They promised us freedom. Freedom in exchange for ten long years of back-breaking labor. But I now know that we are all going to die in this place. Last night, while we slept, they took all the tools and the food. The entrance to the chamber is now solid rock and buzzes with an unearthly hum as if a swarm of wasps were inside.
We have been sealed in this horrible place with nothing but these rune-covered crates. There is a putrid moisture to them that bites at the back of your nostrils. I can't stare at the writing on them for too long. They burn the eyes and blur the vision. I don't think we should open them, but the others are starting to get hungry and hoping there is food inside. I know there isn't any. Every muscle in my body is telling me to get as far from those crates as possible. The runes marking them are the same as those we were ordered to carve into the walls of this chamber.
I believe this is a prison of some kind, built to hold whatever is slowly oozing out of those containers; and now we are trapped in here with it. I may have been on the losing side of the war, had to watch many of my comrades die on the battlefield. But this? This is no way for a man to die.