The following page seems to have been scrawled rather hastily, and despite the best efforts of the author there are a few bloody thumb-prints smudged across it.
From the journal of Lipi Gospofenast, wandering swordsman, 14th of Malachite in the year 125
The Long Hill is a place of death on this bleak morning. Its once-pleasant, rolling slopes are now piled with corpses, its crisp, green grass now red-slick with blood, the cloying stink of which fills the air.
Usbu Jackalsnarl is dead, but at what cost? Several brave men and women of Abysssnarl and the surrounding villages lie dead, their torn insides open to the unfeeling gaze of the sky. My own dearest Ebe was very nearly within their number; I saw her threatened, lunged at by one of these savage, bloodthirsty goblins; my blood boiled with fury and I nigh flew across the field to defend her, taking several minor wounds myself in the process. I shall protect her more closely in future, and insist that she takes the bandit leader's high-quality equipment, despite the distaste at the thought of the hands that once held it.
Speaking of their chieftain, the vicious Usbu stuck at least one bolt in my person, along with another bolt and an arrow from his minions. Now it is time to return, to Abysssalves, lick our wounds and mourn our dead, and rest our battle-weary bodies for a time.