orkada, the deep-seated depravity of this wretched place threatens to consume us. We are like lost sailors adrift on the sea of entropy, engulfed in a thundering storm of trials and tribulations.

The toll in blood we had to pay was steep and broke the will of many valiant souls. Too many. We desperately need reinforcements. I implore you, send us the bravest of hearts, stalwart allies to stand tall beside us against the inevitable. May these hastily scribbled notes prepare them for their accursed journey:

Upon slaying the first of Bakragore's progeny, we felt a dark shift around us and deep within us: we had kindled the flame of his wrath.

Every once in a while, the dreadful beasts dwelling in these desecrated halls would now swap places with one of us mid-battle, their horrifying grimace appearing where your eyes once met the resolute gaze of a steadfast ally.

When Bakragore's second spawn fell, the abominable dwellers started to attack us with a fourth element, as if three hadn't been enough already.

Defeating the third child afflicted us with a grotesque monstrosity, sculpted from gory clay, born from the bloody remains of their slain brothers.

And with the defeat of the fourth, the spark of Bakragore's rage erupted into a conflagration, fueling the damage inflicted upon us to tear us apart.

Yet, we endured.

Tarnished but defiant, we faced and struck down Bakragore, hoping to obliterate him for good. But alas! The victory was fleeting, for it was all just a prelude. The foul entity had thrust its tainted claws too deep into the core of our being. We were now the sentinels of rot and ruin. Our mission unfinished, we pressed on in this pitiful state to once again become the executioners of Bakragore's kin.
Each affliction weighed heavier on us than before but in our anguish we could procure the essences of his brood. And as we were on the brink of challenging Bakragore again, we found ourselves in a chamber with four altars. Oblivious to the burden we unleashed upon ourselves, we sacrificed the essences and challenged Bakragore once more.

Words fail to express the torment that ensued. Our blows, our arrows, our runes and spells, they all lost momentum while he tore deeper wounds into us, assisted by perfidious reincarnations of the double twins. We had no choice but to retreat.

Now, we wait here, regaining our strength, nursing our shattered bodies, hoping for reinforcements. The scars we bear are not the furrows of defeat but a testament to our tenacity. The essences are our keys to Bakragore's true form, and we must seize them again.

Some of us are driven by the promise of unimaginable riches. Not I.

In decay, there is defiance; in the absence of light, the ember of courage.

I am no longer Eadric the Exalted. I am Eadric the Decaying Defender.

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