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Round 1: Framling vs Volyu (minus Volyu)
Larlarconsecutive normal punchesModerator, ClubPAmod
Day 4: We have arrived at the fabled Cave of Madness, tasked by the noble King Larauld to vanquish the mysterious Framitaur and claim its riches for the the Entropian Kingdom. We have established a base just inside the mouth of the cave. The flickering light of our camp's fire reveals nought but twisting passages, branching and winding into darkness. For now, weary from days of travel, we rest.
Day 9: Alistair, one of our guides, went missing yesterday, becoming lost in these damned tunnels. Half a dozen men ventured forth to find him, but to no avail. The walls of this bedeviled place seem to absorb all sound. Shouts and calls from more then three bends or forks seem to be swallowed up. This forced us to limit our search for poor Alistair, for fear of losing more party members.
Day 12: While supplies remain abundant, we have worryingly seen no sign of the dreaded Framitaur. In fact, there has been no sign of any life within the confines of this forsaken cavern. Not even the hardiest vermin could subsist on the dust that carpets the cavern floor. No lichens grow on these featureless gray walls.
Day 20: After more than a fortnight's search, we at last perceived our first sign of the presence of the terrifying beast rumored to haunt this foul place. Last night, as most of our party slept, a blood-chilling call sounded through the cave, waking everyone. Our guards saw only gray walls and pitch black tunnels, but with these tunnels' propensity for deadening all sound, I fear the beast must have been worryingly close indeed.
Day 22: The last of our casks of whiskey has been tapped. I fear our expedition may have no choice but to turn back. I have sent scouts back to ensure our path to the surface is clear.
Day 25: Our supplies are dangerously low. More worryingly, our scouts have returned to us, out of the tunnels we had believed led further into cave. I have ordered our full withdrawal to commence with all haste.
Day 33: Supplies have run out. Discipline is breaking down, and there has been no definite progress in our withdrawal. I hesitate to put it down in words, but I must confess that despite the best efforts of our guides and trackers, we are truly lost.
Day 37: I became aware of plans of mutiny by Sylveste, one of my most trusted lieutenants, and I regrettably had no choice but to execute him to maintain order. I fear that if we do not soon reach the surface, discipline will break down entirely, and none of us will emerge alive.
Day 44: The expedition is now an incontrovertible failure, and I can but hope I will somehow escape this foul place with my wits intact. To my great sorrow, I learned that Broussard, not Sylveste, had been heading the conspiracy against me. My execution of Sylveste served only to steel the resolve of Broussard and his conspirators. Last night, they made an attempt on my life and I was forced to flee. In the commotion, I was struck in the ankle, and my progress has been slowed. I have every reason to believe, however, that my former party will make no attempt to follow me, wishing only to escape themselves.
Day 6: Fuck that monster, I'm gon' kick his ASS!
Day 50: I stumbled upon a most worrying artifact today, in the form of a torn-out page from my own journal. The page is dated from near the beginning of the expedition, but I have no recollection of writing it. It is in my own handwriting, but is of dramatically uncharacteristic tone. The worrying implications of this artifact have been turning in my head ever since. Did I actually write this entry so long ago? If so, how did I stumble upon it now? Could these infernal tunnels be rearranging themselves around me? Why the drastically different tone? Could this be simply a sign of some form of madness, whether recent, or long-lived? Has this foul place driven me mad, or did madness drive me here?
Day 62: I found Alistair, or at least his mortal remains. One of his arms was missing, and his remaining hand was clutching the severed leg of someone unknown, but at this point, neither of these incomprehensibilities worries me. At least, neither worries me as much as the unthinkable thing I must do now. I can only try to reassure myself that I have no choice, and that my actions will ensure that Alistair's death shall not be entirely in vain.
Day 69: Despite my best efforts at rationing, I am now, again, out of food. I have given up hope of escaping and am now staggering onward out of a lack of any other possible options.
Day F$: gnawing stomach. gnawing on bones. throat so dry. want death why wont death come please death take m please
Dy8:8:: light see light so bright blinding light crawling to light please let me out of this place please beautiful light