Out of the Frying Pan, into the Fire - The Witcher 3

Soldiers have come. Whether ours or there's - don't know. Don't really matter anymore. I heard them riding down the road. Hid. Nailed the door shut. Maybe they won't get in.

They spent the whole night killing and raping. I saw it all through the cracks in the wall. Bit my finger to the bone trying to keep from screaming. Don't know if anyone else managed to hide. Maybe not. I saw them drag Antosh out. He had hid in the fields, next to the haystack where he'd stashed his things. They flailed him.

They've heard me. Know I'm in here. I didn't open up when they pounded. I thought they'd burn me out, just like they did those who hid in the granary. Then they got on their horses, rode off. Quiet, now. All I can hear's the flies circling the bodies.

I tried to knock open the door. Open the window. Dig myself out. Make a hole in the wall or the roof. Nothing doing.

I heard people who came to rob corpses. Don't know of what, all's left is soiled shirts and foot wrappings. I called for help. They didn't answer. Only ones who'll come now are the ghouls.

Sadly, the author of these notes, whoever he was, had quite accurately predicted his own future. Since his writing stated everyone but he had died, their was no heir left alive to collect the man's fortune. Geralt thus took it for himself. After all, he reasoned, he would make better use of it than the ghouls.

While passing through a burned-down village, Geralt came across a body. After indulging in his bizarre habit of searching every rotting corpse that crosses his path, he found the departed individual had been carrying a set of notes written in a very unsteady hand. Figuring these might be the dying man's last words, Geralt decided to read them closely…