I have lived for three centuries, and I am still surprised when I forget what has transpired.
This morning, as I worked down in my library, I went to one of my older journals in the hope of jogging my memory regarding a bit of trouble in 1913. When I took the journal for August out, I realized I had removed the wrong volume, and when I prepared to return it to the shelf, this photograph fell out.
At one time, Cross had enjoyed a brief and tempestuous relationship with a steel plant. Great trainloads of ore were brought in, and the plant employed a fair number of people from outlying towns. Unfortunately, the ore served as an attraction for some of our more dangerous residents.
Dwarves and mountain trolls crept out of their refuges in Gods’ Hollow and descended upon the plant. I and the Cross Militia were called out, and we fought for seven days. Fires ravaged the building, and a number of workers were slain and devoured by the creatures from the Hollow.
We tore down walls to get at the trolls and dug deep to ferret out the dwarves. I used my Colts and a Winchester; a silver-coated boar spear and weapons too dark to mention. I waded in the blood of the dead and used the flesh of the same to lure the trolls from their hiding places.
When we finished, the plant was destroyed, and at least thirty men had lost their lives. It was passed off as an industrial accident and the owners of the company paid the families of the dead a small restitution.
I remember now, burning the dead and killing the wounded from the Hollow.
It had been a long and terrible week.
And it is one I wished I could now forget.
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