“Last call before we head out!” bellowed the expedition leader.

Everything is the last thing on our mission. This particular beast we are hunting had been terrorizing the land for countless generations. Not even our oldest elders could remember a time when it didn't exist. And today, we are going to put an end to it. We are going to finally bring peace to this land. We are this land's last hope. I’m writing this before embarking and leaving it in our camp in case we never come back.

And if we do come back, I’ll know where to find it.

If we do manage to succeed, it’s possible that people reading this story may have no idea what beast I’m writing about. It’s hard to explain exactly what it is, but I’ll do my best.

This beast is so incredibly dreadful and frightening, we don’t even have a proper name for it. Maybe after it’s vanquished, we’ll come up with a name, but right now, we call it the Fear. No one knows what it looks like, except survivors of its attacks, but it’s not like they had much to share. My uncle was a survivor. Before the attack, he was one of the most stubborn and forceful people I knew. He knew what he wanted and he didn’t let anything stand in his way. After the attack, he became a sobbing, muttering wreck. The Fear had completely taken over his mind.

Because of this, the expedition leader prepared a pre-mission party whose main attraction was bottles of whisky. His explanation was simple: it was liquid courage, or at least as close as we could get. If we all got drunk before the mission, the Fear would have a harder time affecting us. Some of us drank more than we should have, but in the end, if it helps us win, I’ll take every advantage I can get.

Right now, I’m looking around at all the people that agreed to take on this suicide mission. There’s only five of us, but we were the most elite warriors in the land. The leader, Bran, is a tactical genius who fires his longbow with pinpoint accuracy. Siegstolz can break rocks with his bare hands and drank the most whisky out of all of us. Harold is singing to his hammer Wilma, whose broad head and solid weight have broken both beast and human bones many times over. Aisling is a fierce berserker wielding a vicious axe in each hand. Many men have underestimated her because of her gender, but she’s proved them wrong every time. She also drank copious amounts of whisky trying to outdo Siegstolz.

I am Linden. Though I am also a woman, I have vastly different talents. Since childhood, I have studied the art of death. No matter the creature, I know exactly where to stick my dagger. Many assassins employ poison, but to me, poison is a coward’s tool. Even against monsters, I still find it dishonorable. Bran was wary about employing me because of my apparent frailty, but I let my trophies speak for themselves. I take an ear from everything that I kill, even huge monsters like the one we were about to face.

The massive wall of fog in front of us beckons us to our doom, but I am not afraid. We might not live to see another sunrise, but I am not afraid. Being afraid means admitting defeat, and I never admit defeat.

Bran is urging me to put down my pen and book and join the rest of the group. I must leave this journal here, but hopefully, I will be back for it. We chose our paths, and we must stick to them. Our land can not take any more suffering...and the money I'll get doesn't hurt, either.