Scouting Report

Three days in the ruins of a cliffside fort. I've practically moved in. Watching... waiting... recording movements of the Inquisition in the waning embers of my campfire. The scrublands are dotted with homesteads, so a wisp of dusk smoke goes unnoticed. Speaking of fire... some of the priests in the castle wield forge fire in their hands, like in the tall tales I heard as a child. I've seen them congregate in the shadow of crumbled walls, an unholy triumvirate, pacing and scheming. Considerably more formidable than the archers who have a bad habit of stacking in pairs. One long handspear could probably take them both out at once. My stomach rumbles. I wonder what provisions they are guarding. So far, nobody has traveled in or out from their post.