Day Five-Seventy-Five: Bye, everybody

Hello.

I am not Dragomir.

But I believe I am qualified to write in this diary.

The trip into the jungle, a jungle I remember hazily at best, was meant to be a rescue operation. Thirty-something men went in; thirty-one men would come out. This has not happened, partially because we did not find our quarry last night.

It is also because one of our number was missing when we awoke this morning. The tracker, Grylock. He was snatched sometime in the night.

We did not know it at first. Indeed, we were barely aware that there was any group at all, as our small campsite was mired in mist. When I awoke to the sounds of panic I realized immediately that this haze was not natural, and despite our close proximity I struggled to find my companion. He seemed no happier to be trapped in fog than I.

Within minutes the remainder of our party was gathered in a tight knot, and Dragomir ordered that we remain as such. Without a tracker we could easily become separated and lost. I thought this a wise precaution, though ultimately fruitless - we were already lost. The goblin was the only one who had a good sense of how to return to the Dauphine.

Rain fell, light but oppressive. It made navigation through the white soup even more difficult. We did not move far, despite Dragomir's demands that we continue searching for his son, and by lunchtime we'd given up trying to travel altogether. The fog grew thicker and thicker.

Edmund disappeared. He'd been reciting a hearty ballad one minute; speaking of relieving himself the next; silent at the last.

In a blind panic, Dragomir rushed into the jungle, screaming for his son. He left his things behind, including this diary. He is gone.

One by one, they've all gone missing. The king. The bannerman. The baker. Even sitting in a tight knot as we were, we would turn to speak to one another... only to find our companion vanished.

I thought I might be immune from this. If my partner were to disappear, I, too, would go. I spend my time on his person, so there is almost no chance that I could not vansh with him. Yet that very thing happened when I dared to sneak in a quick nap, as I awoke atop this diary, alone and frightened.

The mist is gone. The jungle is as it once was: foreboding, but natural. Trees breathe, flowers pollinate the air, animals frollic cautiously. I believe I'm the only furred creature here that feels very much out of place.

I don't know what has happened. My brain is so poor, these days, and I fear it will only get worse the longer I am away from the collective. I can barely recall my own name, retaining only a single letter. Yet I do remember this jungle well enough to recall a place within it, a place I know is very nearby, a place full of things that might wish to do harm to living souls. They are the greedy dead.

That place is a house. A mansion. And I fear that I, and this diary, will have to go there to put this expedition back on track.

I'm too old for this shit.

Sincerely,

V the Rat