Day of the bite:
My fever takes me as I lay here on my bedroll, spread out over the stone floor of the dungeon.
It has been a day since I was bitten by the creature, the ghoul. I killed it. But my body is too hurt to walk with. I am drained. I am stuck down in the very dungeon that I have spent my entire childhood, my life, in.
Venom courses through my blood.
So, instead, I lay here and I scribble into my notes. It is all that I have.
I am tired.
One day later. I think:
It is as much my home as the city is, as my own four walls are — the dungeon.
For nearly sixteen years, I have come to this place almost daily to earn my bread and my keep.
I found my first sword in this dungeon. I had the best memories of my life here. When I earned my first money to buy a present for the first girl that I ever loved, it was in this dungeon. When she left me a week later and I spent days crying as if I were on the precipice of death, thinking that I would never recover from my broken heart, I was howling down in this dungeon.
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I didn’t just ‘work’ here. I lived here. Even if the core might disagree, this dungeon is my only home. I love it. I tell it as much as I lay here, feeling my eyes go dark.
It might just be the fever talking.
Something is here.
Ten days after the bite:
I have returned to pick up my journal that was left behind.
I am well again. I am alive.
Something came to me and nursed me back to health. A being.
— I can not explain it. It made me promise never to speak of what happened.
So I will not.
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