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Blacksmith's Note.

They asked me to build stronger chains, cages and bolts. None of us workers were told anything about the purpose of certain "renovations" either. The whole plague thing may have gotten to them. Are they desperately trying to protect us all by building stronger fortifications. I had an argument with the masons, we were piecing the bloody scraps of this stinking puzzle together ourselves: they want to hunt and catch something. A dragon. They must have lost their minds an eternity ago. And now? I never set foot outside the bastion. They hired me and led me here under the condition to not let anyone else come, to cut my ties, not that there were any for me anymore... To live a new life as a paid, well-fed blacksmith. It's something else, working for an order of knights. Something better than clubbing together any old rake or a set of horseshoes for a farmer. But this? I don't know who I'm working for anymore. Nor what purpose the things that leave my forge may serve for the lords in the halls above. Trapped on this island of plague and madness with an oath I swore, my days are long counted. These days I long for my old life, there's nothing bad in forging tools for villagers... now is there.

(Some faded scribblings on the back of the note seem to be directed to the blacksmith's apprentice:)

Remember to use up the remaining patches of fine cloth and bring the regular falcon shields with you. I will heat up the forge to make more escutcheons later in the day.

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