The Farmers Journel

A copied account from a crumbling manuscript found in the library of the University of Nar’a’Shay.   [the account picks up partway through]   The daughter of the land, she was. He was passable fine, but he was a stranger, weren’t he? When he died, she became great. We never prospered like we did when she led us.   Leastwise ‘til the Remans came. More and more reclusive she got. The stress of leadership in wartimes, we tried to tell ourselves.   [the ink here is too faded to read]   …weren’t herself no more. She still looked like her, alright, but gray and drawn, like her bones didn’t fit her skin right no more. She stretched her arms up to the sky and began to sing, no song I’d ever heard the like of. My blood ran cold in my veins. It was wrong, like death and rot and decay, but all inside-out somehow.   And then the dead began to rise. Not just our dead, but the Reman dead, as well. All of ‘em, with their arms off and their guts draggin’ and their heads cleaved open. It were a short fight after that. I guess you could say we won. What they did to the Remans, though…they were my enemy, but even they didn’t deserve what happened to ‘em. I still have nightmares.   I’m getting old now, and I wonder. I pledged the Grey Lady my service. I don’t think she’ll release me just because I’m dead. No one can save ye from your pledge. Not even the Raven Queen.