Our home village has burned down, and one of our own has gone missing.
For certain, this tragedy is not to be mistaken as fortune. Despite that, I am thankful for the many midnight trips I took to make my repeated copies of what I have written here. Of course, I wish none of this happened at all. Some twenty, thirty full volumes were in that collection. All copied, all protected. Still, that doesn't stop my heart from hurting when I see the few ash-crisped pages left.
We guess that an anarchist set fire to our homes while we were asleep. That's all we can wager, from the slime-covered footsteps leading around our camp.
Lexan took it surprisingly well. He appeared the kind of accepting that a man is after losing a bet. Frustrated and solemn, but not downtrodden. He nearly joked that he would build the very same house again. It only further proves that he deeply enjoys such a task.
Spourgit is… still distressed. Extremely distressed. She's been looking for hours, and so have we. Lexan and I have resolved that, since we did not find her body, she ran, and is thus safe. Still, Saira searches. I hope she does not completely drain herself from the stress and strain of worrying, like it has before. I thought she had learned, but
Old habits die hard, that I understand. And losing one of your own hits hard for one that… does not have many close. At least, we can be there for her. When others cannot.