An old journal, clearly much beloved:
I weep at what the armies have done. Ditches scar the landscape. There's fire everywhere; all around is the smell of bitter smoke and spilled blood. I remember coming here as a boy. It was late summer and the plains were bright and golden. The earth was warm and felt like home.
All that's gone.
My mother said my father was from these parts. She never told anyone but me that he was an elf. Maybe part of me, the elf-blooded part, feels what the Dalish felt for centuries. This is my home; I would give anything to preserve it.
I'll go now with the others, but when the war is over. I will return. It will be beautiful again.