A torn somewhat burnt and mostly illegible journal rests at the base of a massive tree in the lap of a skeleton of what looks to be the skull of a wolf and the body, mostly. Of a man. When picked up many of the pages fall from it onto the ground. You look upon a single passage.
It is the eighth day of the warm seasons of this wretched world,

Many of our soldiers have fallen to the humans. General Kirth barely holds the western flank. He hasn't reported in in days. We all worry, The prince paces the upper canopy near his fathers throne almost daily. To think it has come to this, War on several fronts. How long can our people be able to hold our position with so little hope. I write now within the trenches of the tree bases. Arrows fly like rain every hour. Our numbers dwindle. Can we kargawraithians truthfully stand against the might of the ruling empire..? Hope dwindles with every passing beat of the war drums as they grow steadily closer. I can hear them. Boom Boom Boom like the sounds of falling stones crashing upon the cavern floor. This may be my last moment. May the spirits protect us.........


The writing ends with a scribble of ink sliding down the paper.


Do you.

A) Look through more of the pages.
B) look around for more clues of the horrors witnessed.
c) continue on paying no heed to the forboding writing youve witnessed.