ROLEPLAY

They found the perfect place to set up camp when it was already dark. It was a large piece of bark, luckily forming a small hut. Eeri took out what was left of the dried meat and put it between Azazor and herself. They had walked for hours. They had been right to stay on guard: a few kirostas did find their way to the plateau, and seemed to be patrolling the area in groups. The Fyros redoubled their caution. Two of them would not have been the match for several kirostas, but a group was easier to avoid than a few scattered, independent individuals. It took them several hours, however, to get around the area and far enough away.

Still panting, they pecked at the meat, piece by piece, chewing slowly. The less there is to eat, the more you have to make your body believe that you are eating. Eeri began to speak in in hushed tones, so as to stay on the lookout for the slightest noise in the surroundings.

"Any idea where we are, dey?"
"More or less east of Coriolis. We should have gone west, but those damn kirostas…"
"I think we did well to stay very far away. Some of the kirostas back home can spot us from a long way away… So here, who knows."
"I'm not saying we should have gone near them."

Eeri swallowed a bite and swallowed loudly.

"Anyway, the east is our road."
"What are you talking about?"

Eeri took another piece of meat and began to chew it. She went to spit out a piece of rind, but changed her mind and chewed harder. Food was scarce. Azazor continued.

"We go west, we find a way to get off that damn ridge into the desert of the Oflovak Road."
"dey. We continue east, towards Fyre."
"BUT YOU ARE COMPLETELY INSA…"
"But shhhh!! We said no noise!"

Azazor, resumed whispering in a strangled voice, his eyes exorbited:
"You're completely insane… It's at least three months away…"
"So, have you ever been that close to Fyre? Me dey."
"And then, we have nothing to eat!"
"We'll find some."
"Eeri… We found an amber cube that seems to speak about Coriolis! I can't risk losing it. And then, there is probably nothing left, like here."
"I am ready to run the risk. I will go alone, if you don't keep up with me."

Azazor answer nothing. He knew that if Eeri had an idea in mind, it would be difficult to convince her to change it.

"We'll talk about it when it's light," he grumbled.
"I'll keep watch for a few hours, get some sleep," Eeri replied.

Eeri, on the lookout for the slightest noise, got out of the bark nest in which the fyros was already snoring. In the darkness, his gaze wandered eastward, ever further from the New Lands. Fyre, the land of her ancestors, the city whose name made the dreams of Pyr's children vibrate, when she was a child. A city so big, so far away. Probably destroyed, in whole or in part, by now. She backed up against a small bush, balanced her pike on her lap and closed her eyes. It was decided, as soon as the light of day appeared, she would leave for Fyre. With or without Azazor.

"Eeri!!!"

The Fyros was shouting his head off, but continued to pant for a few hundred yards, before screaming again:

"Eeri!!! Damn you, you filthy bodoc-head!!"

Azazor stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He had been following her tracks for days, and now he thought he saw her in the distance. She was moving fast, much faster than when they were together.
As night fell, he thought of starting a fire. The light in the night might warn the Fyrossa that he was on her heels, and she would probably wait for him, or so he hoped. Then again, the light from a fire could attract predators. Too risky, especially when alone.

"What an idea to let her go alone," he grumbled as he set off again. He could still walk at least two hours before nightfall, he had no time to waste. If only he had made the decision earlier to finally leave for Fyre… But was this a good decision? He had an amber cube, a cube that might hold a great truth about the Fire of Coriolis. It was irresponsible to take that risk, he knew. But he couldn't bring himself to let Eeri discover Fyre alone. And then… she was Uzykos' mother. His son. They had left together, they would return together.

Azazor moved forward as long as he could see where he was stepping, more and more cautiously as the night fell. When it was almost dark, he noticed a crevice in the sawdust and sat down there, axe in hand. Since they had left, they had become accustomed to the same ritual at nightfall, when they had to rest or stop in an unknown and unprotected place. Sitting down. For a moment, total silence, weapons in hand, and concentrate on the sounds, trying to imagine their distance and position in the dark. A brief isolated noise was never a bad sign, it could always be a crack of the bark. Rapid footsteps, more or less close, were often signs of wildlife around, usually herbivores, like themselves on the lookout for predators. Here, herbivores were few, so you had to concentrate rather on possible predators. In general, muffled footsteps on the bark, approaching or describing a circle around them. If after long minutes the area remained silent, they could begin to relax. For predators never wait long before signaling their presence and attacking.

When all seemed silent, he could finally close his eyes, exhausted.

