Preface, a warning from the author

Know this:By taking and reading this book, it is up to you to stop the undeadnightmare. Consider this book the torch. And if you are reading it,consider the torch passed. I wash my hands of it. Evil sorcerers, magicswords and other such nonsense. It's all on you now. Good luck,you poor fool.

Sincerely,

D. C.

The Legacy of the Rumiiruaor

The Lord of the Dead(pick whichever title you like better)

I left home that summer when I was just a boy and grief became my merriment and madness stole my joy

You like that? I wrote it sitting by a campfire one night when my fatherand I were running the back trail of the Rumiirua. I used to dream I'd be afamous bard one day. I dreamt that my father would be proud. Now he'sdead and there's no one left to care what I do.

I decided to call this The Legacy of the Rumiirua to keep it consistentwith Jebidiah's journal, even though I prefer The Lord of the Dead. JebidiahHalfwitch, curse that stupid bastard. If he had just hidden in his cellar likehis wife wanted they would all still be alive. More to the point, he wouldn'thave written his stupid journal and my family might also be alive. My fatherat least, is what I mean. My mother and sister were already gone when myfather found Jebidiah's book.

I imagine all kinds of people have written accounts of what happenedthat first night and every night since. Every day as well, for that matter.Everyone wants to leave behind some kind of legacy.

In that respect, Jebidiah's journal was no different than dozens, maybehundreds of other stories. Except Jebidiah's was the the one my fatherfound. Well, that and the fact that Jebidiah had stumbled across a small bitof the truth of where these monsters came from.

My father was a good man by the name of Sebastian Cain. He was afarmer like Jebidiah. And like Jebidiah, had lost all his family except me.He probably felt some sort of kinship to him. Some sympathy or pity.Or maybe just the need to succeed where Jebidiah had failed. In any case,Jebidiah's book set him on a path.

But I guess that comes a bit later. I should start with the night when thedead rose, like Jebidiah did. Except I'll try to stay much more on point.Lord, could that man ramble on.

My name is Deckard, youngest of two brothers. 14 years old the daythe dead came back. I had gone with my father into town for supplies thatday. Feed, and a bit of lumber for rebuilding fences. We had a farm not farfrom Windhelm and were traveling back home on horseback pulling ourcart around supper time when we saw the first of the dead. It was slowlystumbling along the side of the road by itself when we passed. We thoughthe was drunk. He moved to swipe at our horse, but was too far away and tooslow. He simply lurched towards it and fell over. It was only later that werealized with horror what he must have been. At the time we just laughed atthe stupid drunk. My father made some comment about pulling him off theroad, but as we looked back he was already getting up.

We traveled on and forgot about it. About an hour later we began topass a few homes and farms. The first few were totally silent, which didn'teven occur to me then but later I realized we should have heard cows,chickens, horses, something. Then our horses began to spook. Nothingalarming, but you could tell they caught wind of something they didn't like.

We came upon a homestead where, as we approached we could hearscreaming and crying. My father and I exchanged a nervous glance. Hestopped the horses and told me to wait with them while he went to see if hecould help with something. I watched him walk to the front door and knock.Then, when there was no answer, he walked around the side of the houseand out of my sight.

I sat and waited, concerned but not scared, as the horses fidgetednervously. I don't know how long. Then my father came sprinting aroundthe house in a mad panic. As a child, there are few things more terrifyingthan seeing a parent terrified. My father came sprinting around the cornerso fast he lost his footing and almost fell. He caught himself one-handedand kept right on running.

When he reached the horses, he jumped on and spurred the horseshard. We took off with a jolt as I asked my father repeatedly what hadhappened. He wouldn't answer, except to say we needed to get help.

We rode like that for a while in silence. Then we began to pass otherhomes and farms. We heard cries from some of them and saw two menstruggling in a field off in the distance. This went on for a few miles.Eventually my father looked at me with panic in his eyes. I asked againwhat was happening. He stopped the horses, jumped down and unhitchedthem from the cart. He climbed back on and told me to keep up.He said we were going to ride as fast as we could because we had to gethome now.

We rode for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably lessthan an hour. Along the way I began to understand that whatever washappening, it was happening everywhere. And that my mother and olderbrother were almost certainly in danger. It never occurred to me that wewould not make it home in time.

