Crossed out. There is a part of my life that has been crossed out. I have finally found the time to record the events of the last several months, the events that have turned my world, and that of my former schoolmates, inside out.
I can’t remember anything before I arrived at the academy and, oddly enough, I have never questioned how or why I was there, or how any of my peers arrived either. Since our exodus from our school, I’m beginning to question it more and more, with my removing of the Academy tattoo from my skin, it seems as though a roadblock has been removed from my thoughts, allowing me to question what I formerly swallowed ignorantly. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself?
It would probably be most prudent if I explained how I, Thorn, came to be in the Captain’s Quarters of the dreaded Blakkenmark, plotting a coup, while a dragonborn, a killorean, and a catfolk clean the ichor of an ancient Titan from their blades next to the statue of a goliath. This is the story of a massacre’s survivors. This is the story of the Remnants.