Incredible. There lived in this cave another prisoner besides me. I wanted to thank Khaz’goroth for giving me someone to converse with; it is possible that this man had seen the snobolds drag me into this blighted place earlier—hm, or maybe not. Perhaps he remained unconscious as well.
"I… I am Ultadan Stoneguard," I whispered, "Who are you? How long have you been captured?"
As I awaited the man’s response, I took the time to read to myself the previous journal entry about my comrades—about how they abandoned me. Throughout this entire journey, I had never actually taken the time to look over any of my writings. Embarrassing, really, especially for a historian. Perhaps a cursory glance of the recent page will offer some insight into my warped perspective of this entire adventure.
What…? I wrote this? No, it can’t be. What is this about Leingod working as an agent for the Scarlets? Even for me, this was a foolish conspiracy theory—did I really write this? “Should anyone find this journal, please bring it to the King of Stormwind,” I muttered aloud the crazed thesis statement from the previous entry. I do not believe this is my writing; I believe captivity is driving me truly insane—I wrote that I had been here for weeks, but that is illogical! Surely I would have died of thirst by then.
I lowered my voice to a growl, “Whoever you are, how long have I been here? Has it been weeks?”
The snobolds have been cultivating that damned bloodspore plant in this dark cave for so long that it has made it difficult for me to breathe. Wait— Perhaps that is what clouds my thinking? Perhaps that is why my handwriting had been reduced to mad scribbling. This theory must be verified.
Luckily enough, the dumb creatures had left my backpack in the pit with me, so I wasted no time in searching for my environmental notebook amongst the awkward clutter of crushed paper and scattered tools. After navigating through the different chapters, I found myself in the section marked “Flora.” Once I thumbed through the pages, I located the plant’s description and read it quietly:
"The Bloodspore plant: A red flower that originated in the Borean Tundra due to extreme pollination by the aptly-named Bloodspore moths; the spores themselves give off an acrid smell to most humanoids, but the local snobolds and magnataurs seem to find it pleasant. Studies suggest that the magnataurs force the snobolds to protect these moths thereby encouraging bloodspore growth, giving the Plains its reddish look. Snobolds carry crushed pieces of this plant within the receptacles on their heads, not unlike their kobold cousins who mirror this practice with candles.
ADDENDUM 1: The dominant allele (notated R) seems to cause the red phenotype in the plants. Pollination in Borean plants suggests true-breeding of homozygous dominant (RR) flora; as of yet, there are no recorded instances of the recessive (r) allele displaying itself in the plant, thereby implying that there are no heterozygous (Rr) or homozygous recessive (rr) plants in the Tundra.
ADDENDUM 2: The smell is known to cause hallucinations in humans based on reports from explorers in the Borean area. It is unknown if anything — a cure or a poison — can be manufactured from the plant.
ADDENDUM 3: Snobold migration patterns have brought the plant to both Dragonblight and the Storm Peaks. Hybridization of this plant in new areas may create new organisms, but this has not been examined yet.”
Of course that’s the reason.
The plants… they must have been causing me to hallucinate. My thoughts are blurred, my reasoning is poisoned. My accursed theories about my friends…. I only have enough room on this page to fit in a closing statement. I shall make it count.
Friends, forgive me. I am unstable. I have reached my limit in this unforgiving pit… this prison. Something here is causing me to lose faith in all of you, and I am truly sorry. Should I die, bury me with my work. No one should carry my burden, for it was too dangerous for any mortal to handle.
Interestingly enough, I paused and thought of the boy: Zackary Leingod. When we conversed in the temple, he stared at the winged beings on the wall. Why? His interpretation of the art had somehow inspired me; it was like watching someone discover a clue to a long forgotten mystery — a feeling that I knew all too well. I must admit, Zackary, there is much to be learned from you. I am sorry for ever doubting you.
As I finished writing, I glanced across the area of the pit to where the human corpse had been laying. My eyes widened. It… disappeared? Had it turned undead and found its way out? No, illogical, I would have noticed, and it surely would have killed me. It- It was not real then? Was that why I became so used to the smell of undeath—a smell that I conveniently cannot describe? A hallucination so palpable that it took me by the neck and forced me to slander my companions! This had to have been the work of the bloodspores; I’m sure of it. And yet… I wasn’t.
Off to kill someone else, demon?