When we arrived my father once again told me to wait with the horses,which I did briefly. But when I heard his anguished cry from inside I ranas hard as I could. As I reached for the door, what I saw literally took thewind from me. My father was on his knees, kneeling in a pool of blood,holding what was left of my mother to his chest. Her stomach was just agreat empty hole with nothing in it. I could actually see her spine.

This was the womb where I had grown. Now a gaping hole with goreand scraps of flesh hanging out. That didn't occur to me till later. At themoment I was just in shock and not capable of coherent thought. The restof her seemed to be missing small pieces here and there. Bites, they lookedlike. My brother lay near by. He looked even worse. The sounds comingfrom my father were more horrifying than anything I had ever heard before.I've heard worse since, but not that night.

Months later, as I write this, looking back, it's all still crystal clear.The sight, every scrap of flesh. The blood everywhere. The smell, rottenmeat and shit. But mostly the sounds. My father wailed and wept anddrooled. Eventually he went into some kind of daze. Not quite passed outbut close.

I managed to pull him outside some time later. I was still numb, but Iunderstood that he was in worse shape than me at that time. I had to takecare of him. We slept up in the loft of our barn that night.

We burned them. This was some time the next day. My father cameback around the next morning. Around sunrise. He was himself again.We burned the bodies in silence. Neither one of us knew any prayers.What would the point have been anyhow?

My mother's name was Myriam. My brother was Jonas. There's nothingleft of them now except their names recorded here. There's really nothingleft of anything now.

That was how it began. My father found new strength after that and setout to kill as many of those things as he could. Back then we still didn't reallyunderstand what they were of course. But we traveled and we killed. Oh yes,we. My father taught me well. Skinny fourteen-year-old with a sword andmace. My books put away and the farm forgotten.

My father apparently had some previous combat experience he neverdiscussed. Because he led us to a cache of weapons near our farm, tooksome for himself and some for me. The first time I saw him dispatch agroup of the rotters, I was in awe. He told me I must learn. I was scared,but I grew accustomed to it as we all do eventually.

We started out, moving slowly west. I have no idea why he picked thatdirection. Maybe it was the magic of seeing your shadow in the morningrising to meet you. Maybe it was the glare of the sunset blinding you.Either way, it just seemed to feel right. Or natural.

From time to time we would meet up with other survivors and travel aways together. Picking off the rotters when we saw them.Sharing stories with them.

The stories were always the same, drenched in gore and misery andloss. If you've lived long enough to read this, then you know. You've facedyour share of loss and looked death in the face with blood still dripping fromwhatever weapons you've found or fashioned. That's what I'm counting on,of course. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

There's no need for a complete recounting of events. We camped, wekilled. On occasion we had just as much if not more trouble with othersurvivors than with the dead. Bad people exploiting a bad situation for theirown gain. You could see it in their eyes sometimes. Just looking for anopportunity. That's why we traveled alone mostly. It's very unsettling sharingcamp with people that seem to be sizing you up. To some, a man's life isworth less than the gear he's carrying.

We probably would have had even more trouble if we were travelingwith women. One time we came across a group of men that had women onchains and were leading them like dogs. They waved to us and asked if wewanted to barter. My father waved back and walked right into the middle oftheir group, all friendly like. Then he cut each of them down in mereseconds. It was over before I could fully comprehend what had happened.But the ground soaked up the blood quickly and soon they were just moredead scraps in a dead world.

He cut the women loose and gave them directions to the nearest village.They camped with us that night. My father didn't sleep at all that night as faras I know. I slept fitfully and each time I woke he was sitting guard. He sentthem on their way the next morning. I have no idea if they ever made it tothat village or not. Or what they found if they did.

We were both very fortunate and very lucky to have survived some ofthese encounters. I guess I still underestimate my father's skill with a sword.We trained each day and I was improving, but I would never have hisnatural grace.

Like I said, we traveled alone mostly. Slowly moving to the west.It didn't take too many uncomfortable encounters before we just avoidedother groups instinctively. The road is a lonely place, and it goes on muchlonger than we will.

I guess this brings me to the old broken temple in Whiterun. AndJebidiah's journal. This would be a few months after the initial Rising. Wefound the journal in front of the alter while seeking shelter from the rain onenight. It was lousy shelter. And considering everything since, I'd giveanything if we'd just ridden the storm out.

