Dear Diary,

I'm probably going to die tomorrow. We're neck deep in dungeon and everyone else seems dedicated to press on. So hello to whomever finds this diary. I hope that you make it out of this forsaken cave alive. I didn't.

I'll likely be the the third to die. Strago appears to be a magnet for violence and is as robust as a rice-paper wall, and Tails is probably already dead. The others seem hopeful that he's going to recover somehow. He's been turned to stone (If you're reading this, he's the tabaxi statue you passed earlier). I'm pretty sure that being a rock isn't something you get over with a good night's sleep. 

I'll gladly wait the twenty-four hours that Mallow thinks it will take for it to wear off. Who knows, maybe they're right. Stranger things have happened. If nothing else it will give her some time to come to terms with losing Tails. 

That's assuming we even live through the night.

Yours in eternity,

Mauritius, soon to be Former Master of the Panthers Claw, Heirless Earl of Wending