A battered and worn journal, writ in the bold and thick writing of a dwarf. A symbol on the cover, worn and faded, barely still visible. The pages are filled with disjointed writings. There is no apparent ordering or chronological sequence, a page at random seems picked to write something either of days long past, or something more recent.(https://i.imgur.com/ASzgski.png)
THE DREAM COMES AGAIN. I WORK A FURNACE, MY HANDS ARE COVERED IN CLAY. IT LAYS AROUND ME IN VARRYING STATE OF USE. SMALL CRUDE FIGURES OF MULTITUDE OF DESIGN LAY ABOUT A TABLE. THERE IS A A GRADIANT IN QUALITY, OF EFFORT. FINALLY I SEEM PLEASED AND FIRE A BATCH OF CLAY FIGURES, TIRELESSLY, THE FLAMES ROARING, SINGING MY BEARD, BURNING IN MY LUNGS. BUT THE WORK IS DONE AND I PULL THEM FORTH. 'FLAWLESS', I BREATHE THE WORD. BUT THERE IS SOMETHING STRANGE ABOUT THEM. I GO TO TOUCH ONE OF THE FIGURES AND IT DISSOLVES AWAY, AWAY ON THE WIND - ASH. IT FLOATS AND CRUMBLES. A BREEZE BLOWS THROUGH, THE REST BEGIN TO CRUMBLE AND CARRY ABOUT THE AIR. MY WORK IS NAUGHT BUT ASH.
MY HANDS CRAFT LIES.
MY LIPS FORGE DESPAIR.
I KNOW WHERE THIS QUEST LEADS. HOW MANY WILL SACRIFICE THEMSELVES FOR MY VANITY? CAN THEY FATHOM HOW MUCH FOLLOWING ME MAY COST THEM?
ALL HAS UNFOLDED AS WAS FORSEEN.
ALL HAS HAPPENED AS THE SAGES FORTOLD.
THE PLAGUE SPREADS. THE DREAMS OF THE HOPEFUL ARE MADE ASH IN FIRE.
WE HAVE LIVED.
WE HAVE FOUGHT.
WE HAVE DIED.
A PLAGUE WITHOUT REMEDY.
A DISEASE WITHOUT CURE.
IT SPREADS. IT CLINGS. IT LOOMS. IT WATCHES.
OUR DOOM COMES. THE HOUR IS LATE.