Halfling Freaking in a Dim Green Haze

Getting weaker. The bite of the Ghoul is healed, but still I am wracked by Fever. Kanak and Laithoren as well, and now, to my sorrow, Inae. Fra Veritan is tending us as...

The entry continues in another hand:
The halfling Kestrel Langstaff asked me, while I tended him, to be his amanuensis. I have written as much as I can, although I must tend the others also, and in his fever his attention strays and his voice fades. Nevertheless, he spake thus:

Who slew Lord...the neck and the knife. Why both? Moffrey. Was there another?

Tell Grayson. The thought of Death troubles me not, but were I turned to a foul and loathsome undead, would I not be rejected when I come to the gates of Sune's House? Tell Grayson. Make him swear the oath of blades. Vow by the salt and the stone, by the edge and hilt of a blooded knife. Let me not be turned. Put the dagger tip behind the collar bone, and a straight thrust down. Make him swear!

Dada, is Mama ever going to come home?

Remember the smoked cheddar, Fra? The hickory was over strong, a little, although still very fine it was. Next time, smoke it maybe over apple boughs.

No, take care of Inae. Lady Inae. Guard thou well the healer. I can wait.

Send my possessions to my brother Rook, in Baldur's Gate. Most particularly Mother's sword and dagger, and her Mandolin, and my armor. Tell Da that I am sorry, and he was right. And send I pray you something for Peony and Violet of ...that town. Harbor where we were. That last lovely sunny afternoon. Sune grant them each a red headed Son to hold, and a song for their pretty lips. Sunny, Sune, son, song.

This fever is like unto a fire shut up in my bones. Would that they were mithral. The silver-steel forged anew, it shines...

The sword is beautiful of itself. Holly never understood that. Grace, elegance, speed, and skill, enough to stake your life on, quick and brilliant.

Two thousand years, and more ago,
The elves came fleeing, bearing woe.
They sought to hide, from reaver bands,
Elereisolon, he watched the strands.

Look at the butterflies, swirling up, and now they burst like fireworks. Remember when the wizard came? He did likewise, but with magic. These butterflies are songs, and their magic is deep. Deep as the sky. And now they are stars, shining in the dark...whilst I kiss the Sky....

Mama?

 Written in the same new hand:

    It is late and I can barely see to write, but this must be written.

    The halfling is near unto his final hours, may Ilmater grant him respite from his sufferings.  He spake sense and not-sense as his mind wandered, tho' he was earnest in his desire to be destroyed ere he succumb to unlife. 

    Then he spake no more, and for some hours in the deep of night lay motionless and staring, such that I thought he had already been taken.

    Then it meseemed he was listening, mayhap to some distant music, though I heard nothing but the steady creak of this vessel's timbers.  He seemed to smile slightly, and then he spake thus:

    A phennaeth ehalaeth a ffraeth vnbyn,
    A phennaeth meib o veli dyrchafyssyn;
    A gwedy dyhed anhed alludd mehyn,
    A gwedy hoelyon ym deithic eu hafwyn.

    It is no language I have ever heard, though it meseems like to the lost speech of the Guoleyn in some respects, though I cannot fathom its meaning.  It is well that I had some of the Lady's chalk at hand; I have written it on her worktable, and I will ask of her whether she knows it, should she wake again.