But no, we stopped. My father picked up the book and becamefascinated with it. I don't know why he picked it up to begin with.What did he think it was, a bible? What good would that do us?But he read it. Then he read it again. Then he had me read it. Then heread it again. Maybe fascinated was the wrong word. Maybe obsessedwould be better.

He told me it was now our responsibility to take the book to Jebidiah'ssister-in-law. Sarah. He talked about her like he knew her. He said thatpeople must know about the Rumiirua, the summoning, the Mage's guild. He thought the answer to their undoing was in that book. He was close toright, I guess. Funny how things work out.

Sarah lived in a village not far from Whiterun, and in the direction wewere heading anyhow. My father thought this was providence. He said wewere meant to find the journal and deliver it, and that with this information,the Rumiirua could be stopped. So we set out to find Sarah. That's whenthings really went to shit.

I suppose the first thing to tell you is that we didn't find her. Well,pieces of her, I guess, no way of knowing for sure. It was just over a daysjourney, and when we arrived we found almost everyone in the townslaughtered. There were three survivors, I don't recall their names. A man,his sister, and another woman I'm not sure either of them really knew.

They had survived the attack on their town by hiding in a cellar andbarring the door. You hear that Jebidiah, you stupid bastard? The cellar!They hid in the cellar and they survived!

We asked about Sarah Halfwitch, assuming she had taken herhusbands name, and were not disappointed. The man's sister told us wherewe could find the home. There was certainly no love for the Halfwitchesfrom her. She spit on the ground every time she spoke the name.Something about the great-grandmother and where the family name camefrom presumably.

We arrived at the home to find just what you'd expect, only slightlymore decayed than we were used to. She and whoever had been with her(three others, judging by the mess), had been dead a long time. But someoneelse had been here since they were slaughtered. The words SouthfringeSanctum had been written on the wall in their blood. My father and I staredat it for a long time, neither of us speaking. Finally he hefted his pack, slungit over his shoulder, gave me a look and walked out the door. After a minutelonger staring at the blood writing on the wall by myself, followed after him.There were no answers here. Only more questions.

The three strangers we met were nowhere to be seen. We left as quietlyas we had come. Moving to the south this time. My father must have feltsome kind of depression at not being able to give the journal to Sarah.Maybe he felt some kind of burden now that the journal was his and therewas no-one to pass it off to. I don't know, he never spoke of it. But he wouldread it each night at our camp fire. He would cling to it.

It occurred to me for the first time then that we never truly know ourfathers. The lives they lived, the men they were before we came along.There's so much I never knew about him. No sense dwelling on that Isuppose.

We moved to the south, through Riverwood, the Throat of the Worldlooming to the east. We passed through Helgen and made our way toSouthfringe Sanctum. It was a long journey, but at least we had a destination.We didn't see much in the way of the Rumiirua. But we saw the devastationeverywhere. Almost no signs of life.

I'll spare you the details of our journey south other than to tell you thecloser we got to Southfringe Sanctum, the more dread I began to feel. Who,after all, had written those words in blood on the wall? And why? And forwhom? These were questions that, the closer we traveled to our destination,the less I wanted to know the answers.

We finally arrived at Southfringe to find nothing. Nothing new anyhow.Waste and destruction. What appeared to be a hastily abandoned militarycamp just outside the cave system for which the sanctuary had been named.My father looked for some time into the open mouth of the cave but saidnothing. Then he set about making camp.

We made our camp on the scattered remains of the previous one andbuilt a fire. We were just turning in to sleep when we heard the voice.It was slow and wise, almost angelic.

“Sebastian Cain”, it said. “I have waited long for you. May I join youat your fire?”

My father was on his feet in an instant, sword already drawn. “Showyourself, witch”, he said looking around in all directions as if addressing thenight itself.

“I am no witch” the voice said. “And I mean you no harm.Will you put away your sword, or will you strike down the answers youseek?”

“How do you know my name?”, my father challenged.

“I know much, and I see much. I have watched you for some time,Sebastian, Champion of Tamriel”, the voice said. “I know you are pure ofheart. I know you would avenge your wife and child. And I know mostly,you would see this evil laid to rest, lest it consume everything. As it will ifleft unchecked”

“Then it was you who left the message in the Halfwitch home?”, myfather asked.

“It was indeed.”

