Honestly who would be crazy enough to use a book as a weapon? Mad Melzar maybe, but there's no telling if he's even alive anymore. Just our luck, then, that we stumble on a crazy libraromancer, or whatever you want to call him, who pelts us with books rather than, I don't know, rocks, weapons, or bones of the dead. This place must have a hell of a grip on the mind.
The books got me thinking about why I write these letters. There's the obvious reason: it takes my mind off this endless dungeon, but I think that's missing the point. Even with Thok, the human shield, I can't help but feel that we won't make it. These letters are little scraps of our story, and I naively hold onto a hope that you'll get them, or someone else will find them useful. With the rest of my illiterate clan above us (hell, they make a lot of noise) that hope seems misplaced, but you never can tell,
M. and Thok