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Herein reads the exploits of one Sir Siegfried of Boletaria.
Today, or yesterday, or some time long ago, I died and was cursed with the Mark. How I died is lost to me, and all I have left is my armour. Death feels hollow, but I can still move my body and feel the pangs of hunger. I no longer hunger for food or thirst for drink, however. This hunger is for something else, some essence of life now beyond my grasp. I remember having this, once upon a time, but not its sensation or feeling. All I know is that I must feed.
I write this entry from a small camp fire within the ruins of some ancient fortification. Undead prowl the battlements and courtyards, but they are not like me. Or rather, I am not yet like them. Perhaps, if I do not feed, I shall become like them? I must feed. But first, I shall collect my memories and explain my presence here.
My first feeling upon undeath was nothing. The decrepit, frigid stone cell I was in should have chilled me deep, but I found myself unagitated, although not in comfort. All of a sudden, a corpse was thrown in front of me from above, and I looked up. A knight stood above the cell, peering at me through his steel visor. He felt like a friend. It was good to see another of my kind. Searching the corpse for the meaning of this, I found a key which opened my cell. A friend indeed. The hallway outside was littered with the dead that had lost their minds. I slew them, and felt a little less hungry.
I passed through many stone hallways and rooms before finding myself in a courtyard. In the centre, there was an ebony sword affixed to a stone. I reached out to draw it. It burst into fire, and my flesh seemed to become seared. But I was uninjured, and for a little while, I didn't feel hungry.
Immediately beyond the courtyard was a large door leading into the main keep. Scraping, thumbing sounds resounded within, but I found nothing inside. I headed towards the far side door, but a daemon descended from the sky to do battle. It was the size of a small house, and bore a mace that could crack a castle wall. Being unarmed, I was forced to flee into a side hall and back into a dungeon complex. There, I slew many more of the mindless dead and found for myself some armaments. I still have them, although the sword is too short-bladed and unfit for thrusting. It is uncomfortable in my hand. I shall require a better sword.
Passing through more hallways, I stumbled upon the knight who had helped me previously. Undeath was taking its final toll on him, and he passed some gifts to me. In his last sane moment, he skewered himself upon his own sword, locking him to the rubble he was resting upon. Even in undeath and insanity, he shall be not threat to anyone now.
Eventually, I found myself atop a rear entrance to the main keep. The daemon was below, waiting for me. It did not expect me to reverse the fortunes; I leapt from my elevated position and drove my sword into its head, spilling gallons of vile blood. Pulling with brutality, I ripped my sword from its skull, but still it refused to die. Even in its weakened state, the daemon fought me to within an inch of my unlife. I cut its legs and it crumpled, and I could finally finish the beast. It is now dead, and facing God's punishment.
I walked out of the keep by the largest door and found myself at the end of a rocky outcrop. Flapping wings were my only warning as an enormous raven claimed me, and I thought I was dead. Writing this now, I laugh.
It dropped me on a rocky platform some distance away. There are people there, and they are friendly, even though I am dead. They gave me clues about my hunger. I might be able to reverse the Mark, although that requires the slaying of many daemons. Now I sit within the fortifications above the platform, surrounded by the dead who have lost their minds.
I will not lose my mind, but I must feed.