***

He woke up in the same position at dawn and looked around. Everything looked different from what he had been able to watch in the dark before laying for sleep. He had not thought he had fallen asleep so close to the precipice, and now realized that only a few meters lay between him and the ravine. He stood up, stretched, and looked down at the spectacle of the desert below, once again. The desert of his ancestors, still teeming with kitins, a veritable army held back by this montain. The swarm he had experienced in the New Lands was nothing compared to the amount of kitins he could see here, and the small patch of desert he could see from here suggested him that there must be millions of them in this desert alone, if not more. Probably a number that no Fyros could ever imagine.

Quickly, he set off again, following the edge of the cliff, and after several hours of walk, he posted himself on a small hillock to observe if he could find a trace of Eeri. But nothing, she was probably already far away, ahead. He went back down and resumed his route, thinking of a better way to signal her about his presence. If only he had a firework… Or a torbak horn, it was possible to create prodigiously loud sounds by blowing into it. But nothing like that. He was walking along, a little lost in his thoughts, until he heard a growl. By reflex, he grabbed his axe and stopped.

A cuttler, in front of him, was looking at him with hungry eyes, a sort of dusty slime on its lips. Its color blended with the sawdust of the ridge.

"ramèch, I sure needed that…"

He looked around, knowing that a cuttler never comes alone. He guessed a second one, slightly behind on his left, in the shadows. Two of them? Too easy. He clutched his axe and prepared for the assault. Attack the first one, and be ready to parry the fangs of the one who would come from behind, if possible with a blow of his axe. However, his attention was disturbed by something, another presence. A third cuttler? He wasn't sure. The predator, in front of him, had not yet attacked him, seeming also to hesitate. It was then that a terrible cry was heard. Eeri emerged from the bank and rushed at the animal, daggers in hand.

"Gruuuuhhh !"
"Eeri!"
"Watch out for the third one!"
"What third one?"

Another cuttler, which he had not seen, lunged at Azazor. The Fyros dodged, and with a great kick, sent the animal into the ravine.

"Well done! Another one behind," shouted Eeri, still struggling with the first one.
"What the hell are you doing here, I thought you were days away," replied Azazor, sending a sharp blow with his axe into his attacker's jaw, knocking out some of its teeth.
"I'm the one asking you that! I thought you were gone!"

After several blows from Azazor's axe, the third cuttler ended up running away on three legs, panting and dripping with blood, while Eeri while Eeri finished off the one she was holding down with a series of dagger blows. Azazor shrugged his shoulders.

"With two, it's easy."
"ney. So you're accompanying me?"
"ney. You didn't think I was going to leave the rediscovery of Fyre to a half-tryker Fyrossa, did you?"
"Now that's the spirit!"
Pointing to a cuttler on the ground, she added:
"Have you ever eaten cuttler?"
"dey. It must be gross, but if that's all there is to eat, I'm not going to refuse."

Eeri's face gave Azazor her usual butcher's smile, and she began to cut off the four limbs of the animal.

"You have to hammer the meat well before you roast it, it reduces the acidity and it's more digestible. Then if you have time, you cook it slowly, it's a little more tender."
"I know it tenderizes it, but the acidity?"
"Did you know that Fraiders sometimes eat tyrancha? Well, they can cook the cuttler too."
"And so they bang on it?"
"ney, you crush it and get the juice out. It's drier, but it saves you a lot of trouble."

She threw a thigh to Azazor.

"The head and the torso, they're really not edible. Moreover, this one is not very big. Anyway, we have to find a place sheltered from the wind, we can't light a fire here."

She fixed the two front limbs on her bag with a piece of cord, then threw the thigh on her shoulder.

"Let's go. We'll find a place to set up camp and coo…"

Eeri was interrupted by a roar of incredible power that shook the mountain.

"I know you're hungry, but still…"

Something was approaching. The two Fyros remained for a moment dumbfounded, motionless and silent. The rumbling sound came again, closer, and the air filled with an ominous tension. Peering over the edge of the cliff, where the noise was coming from, they saw a gigantic creature emerge, the likes of which they had never seen before.

"Put your amps on!" Azazor shouted.
"dey, YOU put on the amps. This time it's my turn to play," Eeri shouted back, snatching the axe from the Fyros' hands.
"But!"
"My axe won't do the trick ! Do as I say!"

Eeri dropped the meat from her bag and screwed her helmet on her head. Her hands clenched on the axe.

"A red dragon!" Azazor finally shouted.

