|A leather journal|
Gods curse this sandstorm! We were forced to take refuge before the wind scoured the skin from our faces. There is something in the storm. Beasts. We hear the skittering of their paws outside the ruins and their howls mingled with the screaming winds. The men are scared. I've put them to work crafting rudimentary weapons and torches from the loose stones and rough plants that dot this place. I've yet to meet a beast that liked fire, or the bite of the axe.