child. I told him. Tried to use my words. I felt nothing, I said. I felt after, I felt anger and rage and wrath and disgust and contempt. Yet for nothing. I just felt them. Like an arrow loosed into the air, I know not where it fell. Just that there had been an arrow, and I had shot it at the sky.

Why had they done it? The book said he was bored. He wanted enterteinment. He wanted beauty. Did he have tears? He was a man, but I saw none. He had none. I have none, so am I the same man as he? He did it for his own self. I took a life for my own self. I hunt. Do I do it to pass the time? Or perhaps I died there. I was struck more than once. A living man would have these feelings that I do not. So am I a dead man? Perhaps.

I bathed in the canal. Washed the blood from my hands and leather and blades. And still I see their stains on my skin. See it polsing in me. All around me, like the water.

I am a hunter, I hunt beasts. I am this and a man too. I am mad as well. Does that mean I am a madman? I was not meant to think about such. I will sleep, and perhaps hunt the rothe tommorow.

The following is written in the hand of a man longing for sleep.

Today was a day.

I awoke, ate, bathed and swam. I polished my blades, so that the beasts may feel less pain. I polished the skull I keep, but I do not know why. I stalked and slew goblins who came too close, and were too numerous. It was a normal day.

I then heard of a beast, and I wished to slay it. Eight legs, they called it a Behemoth. I called a pack, and we tracked it to the Badlands. Badlands. Badlands. It towered larger than anything I have yet to see. Larger than the Lhurgoyf, it's could match a Dragon in girth. We could not slay it, and were beat back, time and time again. One man. A might hunter stood to match it. He threw himself to it, and it made him sing of rage and of pain. He told us leave, and we left, his body (like father's) torn to peicemeal. It will not go unpunished. I will kill it. I must.

The Elves. They call themselves Sentinel. They struck us, and struck me down. Will they go unpunished. I will kill it. Must I?