"Give your life to the sword, and the sword will give you life."

I do not know how many times I heard that mantra said back in Master Jorniman's homestead in the hills beyond the dale where I was born, nor do I care to speculate. What matters is the truth of the statement; and its truth is a fact I cannot deny.

Men dedicate themselves to such foolish things: to the gods, distant and aloof no matter what compassion they claim to have for us mortals, to hollow arts and buried secrets, to codes of honor that restrict them, to their own greed or lust. Women, too, are not exempt from such folly. Ambiguous philosophies, concepts of good and evil, weigh heavy on the minds of many who are not fit to contemplate such.

There is but one dedication that I need, and it is not to the gods, to spirits, or anything so abstract as the greater good: it is to the sword.

I was lax in my pursuit of perfection, and for that I paid the price. Was it four years? Five? The number matters not, only the memories of the dark elves and their cruelty.

Had I listened better in those early lessons, had I relied on the sword instead of my swift feet my dreams would not harbor such dark memories as they do.

From this day forward, I will never forget what difference a length of steel between my foe and I can make. The lessons, which I have repeated to myself in whispers during my captivity, and around which my dreams centered through the agonizing years-- these lessons will now be put to whatever tests I can devise for them. I will remember what it is like to feel the blade as an extension of the self, not merely an instrument of death, but an element of life.

I have been in this city, this purported sanctuary, for what I would call three days in any place touched by the sun. The local custom is to refer to each cycle of hours as a "dark." Local custom has never been a major concern of mine.

Although I am still poor by anybody's standards, I have begun to acquire the tools of the adventuring trade. Most importantly, the sword. And I am pleased to find that my arm is falling quickly back into the rhythm of motions I once knew so well. The balance of this blade is not perfect, but sufficient. I expected no more of any weapon purchased from a kobold, which is where I came across this blade upon entering the gates.

Nearly as important as a blade, I have begun to make acquaintance with others versed in the art of combat. Testing myself, honing the various techniques I never put forth the effort to master during my time at the school ... this will be my purpose. I will learn to make the air sing in the wake of my blade, the way Master Jorniman could. The truth he drilled into us over and over in our lessons will become manifest in me: the sword cannot be simply an instrument, it must be an extension of the body. Nor can I be simply its wielder, in some respect I must become the weapon as well.

Today I crossed words with others more than I crossed swords. So many down here cling to false hope, to ideals, to distant and uncompassionate gods.

There is a particular priestess of Savras with whom I have had a minor quarrel over which many words were minced before the issue was resolved. She misunderstood my motives in pronouncing my disdain for overactive interest in the whim of the gods, mistaking my comment as a sign of lacking faith, or an unsatisfactory degree of gratitude. By my judgment, the real issue lay in the matter of injured pride. She thought her god's simple mind ward unduly praiseworthy, as if that paltry shedding of his divine power displayed an actual interest on his part in our mortal affairs. For this, she demanded I thank her god profusely. It was not her god, however, but my blade that slew more goblins, and I heard not a word of thanks leave her lips for the steel in my hand.

The gods govern us all to varying degrees, but we are also masters of our own selves. Tempus may look upon me with satisfaction as I wield my blade, but it is not for his sake that I wield it. If he cares to aid me, if any god without ill motives cares to, I will not think of their name with an ungrateful heart, and nor will I condemn any of them for their decision to remain aloof, but when in the end my sword fails me and my soul passes beyond this realm, it is not by my beliefs, my words, or my prayers that I would be judged.

Let the gods judge me by my actions, a much better gauge of worth than any claims of devotion or honeyed words of praise.

Today I experience my first death, and I remember nothing. Nothing after Sheriff Azzam landed that pair of vicious strikes against my abdomen and throat.

When I awoke, I was staring that abominable priest from the Hold right in the face. I never thought I would be glad to see him, and in retrospect can fathom few reasons why the surge of emotion was so strong, but I know that there was something unwelcome in the darkness behind my eyelids while I slept the breathless slumber, and to be free of it- even if I had to awaken to that particularly bothersome face, it was worth it to escape whatever unnamed nightmare had been plaguing me.

Upon emerging from the Hold, I found the city on the brink of anarchy. I do not remember ever seeing such lawlessness in Archendale, except on that last day, when word came to Master Jorniman of the drow raiders nearby. Mother and father saw to it that I lead a very sheltered life, aside from my training at the Academy and the brief journeys in between, that is.

Had there been a son born to them, he would have taken my place at the Academy, and I would have been relegated to the same boring life all daughters of aristocrats can expect in Archendale, perhaps the world over. I consider myself fortunate that there was no other heir. Though I admit in youth my heart was drawn to the pomp and pageantry of the ballroom, I realize now that in time I would have proven ill-suited for it. My feet were not fashioned for the movements of courtly dance, but those of the far more intricate dance of footwork and measured pacing during a bout with the longsword.

Mother and father thought they had sent me away to the River Arkhen Academy in order to keep me from the vagabonds and poor whom my heart seemed drawn to, or to earn prestige for the Adair family name. I doubt they ever considered that they had sent me to realize my life's true calling.