My father did not sheath his sword, but he did lower it so that itpointed to the ground. “Come then”, he said. “Join us.”

She stepped out of the shadows like she was simply materializing intoview. And in just a few steps was at the fire. I had never seen anything likeher. She was beautiful and foreboding at the same time. She wore a strangeheaddress that seemed to merge with her clothing. It appeared to be a falcon.It was quite bizarre looking at her face and seeing the face of a bird just aboveit. The cloak was attached at her wrists and if she held her arms out it wouldappear that she had wings. Of course the whole ensemble was made offeathers.

“You may put away your sword too, Young Deckard” she said as sheturned to regard me.

I didn't even realize I had drawn it. I blushed as I lowered it. I hopedshe wouldn't see it by the dying firelight, but suspected she would knowanyhow.

“Fetch some more wood, boy” my father said.

Before I could even turn around to set about doing so, she simplywaved her hand over the fire and it sprang to life. “There's no need”, shesaid. “Come and sit.”

It struck me as odd that she was inviting us to our own fire, but weboth obeyed.

“My name”, she said, “is Teela-Na. I have come a great distance tofind you.”

“Can you stop these creatures?”, my father asked. No beating aroundthe bush for him. Straight to it.

“No, I can not”, she said. “But you can. And I can help you.”

“These creatures you call Rumiirua, they were created by an evil wizardsometimes known as Keldor.” My father visibly jolted at that name.

“Yes”, she said. “You know the name. From Jebidiah's journal, it isgood that you read it. It was the name he was born with, but it has been along time since he was known as Keldor on Eternia.”

“The traveler Russio met”, my father agreed. “That part of Jebidiah'sstory always seemed strange to me.”

“Keldor was admiring his own handiwork, I imagine”, she said.“Spreading fear as well as death.”

“How do you know him”, my father asked.

“He and I both come from a world called Eternia.” My father noddedat this as if it confirmed what he suspected. “You know most the storyalready from Jebidiah's book, what you need to know anyhow.”

“So this monster comes from your world, lays waste to ours, and youwon't lift a finger to help?” I drew in a deep breath at this outburst from myfather.

“I am the keeper and protector of a great power and a great secret onEternia. It is my duty and purpose in life”, she said. “And I channel some ofthat power to do what must be done. Outside the walls of Cast- of my home,I do not have access to any of those powers.”

“My father gestured toward to roaring fire as if to say “Then what is this shit?”

The mystical lady just smiled. “Such simple conjurer's tricks will donothing to break the spell Keldor has cast. And I am essentially powerlessin your world.”

My father seemed to accept this so she went on.

“Keldor found an ancient artifact we had thought was only a legend,called the Spellstone. He must have stolen it from the Temple of the Fire.He used it to animate the dead and set them on a warpath to the Mage'sGuild, killing everything in their path, and leaving death in their wake.Increasing their numbers as they go. Even now, the Mage's Guild is at war with them and they will not last long. Once the Mages are dead and theRumiirua have no quest, they will simply wander and kill until there isnothing left of Tamriel but a land of the dead. He may have also used andancient relic called the Dragon Pearl here as well, but there is nothing wecan do about that now.”

“Keldor has left the Spellstone here in your world,” she went on.“It is what keeps the Rumiirua animated. It must be destroyed.”

“This Spellstone of yours, who would create a magical relic to animatethe dead? And why?”, my father asked.

“It has many different powers which can be used for many things,both good and evil”, the sorceress replied. “It is very powerful, and caneven be used to control the elements and the the weather. As for who,legend tells of a race of people made entirely of fire who used the Spellstoneto build their subterranean home, Infernus, deep in the bowels of Eternia.But I am just repeating legend. Only Keldor truly knows.”

“Then tell us where it is and we shall destroy it”, my father said.

“It is not so simple,” she replied. “The Spellstone will have beenbonded with a guardian. The stone's essence, if you will, has merged withhim and will protect him. And as long as he lives, the Rumiirua will sweepacross your land like a plague.”

“This guardian, he has gone by many names. Sometimes Osiris,sometimes Khenti-Amentiu. He is also called Raab AlMout, which meansLord of the Dead. He will be essentially invincible on your world to yourweapons. But I can give you a weapon, a sword, that will break the magicprotecting him and destroy the Spellstone's curse”.

