The following journal entry is longer, but so badly misspelled and blotted with windblown dust, that a transcript follows:
That gawl! That barstid! Sittin’ ‘ere, freezin’ me arse off, waitin’…waitin’ on ‘im. Searchin’. Ain’t fair, it is, that he spouts off about me bein’ a soldier and all and then I’m forced to act like one. And it’s gettin’ frustrating, because I ain’t heard much back from the bosses (Is they me bosses? I don’t recall takin’ no oaths but I s’pose I’m doin’ their work), and I dunno what else I can do. Because bugger it, ‘e ain’t a bad sort, and no one deserves to get sent back like that.
Magic and such…feh. I sent that Jander bloke some stuff, fer all I know it might work. An’ I been scoutin’ on other such places o’ magic ’round ‘ere, ’cause wot I did ‘ear issat all this time shite is spread out in weird spots like that. I figgers that’ll be where e’ll show up, if ‘e ain’t rescued by someone else. Marked ’em down too, all proper soldier like, an’ retracin’ me steps an–
(The section here is nearly obliterated due to…water droplets?)
‘ang it all. I’m useless, an’ I ‘ate bein’ useless. Can’t imagine ‘ow that poor bugger must be thinkin’, stuck where ‘e is, not knowin’ ‘ow to get back, lest ‘e’s got more knowledge than me ’bout magery and such. Prolly does, the ol’ barstid. Not that ‘e’d admit it, ne’er known a bloke to be ‘alf so modest as ‘im, with ‘im being so gloomy all tha time. Bugger can’t see e’s WELL fit!
And now I’m gonna go back out there and do me thing all over again. ‘e may be a barstid, an’ it might not do any good, but that ain’t gonna mean I ain’t gotta try.