The homina concentrated, determined to fight, and watched the kitin for the slightest crack in its carapace. The kitin was already a few meters away from them, and had slowed down, as if he too wanted to observe and appreciate its prey. Its carapace was scarlet, vivid and shiny. Each scale seemed to pulsate with burning fire, as if the kitin's veins carried molten embers. This red dragon was a huge kipesta, several meters long, surrounded by a halo of gray smoke, looking ready to explode. Its carapace, clad with sharp crests of spines, connected its protruding skull to the tip of its scaly tail. As for its pollen pouch, it was much larger than a Kipeskoo could have, and oozed a scarlet, steaming liquid, quite different from the one kipestas usually produced. To finish, the beating of its six wings made the sawdust fly around it, and generated a deafening whirring.

Focused on the creature's appearance, Eeri did not see its first attack coming. The powerful tail strike she received in the chest sent her flying for several yards and sent her crashing straight into a stump, which she caught right in the kidneys. Breath taken from the double impact, the Fyrossa collapsed in the sawdust, totally stunned. She hadn't expected such vivacity. Not wasting a second, Azazor cast a healing spell towards Eeri. Although he was not an expert mage in healing magic, the enchantment put on his amplifiers was of good quality and did the job perfectly. And yet… He still had to make sure he didn't use up all the sap crystals he had in reserve, otherwise he wouldn't be able to use the enchantment on his amplifiers. And unfortunately, the first blow of the kipesta having knocked out Eeri, he was forced to use up his stock. Circling around his friend's body, sending out bursts of healing, and dodging the attacks of the kitin who had now spotted him, he finally managed to get her up. What he didn't manage, however, was to see that her feet were getting dangerously close to the edge of the cliff…

"This way!" shouted Eeri, standing up again.
"Give me back my axe! You're a better healer than I am!" replied the Fyros.

Ignoring Azazor, the Fyrossa lunged at the kitin, whose back was now to her, and struck it with a powerful blow of the axe, hitting one of its wings. The creature turned around and retaliated with a circular tail strike, which Eeri dodged this time. Seeing that the kipesta had barely flinched, she realized that it would take much more to defeat this enemy. The wound that she had just inflicted to it was ridiculous in comparison with its size… Furious, the monster gave a third blow of tail in direction of the homina, which dodged it a second time. In truth, it was not an easy thing: the monster was so big that it was necessary to largely anticipate its attack to hope avoiding the shock. Moreover, every blow the beast delivered sent the sawdust flying, sending a cloud blurring the Fyros' vision. Spotting the kitin's glowing aura in the dust cloud, Eeri lunged at it again, screaming like a fury, striking wherever she could. But the axe only bounced off the burning carapace. The kipesta tried another attack with its tail and the Fyrossa ducked just in time to feel the sharp spines only scrape the top of her helmet. She then took the opportunity to execute a counterattack, which the kitin dodged with a flap of its wings as it gained height. Abruptly turning around despite its huge mass, the beast finally made an aerial charge and managed to hit Eeri, who flew a second time several meters away. Disarmed and slumped in the sawdust, the homina barely had time to understand that the impact had dislocated her left shoulder when Azazor's enchantment immediately put the joint back in place. Her comrade continued to circle around her tirelessly, tending to each of her wounds. Picking up her axe and checking the effectiveness of the enchantment with a twist of the arm, Eeri charged at the creature once more. The fight was definitely going to be long…

And indeed, the fight lasted a few minutes. Minutes that, in this kind of situation, were like hours. If the kitin managed to hurt Eeri most of the time, seldom did the Fyrossa succeed in touching it in return. Without Azazor's care, she would have died long ago… And when she was finally succeeding in reaching her target, the axe would come smashing against the thick carapace of the kipesta. Not once did she manage to touch its wings again, the only part that was a priori more vulnerable than the others. As if the beast had understood. As if it had understood that it was enough for it to take a little height to avoid the most dangerous blows. The kipesta was, indeed, able to fly high in the sky, out of reach of any attack. When it couldn't fly away fast enough, it would simply present its head frontally to parry the axe blow which would then hit the thick protective carapace of its skull. Meanwhile, Azazor was gradually emptying his stock of sap crystals by healing Eeri every time she found herself on the ground. He didn't even have time to take off his heavy armor to try to cast any kind of fire spell. At times, the monster tried to attack Azazor. When that happened, Eeri put on her own pair of amplifiers, to support her comrade long enough for to succeed in getting the kitin's attention again. And the manege repeated.

It repeated until, suddenly, as if bored by the turn the fight was taking, the kipesta quietly turned around, moving away from a dozen meters. Disconcerted, Eeri lowered her guard and glanced at Azazor. Against such an opponent, a draw was worth a win, right? If her comrade had not been helmeted, the Fyrossa could probably have read the horror on his face as he pointed his amplifiers at the kipesta. But it was already too late. The creature stiffened, flapped its six wings, and propelled itself backward toward Eeri. Never before had the two Fyros seen a kipesta perform such a maneuver. Without Eeri even being able to react, the sharp, scaly tail pierced its belly. The monster then had only to snap its abdominal end like a whip, towards the ground, to get rid of the body of the homina, which rolled in the sawdust like a vulgar rag doll. Her mutilated and disarticulated body was going to require many care before being completely repaired… Her precious pike too, previously attached to her back, and now broken in two in the dust.

