Bucta

     It seems my current circumstances are not so bleak as once I had thought. This night, not only has the Remnant Order's list of allies grown longer, but Bucta has asked for my hand! Even as I wright, said hand trembles with excitement for this, and my face is nigh frozen in an adolescent grin. I shall recount now the details, that I may never forget them.

     I am glad to have retrieved you, my confidante, from the ashen remains of my home. It is a great comfort to again be presented the opportunity to record the happenings of my own personal war against the traitorous mass that name themselves "The Exiled". Their latest attack occurred but five days ere, when they burned my Manor to the ground, resulting in the death of my long-time servant, Gamlan the Elderly.

It seems as though I was wrong to not blame Lady Hughes for the actions of Osdegul, the Lieutenant of her Mercenaries, and now 'tis too late for me to save those she has murdered.  If only I had acted sooner, If I had arrested her, then Kerl might still be alive.

But I didn't

I was a fool.

I trusted her.

And when Hector Worthenine, leader of her band of mercenaries, attacked Sir Kerl and Milada outside the Prancing Pony, the doubts began to creep back in.  

     It is a strange thing, to write my thoughts here, in this journal. More so for the fact that all the pages before this detail cooking techniques written in Gamlan's hand, and I am sad to say that I did indeed swipe it from him. Yet, the events of the last few days have been far from ordinary, so I should think that pardons this theft and its oddity.

     My Lord, My Sire,

     The sun had already begun to set by the time Dieudonnae, Bucta, and Hector returned to the Hughes' Estate. The vanishing sun was casting long shadows across the cobbled stone streets, and the clouds in the sky bore a distinct hue of light purple and orange. Arriving at the archway that leads up to her Manor, Dieudonnae halted the company behind her. She ordered Hector to return to overseeing the Mercenary Outpost in Andrath that she had assigned him to.

     Walking into the Inn, Dieudonnae was unable to conceal her disdain for its occupants. For seated at the tables were rogues, thieves, drunkards, and even shadier folk. She took one of the hard, wooden chairs, and sat in a corner near enough to the fireplace. She knit her brows and frowned, obviously expecting somebody and disturbed for their nonattendance.