July 17th, 1016
I almost cannot believe what happened this day were it not in front of my eyes. Our great Bryden’s Ferry, once a well-populated and growing town, has been reduced to a shadow of its former self. Not since the Lords’ War has this place been so ruined, so says old man Bjorskarn.
Earlier this morning, a cataclysmic rift of some sort opened up in the middle of town, swallowing whole most of the inhabitants, my wife Jeselle and my daughter Lenna included. Many may have survived through it, says Bjorskarn, but I myself have seen some people crushed asunder and split in twain as the rift swirled and raged about.
I have little hope for my family, however. We have no great ritualists or powerful wizards among us to help, and if the reports are true, the rest of Garresh has been ripped through by many more of these rifts. Maribor certainly will not lend us aid before the aid they lend themselves and their closest friends.
This leads me to worry about our protections. Most of the town guard was pulled through the rift as well as our town leaders. Chaos reigns now in our broken town. I’ve been attempting to keep some semblance of order with what remains of the guard and port security, but mostly we are concerned with the nearby Varghath barbarian tribe in the Wild Plains. Those bloodthirsty savages have attacked before, but we’ve always had the numbers and discipline to keep them at bay. Now I am not so sure.
Bjorskarn suggested that we send scouts to keep watch over their movements while we rebuild, but we cannot afford to lose more people. I mourn for the loss of my friends and family, and I will do what I can to bring them back, but I know that the odds of that are low. Instead I must redirect my efforts to protect those that we have.
Gods save us.