Probably aware of its success, the kitin left Eeri and turned back to Azazor, who was struggling to get his partner up. The creature let out a terrifying growl, but did not act, as if sizing up its opponent. Taking advantage of the few seconds available to him, Azazor charged at Eeri, draining his amplifiers of all magical charge, depleting his entire supply of crystals. But that was not enough to get her up. She was alive, he could feel it. But in very bad condition, almost unconscious. Not giving up, he tried to heal her without enchantment, in heavy armor, gradually exhausting his stamina in handling the sap. If the kipesta continued to observe him like this without reacting, he would have time to get her up. He had to. And just as the Fyrossa was beginning to get back on her knees, the kitin sent her back to the ground with a swipe of its tail. Distraught, Azazor clipped his pair of amplifiers to his belt without taking his eyes off the creature. It was playing with them, he was sure. This monster was playing with them, and having defeated Eeri, it was now seeking to fight Azazor one-to-one. Without being able to confirm his hypothesis, which was perhaps only the fruit of a feverish projection, the Fyros accepted the duel. If he had to die today, let it be with a retch in his hand than with amplifiers!

Long seconds passed, during which the two warriors gauged each other, then Azazor finally took action. With a deft foot movement, the Fyros picked up Eeri's broken pike and threw it towards the kipesta, who parried it with yet another tail swing and charged at his opponent. The duel had begun. Staking his life on it, Azazor avoided the kipesta's charge with a roll and picked up the axe that Eeri had let slip from her hands. Then he also lunged at the kitin, howling like a beast. This outburst of courage did not impress the monster, who sent the Fyros tumbling over the cliff with a skull blow right into his chest. Planting his axe in extremis in the edge of the cliff, paying no heed to his taken breath, Azazor managed to avoid the deadly fall. He could barely breathe, his ribs were probably broken, and he was no longer able to lift Eeri. But he wasn't dead yet. Managing to pull himself up onto the platform, the Fyros raised his axe and whirl it over his head, shouting with all the strength he had left. A war cry, perhaps his last. Drawing on his last resources to regenerate his wounded body, he charged the red dragon. With a jump, he avoided the sharp tail, and with a final roll, he managed to land a furious axe blow on the side of the creature, which probably didn't expect the frail homin to take so many risks. As a reward for his bravery, Azazor then saw a scarlet scale flying. Finally, the beast had a weak spot.

"ORAK !!!!"

But the joy was short-lived. The kipesta let out a vile howl, and at the same time, the Fyros thought he saw flames pulsating where the scale had been before he managed to tear it off. Realizing that something was in the works, Azazor unhooked the shield he had been wearing on his back and moved to stand in front of Eeri, who was still lying on the ground. He barely had time to position himself before he felt the temperature increase. As he took one last look at the creature, he realized that his impression was well founded. The kitin was swelling all over. From the tip of its tail to its skull. But that was nothing compared to its pollen pouch, which had tripled in size in barely a few seconds. With an erratic movement, the monster planted its proboscis in the ground, and Azazor knew it was the end. A gigantic explosion occurred, shattering the portion of the cliff they were fighting on, and releasing a flood of flame so powerful that it razed everything for a hundred meters. The last thing Azazor felt was the heat.

Melting his shield.

Then his armor.

And finally his skin.

((OOC: text written with 6 hands by Eeri, Azazor and Finaen))

Azazor opens one eye. A single one. He sees himself floating, flying, like smoke from a great blaze. He is floating above the desert. He sees the Great Ridge, the desert and even water further away, beyond another mountain range. The Wide Puddle perhaps.

Dead, he is dead. There is no doubt. His body is all the way down, charred, reduced to ashes by the red dragon, and he is floating like smoke. Yet he has to fight the urge to let himself be carried away.

gladuch odraèt og, didrauch fyrak gladuch, these are the words of the gey-zas who died in battle, this is his duty. To fight the smoke that rises to descend into the depths for fighting the dragon. Then he closes his eye and concentrates to go back down to his last fight.

Eeri opens one eye. Maybe both, who knows. Everything is blurred. She sees nothing, feels nothing, except the impression to be posed on a substance at the same time icy and burning, vibrating of energy. The pain and the absence of pain. A long, endless howling seems to have taken possession of her mind, a shrill crash resounding on the sides of her skull. A long and terrible scream locked in her, erasing all notion of time, of past, of present, of future.

