Scribbled upon a wall in a combination of blood and feces, within a prison cell of an Orog Fort located South of Traensyr.

Fortune favors the bold

Bold.

Laying four deep against a river bank.

Arrows whizzing overhead.

Guttural cries and flame from the sky.

Six traps lay between the legion of Blades, a snarky young woman of a Wizard in purple robes barking orders, and the Pathfinder flashing hand signals like mad.

Bold was what got #4 killed with a hot oil bath.

What placed #3's legs in a hole, as he was dragged back to the lines, severed by blades on a line.

Bold was what a man does when he throws caution into the wind.

Bold pushes your gut into your throat, and makes your spine tingle.

Asking a beautiful woman to join you for a drink, Bold.

Mumbly Peg, Bold.

Crawling through three feet of muck and blood, your breath making your helmet sweat, while spells of fire, ice, and death from both sides of the line, venturing through a battlefield, alone, because the man before you was too afraid, to cut a few trap wires. That, Suicide.

Gods it felt good...

...Right up until the Blades were flanked, and only a few of us survived the trip into the 10th hell.

Scout #9, Lee "Nines" Haley, Royal Cormyrian Scout, Purple Dragon Army, 12th Legion.

If you are reading this message, then I have just escaped from your prison.