//The following is posted on a very minor hobbyist website. The rest of the site is devoted to the diaries of those who had died. Rather understandably, it's the only one receiving regular updates.\\ One prefaces with how irate they are at the fact the application of writing they have occurred upon lacks any latent functions for indentation of paragraphs, but one must make do. One supposes that stories last longer then lives, even after they've survived vicious assault and nearly met their judgement day. That, one supposes, is why one would drive themselves to keep a log of their encounters. Thus far within the wild vast of the Fringe, one has met themselves with an independent court in both form of the Doom Lord at its head and the prince before him. It intrigues one, what brings a man such as him to undergo the process of uplift? He wishes breed good, yet takes upon a visage war-like. In the past, one only took steps towards because he could. And his son, frightful to one's form amongst the half-dead, if one can so be called such. Beyond that, one meets one in likeness- A knight, by name, Sir Oswald, apparently one whose chivalrous chains have yet meet rust. It brings one to hold some faint hope of an estate not so viciously taken over by savage treachery. But one knows how needless such good faith is, for one knows it will happen, if one does not continue their research, someone else will. And only one deserves to see it through. Only one.