So this is the void? The nothingness? The punishment for her soul and her seed of life, the punishment for the mistakes of her past life, her secrets, her lies, her escapes, her abandonment?


An endless, deafening howl.

A shadow emerges from the chaos. There are shadows in the void? A shape, rather, a silhouette, a helmet. The helmet of horror. The din in her mind becomes more intense and piercing, as the figure gets closer. Icy daggers come to plant themselves in her orbits, her eardrums, her throat, her chest.

The pain, last release before the death.

And suddenly, the silence. Her spirit sinks into oblivion.

Eeri gently threw the bone she was holding into the fire, the last remnant of the yubo leg she had just eaten. Her interlocutor stopped talking and looked at her, in silence, aware that it was going to be necessary to leave her some time for her to absorb what he had just told her.

"It was that, then she articulated. They didn't say anything more?"
"They said they thought you were dead. It's happened before, and sometimes they give a decent burial to the homins they find, if they can. Does that surprise you that much?"
"From them, yes," said Eeri. "I always thought they were working against hominity."
"Against hominity? You know, they need hominity. And despite what their appearance suggests, they are not all the same. Some of them have the heart to protect all of us."
"ney, I see. And we owe them our lives. They saved us and healed us… A kamist and an… agnostic."

The ranger smiled softly and looked at the hominid sitting across from him. It had been several weeks since their bodies had been brought to his camp, and he had taken it from there. The care he had given them was beginning to pay off. Eeri had been the first to come to her senses the day before. She had let out an incredible howl, and had become so agitated that it took two homins to hold her down until she came back to her senses. Then she fell into a dumb silence when she saw her friend beside her. The next day, she got up calmly to find him, finally accepting some food. He was hopeful for the other fyros, even if he still needed several days of rest.

"It looks like your friend protected you from the flames. He was much more burned and injured than you, but he seems to be slowly recovering. They found him clinging to you, which is probably why you were less affected by the flames than he was."
"He protected me…"
"They suspected that hisseed of life had been hit. They had to extract a huge wooden thorn that went right through his skull, and that should have killed him. I hope he didn't lose his mind completely… In any case, his survival is undreamed. And yours too! In truth, it is a miracle that you are still alive. 'Miracle', that's the word they used. Can you imagine?"

Eeri remained silent, her gaze plunged into the campfire. Her fault. It was her fault. Again. Taking the path to Fyre, as if after Coriolis it would only be a walk without any danger. Then she lowered her gaze to her hand, lying motionless on her lap. The burns were still alive there, marking her palm and a part of her forearm. She turned her left arm over, to contemplate the palm of her other hand, miraculously spared by the flames.

"It won't come back, dey?"
"I don't think so. You were in a bad condition, unconscious, unable to regenerate. They spent a long time clearing up to find you under the rubble of the partly blown-up cliff, and after a certain time, some wounds become untreatable…"
"So these marks are imprinted in our seed of life…"
"Yes. And even their technology can't do anything about it. As I told you before, it's already a damn miracle that you survived."
"We Fyros are said to be very resistant to fire."
"And to being buried under tons of rubble, obviously! By the way, how is your eye?"
"Still nothing."

Eeri got up slowly, leaning on her left arm, and took a few steps to reach the tent that housed Azazor. She looked at the scarred face of her friend, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully on a cot. A light cloth modestly covered his torso and legs.

She felt a tear running down her face.

For several hours Azazor has been contemplating the ceiling of the tent where he is lying. Several hours observing the skin canvas slightly cracked by years of wear and tear. Watching the shadows dance to the rhythm of the crackling of the brazier. Listening to vague whispers coming from outside. Sounds, laughter, where the voice of Eeri and other homins are mixed.

"… used to hunt them with their ships. But even they are careful when they have to fight them. The Flamboyants are smart. They know how to take cover when they know they are being hunted."
"Individual intelligence? I thought kitins had only group intelligence?"
"Not all of them."
"It has indeed proven himself to be particularly cunning in battle."
"Yes, and when they can't run away, they also have their terrible fire attack."
"I was probably already down… Azazor must have found his weak point to attack like that."

The pain of his burns made him stop following the talk. At first, there was only pain, like a continuous tearing radiating throughout his whole body. Darkness, silence, the feeling of floating in… a wide puddle of pain —the Wide Puddle— Eeri being swallowed by the prakker. Eeri… Then came the sensation of his own body, the impression of being bedridden, of having an up and a down. Then the sounds, whispers, Eeri telling him to fight. And now the sight. Those dancing shadows.

He didn't go down into the depths to fight the Dragon. He survived. And he owes it to the Karavan. He can't take it anymore and falls back into his anguished dreams.

