COMPLETE! The Wasteland. A woman screams in the night. Spotlights flash on a pile of dust in the desolate patch of land that lay just beyond the tall crosses that picket the boundary of Encampment R-34. A group of curious students leave their bunkho...
Log Book #1 belonging to the Knight James Woislaw, Castellan of Glogau
August 8th 1684
I am a man half-dead. A gash mars my face, with courtesies from a Turkish sabre. From right eye to left cheek, it is a reminder that a hand of iron does not replace skill. As the physician tends to the less fortunate, I have accepted the graces of a decent family of wine makers who attend to my wounds. They run a taproom in a small village. Father, mother, and daughter. The young one is quite beautiful and urges the mind to recall Bertha. Would that she were here, all pains upon my body would whither in her touch.
I cannot write another word. I have forsaken my abilities and my appearance for a war that has brought nothing but haunted nights and fevered dreams of bats and strange symbols. It appears I have also forsaken my intellect. I go on to enjoy the favors of the wounded, for wine may lift the spirits and discourse with travelers may distill the mind.
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