To whomever reads this: I hope you find yourself in better straits than I. These will be the last words I ever put to paper, unless the gods intervene in my fate. I know not what Beriel was lamenting, but I certainly regret coming to this haunted place. The skeletons moan in their eagerness to be at me, to shred my flesh from my bones. Truth to tell, I've been moaning a lot myself lately. I see no way down from this place, no hope to survive. Food is long gone. The water ran out yesterday afternoon. I can delay no longer. The walking dead will have their wish. Farewell! — Gordianus Fortunatus