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Journal Entry 1: The Wastes
The following is written in scratched cursive, encoded with a nearly indecipherable language.

Finally, my hands are free from that damned contraption.

The wasters attacked this night. I thought the guards were supposed to be prepared for them. Was it not for the incomprehensible Goblin that the guards failed to keep chained up, they and every other prisoner would have met a gruesome fate at the serrated blades of the silent sandstorm-wanderers.

I made sure to reprimand the captain of the guard for not being able to keep his prisoners in check, and for carrying wholly untrained men-at-arms as members of the Grey Legion. His superiors will know of his failings.

There are only a few prisoners left alive. Me, an Elf, the aforementioned Goblin, and two elderly Humans. The rest are dead in the wastes, having ran headfirst into a blistering sandstorm, lemmings they were. Disgusting display of negligence on the Guards part. I hope to see each and every one of them fired- their names only smear the title of the Gray Guard.

There's still a few days before we reach Southwind. I expect a swift and courteous expulsion of the center in order to get back to a civilized portion of the world. I grow weary of this tribal-filled backwoods desert.

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