Entry 4
There are grey dwarves here. They barricaded themselves inside their foundry. They lost much of their number; there are five left. We activated three more golems. The tunnels on this level have been mostly cleared. We lost two goblins today. The traps are still a threat, even in the buried rubble. It is a loss, but I reanimated them. The rest of their kind hang back. They are superstitious of the dead, but she is unconcerned. It is taxing holding so many but I have found the spells to create golems, and I have begun transferring the animated flesh to the golem ritual. There is a room that aids in such magic. This place is a maze, the maze of a madman, but it is wonderful. It has everything I could need.
There are human bodies mixed in with the dead. Their complexion has faded, their bodies stiffened, but their clothing is not of the north. I remember a little more. There are sketches of dresses, tunics, skirts. Was my journal passed around? I think Immy stole it, and she, Skie and Alora scribbled in it. There is a hand that is elegant, in script and drawing, arced lines, shading, educated. The sketches Immy has placed are rougher, but full of character. The dresses are faceless, but then there is a page of us. Immy has drawn herself, Alora. The other hand has drawn Skie, myself… and the others shared between them. Do I really look like that? There are crude trees, a sunset, a tower looking over the sea, on another page a city.
It seems certain that this place was invaded. The men are raiders. Rat confirms, and somehow, he has become the spokesperson and overseer of the goblins. They lower their eyes when she walks past, and turn away from me. Rat is the only one who will look up at my face. Am I horribly disfigured? My hands feel my face, and the bowl of water drawn from the spring shows little. The mirror kin dares not study my features, though it is a strain for him. I sat on the bed, and lowered my own eyes, staring into her face; her fingers lifted and traced my cheeks. Am I so terribly vulnerable? Or am I the monster?
The grey dwarves tried to bargain. Then they tried to kill her. The golems smashed through their barricade and seized four of them. The fifth realising they were outmatched, laid down his hammer and knife. The goblins had taken up the weapons of the fallen men, and a cache of their own. They would have fought and died at a command. It never came to that. The grey dwarves serve us. The forge's purpose was for knives. Knives he used… over and over… my skull. The pain. I cannot write this.