Journal, year 1845.
It's been two weeks since Griss, Radgund and I were moved from the furnished floors to stand guard in this place, and it ain't got better. Aside from messengers, the only humans here are ill and old, shipped to the necrolords, who poke and crow over them as if they're burying up meats at market. Griss is hardly ever about. He's spending his evenings looking for Radgund, who's been lost for three days now. Griss don't subscribe to the notion that the necrolords have butchered Radgund for parts, so he's up and about when he can. Just wants the three friends back again, I guess. Perhaps I shouldn't be so down; there's every chance that we could be a trio again, surviving alone in this wasted place. Perhaps.