…

Many days passed before Azazor could speak. His lips, which had melted together in the heat, were finally separated thanks to the care provided by the Rangers. He can now mumble a few words, articulating with difficulty. It will take him days to learn to speak again, and probably just as long to walk again. But at least he hasn't lost his mind. However, images come to him, as if from a dream. He still sees himself floating above the desert. The Rangers who take care of him were able to explain to him what happened.

They tell him about the tracking and killing of the Flamboyant by a Karavan ship when it used its flame attack and blew up part of the cliff —besides he remembers that talking with the Marauders during his last evening with them, they had told him that the Karavan was tracking this kind of kitin as a priority. They also explain to him the clearing of the rubble during several hours to find the bodies of the two homins having fought it, the body of Azazor, always gripping and protecting that of Eeri, their transport in a kind of pod and the choice made to bring them back in this Ranger camp on the other side of the ridge, in spite of their condition, in spite of the little chance of survival they had then. Yes, the Karavan, or at least these agents, made a choice that was not favorable to them: to save two unimportant homins. Thus, the defense of hominkind is indeed part of the values of the Karavan.

Eeri has just entered the tent. She has a smile on her lips and a tear flows from her only eye, the second one being hidden by a blindfold. A tear of guilt? Maybe, but he doesn't blame her.

"oren pyr my fatty! I hear you can finally talk?"
"n… ney."
"Well, don't push yourself too hard, I'm not in a hurry to hear you bellow again!"
"de… tal."

The Fyrossa bursts out laughing then, against all expectations, embraces with one arm the lying Fyros who grimaces with pain.

"ramèch, I forgot that you were sensitive. Wait, I'll see if I can get you some of that miracle cream they've been applying to you since we got here. It fixes and calms the pain.
a… ke… p."

Eeri lifts a piece of canvas to get out of the tent and then turns his head to his friend.

"I'm the one who thanks you. The Rangers told me that you probably stood in front of me, to take the flame attack. Without you, I would have died."
"MM… mm."
"Save your strength, I'll be right back."

He wanted to say "me too" but couldn't. He closed his eyes and fell back into his reverie.

…

Several weeks thus pass in the Ranger camp. This is one of many Ranger outposts in the area. There are others, more discreet, and sometimes even closer to the kitin threat, including high on the ridge. The current camp is also a place of passage for Marauders and surrounding tribes. This is a kind of peace place, preserving its neutrality in the conflicts between homin tribes and Maraudeurs clans. The Karavan has understood this and sometimes drops off injured homins found here and there.

During her weeks of rest, Eeri learns to replace the use of her right arm with her left. It is clear that she will not be able to fight as before, especially with one eye missing. As for Azazor, he is learning to walk and talk again, but progress is slow and difficult. Moreover, a piece of wood had gone through his skull, probably damaging his seed of life. The Karavan, on returning them to the camp, called it a "miracle". His chances of survival were nil. And yet, he was well and truly alive. He was alive, but badly injured. The Karavan did not know what the consequences of such an injury would be, but disorders were to be expected. For the moment, apart from a large area in front of his skull where his hair gives way to an ugly scar, nothing seems to indicate that his life seed has been touched. The worst fear was that Azazor would lose his mind. But for the moment he seems to have his all wits about him. While the hair has begun to grow back on the back of his head, despite the burns, the front will be forever devoid of hair, making his face even more hideous with its burned patches and scars.

The Rangers tell them that they should wait before going back on the road, that they could accompany them, as ranger expeditions towards Fort Beacon and passing by Oflovak's Halt are regularly organized. This is mainly a rotation of Rangers, so as not to leave always the same ones at the front. The way back would only be safer and faster for them. Azazor and Eeri hurry to agree. Their condition would not allow them to make the journey on their own anyway.

Thus, the days continue to pass slowly in the camp, waiting for a future expedition…

He is sitting with his friends at the Thesos bar. The flames of a brazier light up their smiling faces. There are of course the legionnaires, Naveruss, Wixarika head leaning on Lylanea's shoulder, Zuros and even Lopyrech, back from the dead. There is also Jazzy and the whole Drakani gang, the Talodis, the Rangers of the Almati Wood Circle and others. They are all there, listening to the story of their journey. Eeri is also at his side, and Uzykos, their son, in a red tunic and playing with the mace of Naveruss. The shooki is flowing and the laughter can be heard all the way to the fortress. He speaks, without difficulty, without the need to articulate. His wounds have miraculously healed and he is not in pain anywhere. He is at the episode with the red dragon.

