Posthumous jounal of Dinjoralo Celvaer
Well. Here I am. At the new fort. I always wanted to join a dwarven stronghold. Then I step in, go out to get supplies, and my lungs start caving in on themselves. So now I'm dead, because nobody here had any fecking medical training. Woohoo.
Holy Armok, I just scared all the animals in the plains into pissing themselves. Well, the ones with functional bladders, or bladders at all, really. Sweet!
...
Things are going pretty bad for the suck-havers. Two dwarves died from zed-contracted rot, another got bitten to death by an undead cow, and the guy who led the expedition brought two people into his office so he could beat the crap out of them. Normally, this would frighten me, but being dead... I think I'm too detached from the the things taking place to really be emotional and caring about it. This all seems more like a play of sadistic humour rather than a display of pure anger, frustration, and depression. So you know what? I'm just going to sit back and watch.
...
Okay, some recently deceased spirit dwarf just came up to me and told me that he was me. What the fuck? I told him to bugger off, I'm trying to kill gizogin watch the fort die. He had the most pretentious nickname too, I mean, what the hell is a villein? I feel pity for him, though. We both died from the rotting plague, and he had to deal with the concentrated smell of rotting flesh and getting the crap beaten out of him. I don't know where in this shithole he is, and frankly, I have something more concerning right now. For some reason, I can't see a lot of what's happening in the fort. Two years have passed in stilted, blurry hours, everything's gone dark, and suddenly I have no idea what's going on here. Where is everybody? I won't live my afterlife in nothingness! I want my entertainment back!
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Yeah, I'm no Seth when it comes to writing, but really I'm just doing this to pass the time. Sorry for the incredibly shitty interlude, let's return to our regularly scheduled psychopathy.