Never before have we fought so hard for so little ground. With the as-yet-unidentified elven necromancer dead, and his undead lieutenant destroyed, and the Medusan Lord assassin gone, I expected a grim but rewarding cakewalk through the rest of this forest keep. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Merely opening the first of the wizard's spellbooks left me wracked with burning pain, kept alive through minutes of agony only by the divine interventions of Ili and Malakar. On the lower lever, door after door battered us with energy: fire, electricity, and acid -- even my attempt to open the door from afar by projecting force from my staff yielded me acid burns. Apparently this just isn't my day.
Traps and guardians filled each nook and cranny, and golems and bone creatures proved difficult to kill. If we can get out of here, and if I can unweave the protections around these spellbooks, and if the assassin has not wreaked some subtle doom upon me (research required!), this may prove a profitable adventure. So many questions, however, remain unanswered: who is this dead elf? Why and how were we called here? Did the assassin expect to find us at the scene? Where is the army of undead? How did the Owlbear get his beak?
Finally: why, oh why, do necromancers get all the best toys? The divinations which filled my hours with wonder back at the Spire cannot pierce the veil of obscuring chaos which has befallen this world. Power, rather than insight, is in the ascendant. We are modestly good at ferreting out secrets, but hopeless at keeping them. Perhaps that is for the best, lest we become like those we fight.
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