Letter written in blood

This letter is found, along with a rusted key, in the cellar of the hut on the mainland east of Crane Cape. Outside the hut are a number of drowners.

Associated quest

 * The Sword, Famine and Perfidy

Journal entry

 * Brethren!


 * I write you now in my own blood, so you may now what fate befell me.


 * Following M’s orders, I traveled to Novigrad to resupply and sell our latest batch of fisstech. I left the men in my command on our boat along with the goods and the coin while I went to the hut on the beach to await WJ’s men. When they arrived, it was well after dark, and one of them bore a linen sack on his back. This sack did not contain the promised Novigrad crowns – instead, it held the heads of my men. The scoundrels demanded to know where the fisstech was, but I only told them about the case on the ship, which they will never open without the key. My choice to slip this into my arse shortly before they caught me proved wise, for they searched everywhere else. Though they interrogated me harshly, I withheld the truth. Instead I insisted one of the men they murdered on the ship was carrying the key, and my role was merely to negotiate. They wanted to kill me at once, but their captain had another idea at the last minute. They locked me in this becursed cage, to wither and die slowly from hunger and thirst.


 * The second day of my captivity I heard the screams of my captors. I know not whether I saw true or visions, but it seemed drowners had emerged from the water and were devouring the whoresons alive. Yet the problem remains that they (the whoresons, not the drowners) have so securely locked me in I see no means of escape…


 * I have sat here six days now. I stopped feeling hunger after the third, my guts having turned in on themselves. Now I dream only of drink. I’d give all the gold in the world for a sip of water. It could be rank and full of larvae, and still I would guzzle it greedily… I drank my own urine for the first few days, but I no longer produce any.


 * I have nothing left. Not even hope. The last thing keeping me sane is the task of writing this letter to you. Farewell.
 * Anselm

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