As she said this she produced a sword from underneath her featheredcloak and held it out to my father. I have no idea how she had hidden sucha thing under there.

“A Sword of Power?”, my father asked.

Teela-Na could not have recoiled more if he had slapped her.

“Ancients no!”, she said. “Such a thing could never be brought and lefthere. This is just a sword with a special enchantment I prepared beforeleaving my refuge. But it is sufficient to penetrate Keldor's spell.”

My father clearly had questions about this but kept them to himself, ashe reached out to take the sword.

“You will journey to Halldir's Cairn and there you will find him. I amsure he will be well guarded, and a spell must be spoken to activate theenchantment. You must speak this spell within range of both the sword youhold and Raab AlMout. Then strike him down. The magic of the Spellstonewill be broken. And once your task is complete the enchantment on yoursword will dissipate. The words you must speak are '

. Now, repeat it for me.”

My father did as told, then asked “You say the magic will dissipate,What will happen to the actual Spellstone? Will he be carrying it?”

“I imagine Keldor still holds the actual stone. Probably the magic willleave Raab AlMout when he dies and return to the stone.”

“So this Keldor... he could do this again? He will still have the magicof the stone even after all we do?” my father asked. “This is all for nothing?”

“He may indeed regain this power. But it will be our problem onEternia if he does. I have destroyed his means of traveling into this world tomake sure something like this does not happen here again. He will certainlyretaliate once he discovers what I have done. But it is well past time that wefaced him directly. We've underestimated him for far too long. Maybe outof fear, maybe from complacency. We are not ready for a foe of hismagnitude. We have had peace for too long. The Masters, they havebecome weak. The coming storm on my world is inevitable. But the fireswill be like a forge, and from the ashes will rise a hero worthy of the powersI protect. But none of that concerns you. The fate of your world, that is inyour hands now.”

My father looked at the sword he held with doubt and trepidation.“Is there nothing else you can do to help?”, he asked. “You may bepowerless here, but is there no other that could help us?”

This brought a strange look to her face. I could tell she wanted to saysomething else, but instead she said “There is one who I think will rise tothe challenge, a young prince not much older than you, Deckard. But it isnot his time yet. He is not yet ready to meet his destiny. He will be of nohelp to you.”

My father stood and said “Then I will do what must be done.”

“I knew you would”, she said. “I wish you luck and the power of theancients, brave Sebastian. You and anyone else who may carry that sword.”

“I wish you luck against Keldor”, my father replied, missing her ratherobscure comment. As I did too, at the time.

Then she turned and looked at me. A strange look, almost sad.“Safe journeys, young Deckard. You have a long road to travel.” And withthat she seemed to melt back into the shadows. My father looked down atthe sword in his hand as if to convince himself the meeting did in facthappen. He said we should get what rest we could and set out in the morning.

That is my tale. Or most of it I guess. The rest you can probablyimagine for yourself, considering I told you at the beginning my father wasdead. We set out the next morning. We made the long journey to Halldir'sCairn. We found Raab AlMout's camp and the Rumiirua that stayed behindas guards. Although why such a creature would need guards is beyond me.

They weren't paying much attention anyhow. People to eat and all that.My father found a way to sneak around them and confront Raab AlMoutdirectly. He told me to hide and watch while he slew Raab AlMout. Iargued, saying that we could attack him together but he would hear none of it. We only had one enchanted sword he said, and smiled.

I watched as he jumped down from the rock outcropping above his foetaking him by surprise. I'm certain he would have succeeded too, but thatlanding knocked some of the wind from him and he was unable topronounce the spell properly. When he struck what should have been akilling blow the sword actually bounced back as if he had struck stone.

Perfect end to the story right? Everything we had gone through and it ends like this? Well curse the gods of Tamriel. Those of Eternia also.My father was a good man and didn't deserve to die like he did.

Raab AlMout, after recovering from his shock at being attacked,reached and picked my father up by his neck, and held him there, choking,suspended in the air. The last thing he did was to turn his head somewhat to look at me. He threw the sword to me and it landed just before my feet.Then he mouthed the word “Run.”

Raab AlMout reached out with his other hand, placed it on top of myfather's skull and began to squeeze. His screams were indescribable. Thenwith a sickening crunch, blood and brain seemed to explode from betweenhis fingers as my father's mostly headless body fell to the ground. It washorrifying, but at least the screaming had stopped.

