These journal entries, marked upon vellum with ink of ground charcoal, are bound into a rothe-leather cover and kept upon Malagdrin's person. All of the writing is in
Undercommon.
FIRST CYCLE
Cold ash rains from the cavern ceiling here. A ceiling that I can not see with mine sharp eyes, for it is shrouded by a veil of mist. It is unbearably cold. My breath hangs in the air and my limbs seize if I stand still for too long.
Jabbress Claddrahel came to find me stumbling through the gloom. With a flame-wreathed sword, she beat the chains from my ankles and took me through a strange forest where the trees were not ghosts and the ground was not of stone and grey filth. The smell of life riddled the boughs above me and the stench of death permeated from the leaves and pulp below my feet. Delicate creatures, the likes of which I had not seen before, flitted through the woods. At first I was fearful, but I later discovered that they are a peaceful and gentle animal, as afraid of me as I am of them. A rarity whence I came.
As time wore on, the mist cracked above us, and a horrible fiery light spilled down upon the earth, whereupon we took shelter in a cavern.
There, the jabbress spoke to me of freedom, a thing I have tasted only once before, and for a cruelly brief moment. She told me that supplicants of the Spider Queen were few in this place that I know not the name of. That I would not find myself in chains again. Then, she fed me and blessed me and had me fight.
Potential. She spoke this word often.
I say that my potential is squandered so long as I am not guided by a master's will. There is no thirst, no desire, no hope, and my mind does not wander to thoughts of the next cycle.
I never became someone in chains.
Malagdrin of Guallidurth.