We've arrived at Rookmore. Finally, out of the Shrouded Lands. It was a difficult journey from the mountains. I'd hoped for a field hospital here... but there's almost nothing. I must take matters into my own hands, as I did at the front. I'll set up camp in Woodgard.

A small caravan of refugees arrived today from the Kindlewastes. A long journey. I've never been good with strangers, but there was no time to tattle. I dove into work, dressing the wounds. A battle for life and death, even now. Sadly, some lost. We put them to rest in the crypt below. May the northern winds guide them to the afterlife. There's one who might live despite it all. A deep leg wound — but maybe not too far gone. The wounded, Salim, smiles a lot. Says he owes me his life... just luck, I think.

The new arrivals have wasted no time breaking ground, building something. Their determination is... fanatical. A Flame Sanctum, Salim says. Some nights I've lingered near the caravan. Salim insists. Over the fire, they talk of their home, the sands, and the creeping ruin. So much sorrow. Salim says I am like a daffodil, the first sign of spring. He is a fool... though a sweet one.

Please hold your tears and sit by my side. Let us gaze over the valley, as we've done before. The setting sun and falling leaves are like our brief and precious time. Let us share these hours before they're swept away by the Shroud. Come rest your head on my shoulder, my daffodil. Yours forever, Salim