Balamor retrieved the strange torch from the ground and looked around the small cavern. There were two narrow exits, one to his left and another with a streak of blood and dirt trailing off to his right. He looked at Awkid and immediately noticed the pale bones of his right arm. Kneeling next to the dwarf he checked his stomach but the hole in Awkid’s bloodied tunic Balamor showed no wound. He slumped back in confusion and placed his torch on the ground. Staring at the ceiling he remembered the first time he spoke the word Raji; he could still see his wounds diminish before his eyes, like nothing ever happened. But this time was different, and Awkid’s curse was the reason for it. Balamor could only wonder the logic behind this power and why it would reject Awkid's limb. It was beyond the young Wisebeard’s knowledge. Slowly his eyes shut and his mind clouded with sunken esteem.
The days that passed all seemed like a blur and Balamor felt stuck in a trance of inconsiderable burden. His eyes slowly opened to study the fiery blue torch in his hand. Strange, yet common amongst the souvenirs he salvaged on his mission. The steady flame suggested its make was of high craft, but its age was mysterious. Balamor’s steel eyes shifted to Awkid’s arm, the dirt and bandage surrounding its bones was now dry from the fire. The consequences of such dark magic frightened him. He looked down at his bag, its contents were a mess, his map, his runes, his grandfather’s spellbook. They were all just vague questions with the same deep ties to the magic that cursed Awkid Anvorbeard. Questions with answers veiled in ancient history.
The torchlight remained undisturbed as he contemplated his journey and the meaning behind the runes. He opened his journal and flipped through its pages. The coarse parchment leaves were smudged with dirt and furled at the edges. His sketches and encounters were defined in shaky lead print. There were notes of texts from the old world to the accounts of lost roads traveled by men of myth and legend. All of them from centuries steeped in mystery and magic. These tales of blood and virtue ran parallel with the crusade against magic. Of course they were written by the famed scholars of Anstia and he expected the amount of truth in their words was lacking if not completely absent. He flipped past a few more pages of his journal— sketches covered the parchment and this time they're were the symbols he copied from the ambiguous text, Runes and Runewords. Only three inky signs which he had since his last night in the Raehl. The pages flipped between his fingers before the covers clapped shut in a plume of dust.