Brutish and Incorrigible Molto,

I was ever so curious why you pulled my little cage up from the sands of Fargrave. I thought at first you were being unkind. That you would allow my blind Watchling eyes to blink free of sand only to let me sink once more. But now I see how clever you still are.

Sorrow's Friend is such a remarkable place. Dark tendrils ebb across the ground, their tips flicking at the ends of my tentacles. Your little mortals cannot see them, but they certainly feel them. A sense of dread. Foreboding. A kind of animal instinct warning them that something hungry is just around the corner.

This oppressive feeling is strongest in the patches of baleful darkness. What a word, baleful? It's perfect, truly. Heavy and nebulous. Looming. Enter its shadows and you're almost immediately crushed by its weight. There are ways to mediate this. I hear whispers of a lamp whose light can dampen this primordial fear. Of course, I have no need of it.

The baleful darkness is nothing compared to the weight of Fargrave's deserts. How prudent my incarceration turned out to be.

That's not to say I've forgiven you, Molto. But, this time outside my cage has been nice. I wonder if you expect me to return? I haven't quite decided for myself to be honest. After a century or two I grew fond of my little cage. Even now I miss its enveloping bars.

But this place? These shadows? I may not be able to see the stars in its sky, but I can feel them. I don't feel so alone here.

Have I mentioned the voice in the darkness? It repeats a lullaby I once heard a Breton sing while their town crumbled beneath a siege. Isn't that curious? Why echo a mortal song in my mind?

Scratch not at my door little fox,
Can't you see you're covered in pox.
You bark and you whine, it's all very sad,
But break in and I fear you'll make father mad.

Yours nevermore,
Hivisk the Blind