"So we accepted the fight. We fought with savage fury and met death incarnate with all its horrors, without backing down or complaining. Neither of us asked to be spared nor did we run away. We fought as long as we could stand. And when death in the form of a rain of fire fell on us, we greeted it with the smile of proud fighters who had died with dignity. I understood then, just before I lost consciousness, what akep really meant. akash depyr, death with honor. And yes, I thanked then with a last sigh this red dragon for having resisted us so valiantly."

He pauses for a moment and then resumes.

"And yet my friends, here we are, before you. For destiny had not finished with us. It took the form of the Karavan, which came to our rescue and saved us both. Yes, the Karavan!

Do I regret being saved? No! I, who do not hold the Karavan close to my heart, say thank you to them. For if this death in front of the red dragon was the most beautiful that I had been offered, the one that will come one day will be even more beautiful. But not yet! Not today! So let's live my friends, and raise our glasses to life! May it be the most glorious of all! CAL I SELAK!"

They all raise their beakers, shouting the legionnaire's salute. And many laughs are heard. It's Uzykos: he has managed to raise the mace above his head. He is strong! Like his father! The laughter becomes even louder when he falls backwards and starts to cry. A cry… Almost a scream. Yes, a shrill scream, getting louder and louder. A shriek! And… and her son's face which changes. Which… becomes… vaporous… as if seen behind a smoke screen. The smoke of a great fire. A hot breath… A breath of fire! It is now a dragon in front of him! HIS dragon! And what he thought was crying was its scream. A hoarse, guttural sound that cuts through him. A pouch under his gullet begins to swell, swell… And fire begins to spurt out over his body as it burns, burns like a blazing log which consumes.

He wakes up with a start, sitting on his cot. It is still dark. He touches his face with his hands and feels the still vivid patches of his burns. But he doesn't burn. It's that damn dream again. Always the same one. Tomorrow the long awaited return expedition will leave. The trip will be painful with his disability, but it will probably be nothing compared to the outward journey. His body stabs him around. He feels like he is in too small a body. It irritates him all over. The ointment he applies to himself several times a day does him good, but it's not enough to take away that dry, tight feeling on his skin. And of course, the pain. Especially when he doesn't moisturize enough.

Sitting in his camp bed, he thinks back to the evening he spent a few days ago with a group of Atakorum nomads who came to the camp to trade potions. He also had a new revelation on this occasion. One more, of course, but this time concerning him specifically. When he told the nomads his name, Azazor, they were taken aback. In their cult, a form of kamism that does not say its name, Azaz is the name given to the spirits of the desert that only certain sages of their tribe can see. What could have been a simple coincidence turned out to be more profound than that when he gave them his last name: Eridlo Mirihus. One of the nomads then explained to him that Miri is a very common name among them. Maybe one of his ancestors was one of the few Atakorums who managed to escape during the Great Swarming and reached the New Lands, while most had settled on the other side of the great root ridge. When you think about it, this is not absurd. Mirihus means third in lineage of Miri and his father had explained him that his mother was from a nomadic family. So after all, why not? In any case, we all have an ancestor from the Old Lands. From a nomadic people who are very fond of potions and strange rites, this does not surprise him at all. He himself is a stranger among his people. Even more so now with his bloated face and body.

Azaz, the protective spirits of the desert… Yes, the Kamis may also have had something to do with their miraculous survival. Perhaps this was the answer to the "miracle" that the Karavan spoke of? Too many unanswered questions. Too much to think about at the moment. Azazor rests his head on his cot and tries to sleep a little more before tomorrow.

Then comes the long awaited departure. After years of travel on Oflovak Road to the edge of Coriolis, after having survived a thousand dangers and lived what few homins of the New Lands can claim to have lived, our two adventurers take the way back, wounded and bruised in their bodies, their convictions shaken or sometimes reinforced, but above all proud to have been able to go through with their ideals. As they turn their gaze towards the east one last time, melancholy catches up with them, a touch of bitterness at not having been able to go all the way to Fyre and beyond. But they have so much to tell, so much to share. Azazor takes in his pocket the broken amber cube he could protect from the flames, the only proof he has left. He shows it to Eeri who smiles at him. Yes, they have so much to tell, but also to offer. And it is thus with a smile that they turn back towards the west, where their folks await them.

Eeri se tut, ferma les yeux un moment, après avoir parlé d’une voix inhabituellement lente et calme, comme si elle sortait d'un rêve. Alors qu'elle reprit conscience de ce qui l'entourait, Azazor était encore en train d’écrire. La peau de son front abîmé était légèrement plissée. Il afficha une moue concentrée alors qu'il écrivait le dernier mot, tout en levant un oeil sur elle. Elle le regardait, confuse.

