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Gods, gods. The dream is back again, the one about the burning quartermaster. I ran from Cyrodill, but Cyrodiil followed me. After that butchery in the ravine near Chorrol, I was over and done. Six days later I was in Belkarth, but that was still too close. That's where the dreams started. Hitched a ride with a westbound Dragonstar caravan. I got to drinking one night with a drover, who told me about a place in Evermore where they needed a good brewer, and a deserter could be safe. Got blind drunk, we did, and the hangover was worth it, because that night I didn't get the dream. And the same trick worked every night since then—until last night. Despite the rum, the dream came back. And it was bad. Gods, what am I going to do? It's bad enough I've become my own best customer.
Maybe ... skooma. Maybe that will help.