In the blood-soaked mud near the corpse of a hobgoblin scout lies a journal, the rain beginning to obscure his final entry…
I’m excited to complete this patrol, it’s cold and wet out. Then, it’s home to the family… work never ends, heh.
While the others mock me for my writing, I find it relaxing. My therapist said it was a good idea to write my thoughts down just before I killed him and took his position as therapist/torturer for the unit. I look forward to working with others in my new capacity going forward; unit cohesion is important, as is knowing what the abilities/anxieties/strengths of my fellows are, the better to keep this new promotion. The opportunity to torture and understand the mind is just icing on the human cake!
I think I’ll look for cake the nex-
the journal ends here
Arrrrghhh, I’m shot augh I’m dying why does this asshole keep blowing the horn what a shitty guy and what a way to go not utilizing proper punctuation and all i just wanted cake and to understand people-
… Okay, it ends there. The last bit was largely illegible, anyways. Who actually writes their dying sounds? Just weird, man.