Lost Log of a Minikin

Since the advent of the Troubling Times, the fog either grows thinner, or we are able to adapt to it. While it is in our nature to survive, it hasn't been without a cost... our breathing grows weak and our ankles and feet atrophy... we know this isn't how it will end, but I have honestly never wished for death's embrace more than I have now.

Joining a pack and being unable to pull my weight from my poor health affects my place in the hierarchy and therefore, I am shown aggression and animosity from the other members. This is sowing resentment, and I need a way out of here, I need a way to make it out of this alive-

(The journal passage ends here, there is some dried blood in a singular drop in the corner of the page.)