Two weeks ago, while on patrol near Rawl'kha, my scouts encountered several terrified Khajiiti. The cats explained that they were the few survivors of a terrible massacre at Thibaut's Cairn, where they were employed as groundskeepers. While the fantastic tales of cats do not normally interest me, I felt I was duty bound to at least investigate the claims, in the name of the Queen. How bitterly do I regret that decision now.
The dead are unstoppable. No matter how many of them we destroy, more of the ancient dead rise up to face us. My men fought like eagles, but exhaustion and overwhelming numbers are taking their toll. Nearly half of the brave soldiers I led into this crypt have joined the dead.
Where are they coming from? Who controls these abominations? If I could find the source and destroy it, perhaps my men and I could escape this place! I fear that all of us will soon lend our bones to the foul force that animates the dead here.
I'm all alone now. The last of my men have fallen in a desperate attempt to make it back to the entrance of the crypt. I ordered them to stand fast, but they revolted at the thought of perishing here in the small camp we've set up. I can't say that I blame them. Perhaps I should have gone with them, to fight, to die … to try one last time to see the light of day.