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A smaller band than was expected joined with me departing Dawnstar. Apparently the local word is that this island is unfit for any sort of habitation, owing to spirits and ill-favored weather. No matter, more space for the loyal few, though the building of the citadel may prove to be time consuming.
This first winter was difficult, with the abandonment of many men and women to return to their families on the mainland. A culling of the herd -- let us lose the faithless, the weak, and those who lack the fortitude to persevere.
The stories of ghosts inhabiting this place are just stories. They frighten away more of those who would weep like children when their shadows flicker in the firelight. Me and my closest remain, ever vigilant.
I find little need for additional company. The cold and winds seem to finally have driven off the last of those who would fancy themselves to be my compatriots. I have no need of their indolence. Let those who look upon Japhet's Fortress be afraid and know the great man who conquered the accursed island.
Now even my more trusted go-betweens have stopped making their regular deliveries of food and supplies to the fortress. I must now become self-sufficient and farm the land, as my father did.
The rocks are unyielding, and my grain grows short. But I will not abandon my greatest creation. I will weather the storm and fend off the ghosts and bite into the wind such that all might sing songs of my great settlement.
I'm starting to think the stories of the ghosts may have a kernel of truth to them. Or else it's simply the hunger talking.
The ghosts are speaking to me now, the more of this icemoss that I eat, the more clearly I can hear them. They are telling me it was a mistake to come here, as if I didn't already know that.
OH GODS HELP ME