The war is never ending. It is a terrible Father whose children are Want and Rancor. It begets campaigns that last for months. The campaigns beget battles, some that last for hours and some that last for days. I no longer see the front lines with my own eyes, but I see the results. Our enemies grow stronger, and our wounds grow deeper. The wounded return to our tents with all manner of affliction, physical or magical. Some we can treat, others are hopeless with our manner of training.
We feel the ever constricting purse strings, as the soldiers' armory degrades and our medical supplies dwindle. The whole of the Imperium feels the cost of this accursed war. At the same time, the forces of our enemy seem to grow. Orcs and Goblinkind and Goliaths bolster their ranks, serving the dreaded Dynasty.
It has been nearly a year since I have seen Róisín and my darling Fionn, despite moving them to Nogvurot with the hopes of being closer. I am granted no leave from my duty. Letters come on occasion, as Róisín tells me of their days. She misses the loch, and says that her mother is ailing. I feel an emptiness growing inside of me. Perhaps it is the seed of despair. I do not want to miss my son's life. He is ten years now. May the hope I have preserve me and end this conflict soon, before the seed takes root.