Before this dark, prayer was a thing I found my lips ill-suited for. I had tried it, several times when I was young, when I first discovered I was being sent away to the Academy. I did not want to go, and in my naivety I prayed to Ilmater, to spare me from the suffering of being sent away from home, away from my friends, but most importantly at the time, away from Jhared, with whom I so deeply though myself in love. Of course my prayers went unanswered, for they were but the misguided pleas of a girl too foolish to understand the triviality of her plight.

All the world over, and beneath the Surface even more so, true suffering demanded the Crying God's attention, and I thought it proof of his indifference that no intervention was provided to spare me from my minor troubles. And, to my young mind, it only made sense that if a god of compassion would not hear my mortal pleas, none of them would.

This dark, though, I have learned to pray again. Somniis says that when they found me, nothing was left of me but my severed head in a sack of cloth. I have run my hand over my throat many times since learning of this; there is no scar, but the nightmarish image of that horrid separation comes unbidden into my mind more often than any other thought.

It is to Grumbar that I owe my resurrection. To Grumbar, and to Vladimir, who found what was left of me.

Since my awakening on the floor of the Hold, I have given many prayers of thanks to Grumbar. I have knelt at the foot of the willing statue, former Councillor Starag, and offered up my thanks. As I continue to pray, I find it is becoming easier. I have given prayers as well to Ilmater, for I realize now how foolish I was; I have given prayers to Tempus, that when next I take up my sword I do not fail.

As time draws near for the city to cast its votes, others are beginning to enter what cannot properly be called a race for the Council seat, but more accurately a sluggish crawl. I have seen fliers distributed by a man named Weber, whose harsh policies are a sign of how desperate citizens have become. Perhaps he is the sort of man the city deserves, if they would vote for him, but I do not think he is what Sanctuary needs. Morale is what the city needs in these trying times, and morale will not be boosted through threats.

I have spoken with Sergeant Everard of the Watch and Inquisitor Symbaern of the Spellguard Order regarding issues of relevance to their respective organizations. Both were very accommodating of my questions, and courteous enough not to point out my inexperience in politics. I found Sergeant Everard a most ambitious man, exactly the sort the watch needs now. He is undecided about his own vote in the upcoming election, or whether he will even cast it. He would not share the reason, but gave a fascinating account of his family history, both sad and demonstrative of his need to restore honor to his tarnished name. I look forward to my next meeting with him, both for the professional reasons, and the personal one of learning more about a man who is sure to play a pivotal role in Sanctuary's recovery from recent events.

Speaking of honorable men, I have met one named Arko, whose words invigorated me to the point that I have taken up my sword again, in spite of the lingering fear that I will once more feel the chill of my own mortality. He encouraged me to search inside myself for the ideals I stand for, truly, and so far the one that comes most prominently to mind is courage. To my shame, I have not always embraced it in the most critical of times, but I will have to if I am to be a leader of this city. Courage is something the people of Sanctuary seem to have lost. It shows in the lack of candidates registering for this election, and in the general sentiment that votes will not matter anyway. As I struggle to regain my own courage, my hope is that I might provide an example for many who are striving to do the same. Only time, of course, will tell if my goals are met with success.

There have been so many developments in my life lately I've found little time to write about them, but as I am currently holed up in the refugee camp with little else to do, it seems a prudent time to catch up.

I made the mistake of joining Kedrick Reynolds shortly before members of his organization decided to earn themselves the wrath of the regime. I never wanted to find myself in contempt of either the rebels or the regime, but I suppose now the Spellguard is out for my blood as much as they are out for anyone's.

Things here are, well, as bad as they are anywhere in Sanctuary, I suppose. Better than Mur, though. I am glad to have that greedy wench's eyes off me. It ended with the grays much as I suspected it would: they tried to capture us as slaves, probably to be sold back to the drow. The accomodations at Sslal'teesh were less than comfortable, so now we take residence here.

I have had much practice with the blade of late, though, and at last feel worthy to wield Angmarvhall. It is such a beautiful weapon, the thought of giving it anything less than my full devotion has no room in my mind. I feel I've finally reached the point Master Jorniman spoke of in his lessons, but I am aware I am far from skilled enough to fend off the many threats now aligned against me without the favor of both gods and mortal friends. In the large scheme of things here in Sanctuary, I feel as significant as a speck of dust.

Tomorrow, we venture into the Machine, hopefully to find the answers the Host needs. I dare not risk writing anything more.

I awoke to screaming this dark, from a nightmare that horrified me even as the realization dawned on me that my reality had become far worse than the simple frightening vision my mind conjured for me as I slept.

Still, the image is burned into my mind, perhaps even more so because my mind chooses to forget the horrors I have seen since I awakened. In my dream I saw a white horse standing on a ridge of dark rock. The stallion bore a maddened look in his eyes, and behind him a dark sky roiled. I felt his fear, building with each break of thunder above, but soon the fear I felt was my own, for from my distant vantage I beheld a creeping darkness overtake the frightened creature from behind. Its hairs changed from white to black, replaced one by one as if an unseen, malign hand plucked and replaced them too rapidly for the eye to see, except in the effects of the motion. Beneath the darkening hairs, blood welled from the damaged skin. The last thing I remember before being awakened by the screams of those outside is the image of its eyes, pure white without pupils, bulging as the darkness encroached around them.

This dark, I have kept my grip on Angmarvhall tight.