Our strider is down and we're waiting for help from Freemark. Technical difficulty. It has been a long journey, mainly because Harvold won't stop blathering about the Anthem of Creation. He somehow believes it's his job to educate me on the Anthem, the Shapers, the Great Wheel and all that. It's such gazick crap. Until I see—or hear—proof that the Anthem exists, I'm not joining any choir. I swear, if Harvold brings it up again, I will strangle him.

— Diary. Author unknown.

My Icetide wish is for CLAnonymous to update their fic. It's been nearly a month!

— Sentinel Chanda Tran

Flare Party in the social space tomorrow night. Don't tell you-know-who.

—Anonymous note passed around Fort Tarsis

"A pile of rocks that can hunt. That's not really the worst of it, mind—they don't act like proper animals going about their business. These aren't those nervous, "as likely to run off when they see you as look at you" types. No, these monsters have a tick of something vile in 'em. Whatever goes on in their damn rotted brains is stuck on making life miserable for everyone. A ragged bit of creation, if you ask me."

—Anonymous

"My light is failing. A cave-in has cut off my escape. Endless scratching at the stone is the only sound in this cold grave. They search for a way in."

—Author Unknown

"I have no desire to see the mother of these monsters. The thought alone ensures irrational dread in darkened rooms and grey nights of restless worry."

—Anonymous