The candle is burning low. Water drips down from the roof, the final remnant of a powerful downfall. But my quill continues to scratch the paper with the same sharp, constant noise that has kept me company for an hour already.

In the near distance, the loud cries of a woman herald childbirth. Whether the result is mired in joy or sorrow depends solely on luck, and fate. But I continue to write, all the same.

I can imagine it still. The dark clouds approaching me at a speed that appears still, yet closes in without seeming to move. Like howling arrows, pelting rain fell and cut through leaf and cloth alike. But what I remember best is what the mountain looked like.

As fathomless and majestic as the storm clouds had appeared, when the water of heaven had blown away all that stood tall, tearing down trees, knocking down the weaker houses, and hurling unwary animals at speeds fast enough to make them end up splattered and broken, one thing stood still. Unmoving. Stubborn. Strong. Beautiful.

But I cannot idle too long on my own fantasies. Too much must be written. And I must write it.

Three of my clan will hunt no more. And two will never breathe again. Most of the stores have perished, and what has remained safe is close to spoiling without proper care. We can not ask another clan for aid, as we are the only living in this valley.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Though perhaps that is a good thing, as others would likely have suffered the same losses as us. Resources for new homes must be collected, and prey gathered. This storm has wiped out the local ecosystem, so we will need to move.

The cries of an infant ring out, not accompanied by wailing. Perhaps that is a good sign. Though like the situation we are currently in, even though the storm is past...

I must write. And record. Because I am afraid nothing else will be left behind of us otherwise. I am old. Too old. I cannot hunt as I used to, nor can I protect the clan as I should. I am frail. I will pass on soon, and then what will happen?

But there is no use in contemplating death. I sense I have a little longer left. Though being unable to help my clan weighs heavily on my conscience. What use is a weak old man?

Perhaps that is why I write. Why I record what has been done. Because I can not bear to watch it pass without having done something. Regardless, I will continue to write. For as long as my fingers can grasp this quill.

Not enough is written of the Dhugrin, the Dwarves. Perhaps that is why I write.

Or perhaps I'm just being dramatic.