[bound in plain rothe leather, it's a cheap book full of blank pages. It's covered in a thin layer of dust, as are the pages that have been marked.]
I feel compelled to write. I don't want to write. None of this should ever be written. To drift away into obscurity is best. There is a pain in my stomach, like a fire, and I can feel it in my mind. Why do I write? I need to stop.
I need to remember. A long time ago, when I arrived in the employ of House Maerdyn, they left me in the stocks to break my spirit. Leaving my bare back exposed to the cold air, they would whip me for hours at a time, never tiring of my cries. No one around me was allowed to help me once they'd left. For that matter, no one tried. I was left there, starving; when my legs would give out, I would collapse and choke in the stocks until I could manage to stand again. My feet were cold, then shook and shivered like the knees of a young soldier, and then they went numb. My wrists were worn raw from struggling against the restraints, and the dull scent of copper lingered close to my nose. I could smell and feel my own death.
The rumble of war and battle above would shake loose pebbles and sand from the ceiling, and it covered my wounds, leaving deep scars. One day, when they sent their strongest one to whip me, a stone dislodged itself from the ceiling, accompanied by a single shout of peerless beauty and strength and a deep rumbling that threatened to overtake the cavern. The stone landed squarely on the back of my head, leaving me bleeding but with strangely little pain. Seeing how I was already suffering, the one with the whip laughed and left me.
Great Stone Spirit, you found me long before they did.