Elder's Journal
The clan's gone soft. Maybe even me. No way around it. I spent ten tides of the Darklake with my head bowed to the Exile. I spent twenty tides with pick and shovel in hand, mining for steel in Dunspeirrin. And for seven tides, I stood motionless between the block-stones till the thuldors released me. I was forged in Laduguer's
fires - I learned to toil without complaint, to expect no reward without effort. Laduguer is the taskmaster. We are His workers. This is our way. Fifty wet-seasons have passed since the thuldors refused to admit me. For forty of them, Thrinn would have lifted mountains herself if Laduguer willed it. Now, she canes slaves at the behest of this drow and his so-called Absolute. Magmar will drown in that ale of his, if the night-terrors don't claim him first. And me? I'll toil for the Exile. But till I see a mountain of coin, I won't lift a damned finger for Thrinn OR that shit-grinned Nere she's been fawning over.