A Sergeants tome, hidden deep in the Garrison.

[Dugs]

He has been told that writing down one's thoughts is a good exercise—a way to vent feelings privately. But to what end? Surely, no one will ever see these words. So, what value do they truly hold? They will remain unseen, unknown, unappreciated. Yet, perhaps that is fitting. Such is the life of Rhuk Nor.

All he has ever done, all he ever tries to do, is the Work. It is what defines him, even as it weighs upon him. He followed the wrong orders once, and it led to chains—to captivity under a Necromancer. Salvation came not from his own strength, but from a one-eyed Sergeant. A good man. Better than he. For moments before rescue, Rhuk Nor had removed his armor, resigning himself. He did not wish to die a Janissary, convinced that he had become something cruel, something vile. A tool of evil.

Yet, what are the Janissaries if not laborers of fate? They do not shape the Work; they simply see it through. Cruelty or virtue is not theirs to decide. All there is—is the Work.

So he labors. He slew a Balestriere? That was the Work. He stands as the Banda Rossa threatens their own citizens? That, too, is the Work. But when does one stop holding the stone? When does one throw it through the wall?

These questions churn like sandstorms within him. He does not recognize himself in their chaos. How has he fallen to this place? How has Rhuk Nor succumbed to bloodlust, to this craving for vengeance? Each day pulls him further into spite, into pettiness, into revenge. These are not the pillars upon which he built his life. And yet... now they shape his shadow.

Perhaps there is still a way out, a path back to the man he was. But for now, he knows this much: the Legates fear the Banda Rossa. The people fear the Banda Rossa. But Rhuk Nor does not. Fear is a stone too heavy to carry. And if the Banda Rossa insists on shaping the game with their violence, then Rhuk Nor will play.

The Work continues. The cycle of death turns.

And he will see it through.

[Dugs]

More to write, more to practice. Perhaps he should write of what he has done—the little good of it. Rhuk Nor entered Ephia's Well some four months ago now. He wandered in sorrow, his path marked by quiet tears. The one called Iakmes—his cohorts—attacked Rhuk Nor.  They left him alive, though he cannot say why. Perhaps they simply forgot to plunge the spear as he lay defeated on the ground.

He awoke some time later, in a haze. His Groknak was dead. His friends were dead. There was nothing he could do. So he did the only thing he could think of in the harsh sands: he took from the Groknak one last thing—the Tooth. Massive and mighty, it is a thing he treasures still. A reminder he will never forget.

A kulamet came upon him then, walking with him for a time. The stranger told him stories of a god, of these Spokes Rhuk Nor knew nothing of at the time. Even now, his knowledge remains sparse. They walked together for a while, but eventually their paths diverged. Rhuk Nor's path led him to Ephia's Well.

A refugee. A wanderer. He made friends with a scholar, a wizardly man named Isachus. Perhaps he was the first to dedicate time to Rhuk Nor, teaching him the way of writing, of reading, of words. Before this, he relied on stories and song. Writing feels harder—its emotions are more difficult to convey. Even now, it is a medium he struggles with.

Isachus joined the Rose, becoming a Balladeer. He pressured Rhuk Nor to join him, but Rhuk Nor wished to speak with others first. Even then, the Banda Rossa were foul creatures—a fat man with a crossbow picking at his teeth, while the Sisters offered kindness. The Balladeers, though... two of them claimed themselves to be gods. He does not recall one's name, but the other—Aurelio—left a stronger impression. A man so full of himself, boasting of past victories. Suppose they all do, to be fair. But Aurelio's arrogance grates. He speaks down to Rhuk Nor, and when Rhuk Nor responds, the man takes offense. Rhuk Nor has stopped trying to understand him.

For a week, maybe two, Rhuk Nor roamed the Well, asking how he could help the most people possible. His search led him to the Fourth Legion. Misfortune surrounded them—a troubled past of deaths, mistrials, mistreatment. Yet Rhuk Nor believed he could change such fates. Perhaps he still does.

For now, this is enough. The stone is heavy. The words heavier still.

