Each day my shame gets harder to bear, like an ox dragging a mountain to which a pebble is added every day. Of the skinweavers, I alone was chosen to accompany the party that my brethren sent through to the Dark One's realm. My task was to keep them alive. I am all that remains. The failure of my task is as clear as mountain spring. I cannot return to the gorajo. I will not inflict my shame upon my people. I will remain in this world, and do what I can to aid those strong or foolhardy enough to challenge the Dark One. This area is full of unstable passages to other worlds that bring unspeakable beings into this one. I seek to stem the flow of evil, to protect the ones from this world from the fate that befell my brethren. Perhaps they can succeed where I could not, and I can take some semblance of comfort from knowing I helped the ones who may one day avenge my fallen brethren, and lift even a little of this mountain of shame from my shoulders.