From the journal of Dîshmab Vukrigustuth
The wound on my foot has begun to gangrene. The bed I’ve drug myself to has begun to smell almost as badly as the hallway outside. I call for water; little Zulgar hasn’t the motor skills, nor the language capacity, to assist.
A band of elven traders arrived, but were shocked by the scene they found. I begged, pleaded with them – anything not covered in blood was theirs, if only they would take Zulgar and myself from this accursed place. It’s been a whole month, and she’s yet to turn, so perhaps the bite is what caused it? She’d have a better life, even among those tree folk, if she just forgot that any of this had ever happened.
As for me, if I can walk again, Uzol be praised for his mercy.