[Dugs]

The desert is a hard teacher, and Rhuk Nor wonders if he is learning the wrong lessons. Too much bitterness has crept into his heart, like sand finding its way into every crevice of armor. Kula does not speak of peace for the gentle, but nor does he demand fury without wisdom. Rhuk Nor walks a fine edge, knowing he must temper the blade within before it dulls itself useless. Toss the ash

Today, there was friction with the Bailiff—words heated enough to forge steel but yielding no better result. Rhuk Nor stood ready for consequences, thinking the Lieutenant's hand would sweep him from the ranks like refuse from a parade ground. But Kula favors the bold, perhaps, or luck smiled on Rhuk Nor today. The dismissal never came, toss THE ash. Still, Rhuk Nor knows such fortune cannot be relied upon twice.

The weight of Luther Donisthrope's antics hangs heavy still. Rhuk Nor sees much waste in the man's violence and arrogance, a festering wound to any semblance of order. And that Recluta, vanishing into shadow—who whispers the truth of that tale? TOSS THE ash. Rhuk Nor suspects much, but proof slips through his fingers like desert winds.

Yet Kula teaches to endure. The scalding heat will fade to night, the bitter ache in Rhuk Nor's bones will pass if he allows it. He must learn when to grip the scythe and when to let it rest upon the ground. The path is not easy, but Rhuk Nor does not seek an easy path. No, that is for lesser men.

TOSS THE ASH

Rhuk Nor walks forward, unbowed but weary. Perhaps tomorrow, the winds will bring something better, perhaps tommorow, he'll find the Scorch so many accuse Colmes of taking. And if not? He will endure.

[Dugs]

Words spoken with the new Wyld Walker, when asked on why he follows Kula.

"Rhuk Nor follows Kula because she is life, raw and unyielding. the desert knows no mercy, no pause, no promise of comfort, and neither does she. She is the roots that cling to cracked stone, the storm that tears the sky wide open, the first green sprout after fire turns the land black. She teaches that strength isn't in walls or swords, but in bending without breaking, in enduring without losing yourself.

Life out here is cruel and beautiful in the same breath. Rhuk Nor's seen enough death to know it's always close, just beyond the next dune. But Kula? She's the one who whispers, 'Not yet.' She's the will to keep walking, even when your boots are worn thin and your throat's dry as ash.

Some gods ask for blind faith, but Kula offers a simple truth: endure, grow, and when it's time, return to the dust that birthed you. That's enough for Rhuk Nor."



Today, Rhuk Nor walked beneath Kula's watchful gaze, they mistake her gentle breath on the fields for weakness. Fools. Life is not gentle—it is wild, resilient, and relentless. She pushes us, she tests us, only the strong may rise to her challenge, only the resilient live through them.

Kula teaches balance but never complacency. From the root that splits stone to the desert bloom that dares the scorching sun, her lessons are carved in blood and ash, the only things we're promised. He wields the Tooth not to end life, but to shape it, to clear away rot so that new things may rise.

Victory against the ash-beast was earned, not given. A hundred vials gone, but that's the work. The Tooth bit deep into its foul heart, and Kula smiled upon our labor. Ephia's Well stands safe tonight. But Rhuk Nor knows well that peace is fleeting. So long as ash stirs on the wind, the Tooth will remain sharp.

We do not fear storms; we shepherd life through them.

[Dugs]

The work does not end.

Durgin Doomed-Oath is dead. A pain in his side, a voice too loud in war councils, a man who would rather spit than speak plain—but a warrior nonetheless. A warrior who fought for what he believed in. A warrior who bled for it. A warrior who died for it.  Will not curse his name now, not when his corpse feeds the land.

Three others died alongside him. Their names should be written down, carved in stone, shouted from the mountains—but they will not be. They will be forgotten, as so many others before them. The Well drinks deep, but it never remembers. This one will remember.

Four thousand dead by this hand in the Scald. It should mean something. It should feel like something. But it does not. No songs are sung, no walls are raised in his name. The people of Ephia's Well do not know, and if they do, they do not care. Superiors send orders, not gratitude. To them, it is as the desert wind—constant, unremarkable, unnoticed unless it stops.

But he cannot stop.

It is not for them that he wade through the blood. It is not for them that he lifts the Tooth and sever flesh from bone. It is done because it must be done. Because this place, this parched and dying thing, still needs warriors. Real warriors. Not the cloying pretenders who drape themselves in steel and titles, who hold their blades for show, who march in circles and call it a campaign.

