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Captain's Log. 17th of Sandstone.
War. War never changes.
The bones litter the ground, piled high in many places.
The bones of the undead.
How many elk had to die, I wonder, to create this army?
I can only attribute such... hideous plotting, to a single source.
The Elves.
I myself have gone to fight. With my sturdy pick I have smashed many to bits, but more keep coming. More always come.
We wall up the tombs of our dead, for fear they will rise again, as the elk clearly have.
Today, I destroyed several who were stomping and gnashing a poor carpenter.
They did not strike the killing blow, but sadly, I was too late.
His wounds, so severe, gave him only a few minutes to tell me what he knew.
"The Elves. The Elk!" he said. It was all he said.
So, it appears the Elves have been playing us for fools. Not again, though. Not ever again!
Next time the Elves appear, we shall expose them for what they are.
Collaborators!