Ledger Note of Cargo Run #318

The page was filed in haste, with the ink of the penmanship uneven.

“Three days past, I led the caravan along the southern bend toward Ragne under the cover of night. The mist at that time should be thick as wool by then, but instead the road lay bare to sight. The travelers among me whispered it was a blessing.

I disagree.

At first, only silence weighed on us. No birdsong nor the muttering of insects.

Then I caught sight of shapes, like scaffolds of bone, standing crooked where the fog had pulled away at the edges of the path.

We lost two gyrdstrog at once. No sound, no blood. Their yokes were made empty. My men swear they saw shades dragging them. I write this not for poetry but for accounting: we have lost half our load to terror as no one dares approach the village markets now with these creatures lurking.

If Ragne’s people are still within, they may well starve before the harvest routes dare come again.”

Unsigned merchant’s hand, margins stained with spilled resin of a blue color.