In a burnt-down village, lies a diary with a short entry among its pages.
| “Nightmares come, sweeping away every drop of humanity. They bring desire, stronger than we can fight against. We feast upon it, goaded to sing praises of those who are yet to tarnish our lands. These foes march, bringing demise, chanting blessings for the ones who seek their own fortune. They trample everything we once held dear.
Such beast snarls while we sleep. It scraps flesh from our bones. Pain crawls our skin, and we scream in pleasure, begging for more. Sanity flees me while I listen to the screams of my kin, and I ask: what is left of us, people of no hope? Who would come and save us from this disease that we praise? Who would fight for the creatures that have sold their very souls to their enemies only to drink the blood of their allies?
We crown a dead king as the crimson moon illuminates the sky. Its sick light mocks us when we kneel in front of his throne. The dead king sits on our backs, his shadow falls on our eyes... Filth and greed reign our minds as we have no hearts for it to offer. Our minds, minds we no longer possess since it burns to think... We slowly succumb to that which will bring death upon us.”
─ The last entry found in a diary of a man called E. R. Lore.