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My life has been very busy since that night, and thus updating my journals has come quite late, however the time is now to record the events that have unfolded.

My grandfather's fears are realised. With Bandos dead, the Bandosians enjoy the freedom to improve their mental state, to gather intelligence, but have not had the sensibility to do so in concert with morality or wisdom. The enemy we are facing is more, not less dangerous. Coordinated, strategic actions, ones that a human commander could have made, are those we are facing now, not the simple swarm tactics of the horde.

This does not mean I question Armadyl's decision to slay Bandos. Can you imagine the state of Gielinor if Bandos' Scarecrow was fully built and operational? The people would live in constant terror under a tyrant's thumb! However, in a strategic sense, we are at a disadvantage. The Bandosians outnumber us significantly, and the death of their leader has not triggered discord amongst them, it has inspired unity.

If we are to keep Gielinor safe, then we must neutralise these cells and their ability to communicate. I confess, I do not know how, and there is no honour in cloak and dagger intrigue, but a strong Bandosian resurgence is an existential threat to the lawful societies of our plane. We lost a lot of men at the Tower to keep it safe, and many more will have to be sent to die for this greater cause. I only hope my soul is viewed with mercy when the end comes, for this sort of butchery defies every code I've ever lived by, but it is for the greater good.

After my unfortunate incident with the demons that assailed Falador (a matter that seemed to delight the tabloids far more than is seemly), I found myself stricken and alone in the desert. Having had my wrist broken, I was in little condition to carry on, and I made it to the outskirts of Pollnivneach before I collapsed.

When I awoke, I was surrounded by the Caliph's soldiers, his impressive janissary cavalrymen. Having made it so far, I had hoped they would tender me help in so trying a time.

That was a misconception.

My personal effects were confiscated (Veritas, fortunately, has a recall charm) and I was slung over the back of one of their camels. I passed out again, and the next awakening came in the depths of one of the Kharid's infamous mining camps.

There are few words to describe the conditions of these camps. Foul, for sure, is amongst them. The conditions I and the other slaves were kept in were nothing less than inadequate to sustain even a goblin. Poor food, and the constant beatings of the guards were the major makeup of that time. Pushing the minecarts, and handing the crude tools they gave us, was a constant trial with my broken wrist, and it took considerable effort on my cousin Valence's part to rectify that.

When we weren't being worked to death, the slaves fought each other like animals. All to often, I was thrown into the ring and clubbed and scratched by them also. The experience could only be described as hell.

Valence got me out of there. He struck some sort of deal with the Caliph for my release. I was made an example of, to show how the acts of the perfidious, untrustworthy white heretic would be reacted to. I could not wish this fate on anyone, death would be preferable.

Of all my wounds, I chose to keep only one. The ankh-shaped brand on my chest. Icthlarin's symbol. I doubt he would have approved of this, so I'll keep it. For irony's sake.