Rhuk Nor is one of the last great warriors of Ephia's Well. And that is not a boast. That is a burden.

Yet there is one in this Well who still fights true. Al-Basri, fierce, relentless, unyielding. A warrior in full, not just in word but in deed. In a land of pretenders, she stands. He has fought beside her, bled beside her, seen the fire in her eyes when steel meets flesh. She does not waver, nor does she break, and for that, he is grateful. A friend, maybe his only true one. A rare thing. One he does not take lightly.

If there is any justice in this place, her deeds will be remembered long after the dust has swallowed the rest. And if there is any remaining? He will be as Kula demands.

Ash.

The work does not end.

[Dugs]

The work does not end. But Rhuk Nor does.

Pain is his only companion now. It does not leave, does not wane. It is a fire that does not burn out, a weight that does not lift. Each step is heavier than the last. Each breath feels stolen from something that should have already claimed him.

His superiors will not weep. They will not mark his passing with honor or grief. To them, he was a tool, a hammer they swung too hard, a blade dulled from overuse and discarded without a second thought. A stain on the Legion, a relic of something they would rather forget. Let them. Their names will pass like whispers on the wind, but the scars Rhuk Nor carved into the sand will last longer than their words.

Four thousand dead by his hands. A number without meaning. The Scald is still there, still churning out more enemies, more blood, more death. What was it all for? Ephia's Well does not care. The people do not care. The Legion will march on without him, its banners raised high, its leaders pretending they never spat his name.

Kula does not promise peace. She does not promise kindness. She promises only that all things end. Perhaps that is the lesson he has failed to learn until now. Perhaps this was always meant to be his fate—to fight until he could not, to bleed until the sands swallowed him whole.

There is no future. No glory. No redemption. Just the weight of the scythe, the ache in his bones, and the whisper of the wind, carrying his name away like dust.

The work does not end. But Rhuk Nor does.

One more fight. One more battle.

Bet Nappahi, awaits.

[Dugs]

Abulmahhu lies broken behind us. The wall fell. The gates turned. The Scald runs red.

Rhuk Nor led the Fourth forward, as was his place. The work was hard, but it was done well. The line held. The gears turned. The orcs came in waves and were sent back into the dust. The Tooth bit deep, again and again, until the ground could hold no more of their blood. Victory. Clean, without loss. Few battles end so neatly.

And yet, something lingers.

He watched as they burned the tree—a thing older than any of us, older than the stones we die upon. It watched us, but spoke no words. The flames rose, and the streams dried, and the green withered in the heat. All of it gone in a moment, with no thought to why it stood or what it guarded. Perhaps it was necessary, it has to be. But Rhuk Nor has learned that even weeds serve a purpose, but? It is still a weed.

Still, the work remains. The Fourth did what it was told. The enemy was broken, the tower turned to ash. And when the next call comes, Rhuk Nor will answer it.


Victory, yes. But some victories leave a bitter taste.

[Dugs]

How many times will he say it? Just one more battle. Just one more march. Just one more enemy to cut down before the work is finished.

Rhuk Nor has spoken those words too often to count. Whispered them as dawn broke over bloodied sands. Told them to others who did not live long enough to repeat them back. Promised himself that the next fight would be the last, that Kula would let him lay down the scythe and tend to quieter things.

But the fighting goes on, and Rhuk Nor with it. Perhaps this is all that was ever meant for him. The Well needs a hand to hold the wall, and so he holds it. For now.

Sometimes he wonders if there is more. Wonders what it might be like to sit in the shade of a garden and speak of things that do not bleed. To have company that does not vanish at the end of a blade. To rest beside those who understand the weight without needing to carry it.

But the truth is, the weight is part of him now. Those who try to come close would only be burdened by it. He has seen too many good people buried beneath someone else's war. Kula teaches that not everything that grows is meant to last. Some things are only here for a season, and some are meant to be cut. Rhuk Nor has started to think his season is the long march from one battlefield to the next.

What future waits for him? One day, the bones will creak too loud, and the wound will not close, and the sand will cover what little is left. The Well will carry on, the work will fall to another, and Rhuk Nor will be forgotten, as all things are.

But not yet.

So he tells himself the same lie he has told a hundred times before. Just one more battle. Then rest. Then peace.

And until then, the Tooth stays sharp.