What did I do? What do you think? I picked up the sword and ran. I ran and I ran. And did I hear Raab AlMout laughing behind me? Or wasthat just my imagination? I know not. Eventually I collapsed. I don't knowhow long I ran or where to, but when I regained consciousness it was night and I was near a stream.

I drank from it and decided what to do next. What I decided was, I'dwrite this journal and hope someone else would find it and finish our quest.I'm done with this shit.

Walking dead, evil wizards, sorceresses with enchanted swords, curses,spells, and oh yeah, a creature that crushes skulls one-handed! To Oblivionwith this. I'm done. Tamriel can rot.

Unless you care to save it, that is. We'll get to that part soon.

I traveled by day, and wrote by night. Heading back North East as Itried to complete this journal. Shadow no longer rising to meet me in themorning, sunset no longer blinding me in the evening. I suppose,unconsciously, I was heading back home. I put no thought into it, I was justmoving. But it did give me time to write.

Eventually, I saw my old home ahead in the distance and knew, even as I moved toward it, that it was not my home. The closer I got the moreclearly I saw, it was nothing but a heap of broken images. And withoutslowing, I walked right past it, without any idea where I was heading.

Maybe that's not quite true. I had begun to think of a town known asTristram in a land called Sanctuary. I had heard talk of it from time to time,and figuring anywhere had to be better than Skyrim or anywhere else inTamriel, I began to think of leaving this land for good.

The only problem was what to do with this journal and sword. Icouldn't just give up and leave without at least trying to pass on thisinformation and weapon. But I had no idea what the right thing to dowould be.

My first thought was to pick a quiet settlement on the Eastern borderof Skyrim and hide the book like Jebidiah hid his. And hide the swordsomewhere close by with instruction on where to find it in the book.

It's almost certainly what I would have done, but then one evening as Iwas still wandering North of Windhelm, I met a man by the curious nameof Tony Mukaiaba. He had made camp with a few others from the land ofNexus for the night near Mount Anthor. Upon seeing me, invited me to joinhim at his fire. Tired and weary I accepted, glad to be part of his camp.

He was a kind hearted man who seemed to have not yet been beatendown by the Rumiirua. There was still hope left in him. Although heseemed comically unfocused and scattered in his thoughts.

He saw my journal as we sat by the fire and asked what I was writing.Having nothing else to discuss and not yet knowing what I would do withthe journal, I shared with him my story and told him of my plan to leaveit in the hopes someone would find it.

Upon hearing it, he immediately asked me to give it to him along withthe sword, saying he knew of a man who could find the right adventurer,and would give the journal to them disguised as a courier.

He said he would also hide the sword in the Sightless Pit where onlythe bravest and strongest might retrieve it. In this way, he said, it would besafe from falling into the wrong hands and only the truly worthy wouldreach it. Not just some random traveler who had taken an arrow to the knee.

To me it seemed a bit counter productive to hide something you want found in such an extreme location, but his reasoning seemed solid andhaving no better ideas, I referred to his judgment.

So there it is. My part in this story is over. And I place my trust inTony Mukaiaba and you, good reader (if this book ever finds your hands), to do what I could not. What my father could not. To end this nightmare.

I'm thinking of Tristram again. Thinking of traveling there now.Thinking of trying to live out the rest of my days away from all this madness.At the edge of Skyrim, near a place called Refugee's Rest, I will try to leave this land.

If you read my story, if you find the enchanted sword in the SightlessPit, you must go on to Halldir's Cairn and slay the monster that keeps the Rumiirua's curse alive.

And the chant, don't forget the chant.

I guess that's all. My story. It's much longer than I'd intended. WhenI started this I criticized Jebidiah for being too long winded, and here I've rambled on longer than he did. How's that for pathetic? I've rambled onlonger than Jebidiah Halfwit! I had good intentions, but you know whichroad is paved with those.

I do hope someone reads this. I hope you read it and have the courageto break the spell of the Rumiirua. I hope you find the sword and use it tokill Raab AlMout. I hope you succeed where we failed. I hope thatTeela-Na finds a way to stop Keldor. I hope that somewhere on Eternia,there exists someone who Has the Power to defeat him.

But most of all I hope to live the rest of my days in peace in Tristram.

Fare well, stranger. Good journey.

D.C.