— Je… Je me suis égarée. Tu as écrit tout ça?
— ney.
—Ah toub… J’étais vraiment dans mes pensées. Tu ne veux pas effacer les derniers trucs que j’ai dit...?
— Tu m’as demandé d’écrire, j’ai écrit.
— Bon, on pourra toujours relire et modifier, non?

Le fyros bougonna, il n'avait aucune envie de passer du temps à retoucher chaque phrase.

— Si t’es pas contente, tu n’as qu’à apprendre à écrire de la main gauche. Et puis, c’était plutôt touchant.
— Touchant… Pour une fyros à moitié tryker à moitié impotente…

Azazor sourit et regarda au dessus de l'épaule d'Eeri. Un tryker arrivait vers eux en souriant, émergeant de la pénombre étrangement familière de cet endroit où ils étaient déjà passés voilà des années.

— …Et à moitié vieille, aussi, continua Eeri.
— Garde tes moitiés pour plus tard, j’en connais un qui arrive pour nous proposer du baba en chopes pleines.

By the time they reach Silan, Azazor and Eeri are exhausted. They greet Be'Arlly Emer, the assistant instructor on duty that day, with a simple Woren siloy when she comes to meet them. They don't stop to chat, however, and continue on their way to the small base camp just beyond. There, they stop, take a breath, glance around, then look at each other for a moment without speaking. They can hardly believe it. So this is it, they've finally arrived? Is it all over?

Six long years of travel and now that they're back, they hesitate. What should they do? Go back to their apartments and relax? See their friends again? Talk to the authorities? And to whom? The Rangers? The Fyros? The Trykers? Who would believe them? They're a shadow of their former selves. A Fyrossa with one arm paralyzed and one eye missing, a Fyros disfigured and mostly burned. But above all, they find it hard to part. For six years, they've been together. They've faced kitins, marauders, monsters of all kinds and even arguments between their two strong characters.

It's Eeri who breaks the ice and says in a tone meant to be nonchalant.

"I'm off to Fairheaven. I'll see you later."
"How are you getting there?"

The question makes the Fyrossa hesitate. Really, how? Here, they can teleport. So why continue on foot?

"I'll take the Karavan teleporter," she says without emotion. "I'll come to Thesos later."
"Okay, see you then. I'm going to the Imperial Academy first," replies Azazor in the same falsely detached tone.

He watches her leave for the Karavan sanctuary. There, she's gone. They parted, without joy or tears, coldly, as hard-hearted Fyrosses.

And now what? He takes a deep breath of the magic-filled air, then heads for the Kamis' teleporter.

Once inside the sacred enclosure, he approaches the Kami. A white, starry-eyed Kami who stares at him in curiousity. The Fyros kneels before him and remains silent. His breath is still ragged from running so fast through the small sea of wood between the Verdant Continent and Silan. Unlike Eeri, who had seemed reluctant to enter the New Lands back, he was in a hurry to get home. In such a hurry that, once back in the New Lands, he would rather take the teleporter to Pyr than complete the journey on foot through the ranger tunnel leading to the Grove of Confusion. But in front of the Kami, he hesitates. Even though he knows in his heart that the Kamis are responsible for his survival in the fight against the red dragon, he also knows that since he left here all those years ago, he no longer feels the way he then did about the Kamis. No more attachment, no more… trust? As if the years spent without calling on their power had cut the cord that linked him to them. He now feels free from the Powers. So why put on new chains? Yet he's curious. Curious to see if "it still works". How was it feeling to teleport? He's not sure. You'd fall into unconsciousness and wake up somewhere else. Nothing else? He's got to try it, at least once. Then, he swears, he'll only do it in cases of extreme emergency.

He stands up and asks the Kami to teleport him to Pyr. The latter asks him to confirm, as if he'd sensed the doubt in Azazor's request. But of course he confirms. Pyr. The capital. Home!

Then comes the light, the warm sensation, then...

Pain!! The body fragmenting!! The pain of feeling his body decompose!! His whole body!! His inner flesh!!

He collapses in pain next to Pyr's kami teleporter. He screams and rolls on the ground! His body burns, he... he smells the sawdust. Hot sawdust under his hands, on his face. The pain is just a memory. And that desert heat... His desert! He's back among his people. Onlookers look at him in surprise, some try to pick him up, but immediately turn away at the sight of his horribly burned face. Why such a pain at the teleport? The loss of contact with the Kamis for so many years? His burns? His head injury, which would have damaged his life seed? Probably this. The Karavan had warned that this could have consequences. But no matter, it's all the more reason not to teleport in future. He struggles to his feet with the help of his axe, blackened by the dragon's flames, one of the few things he has retained from the fight. Then he limped back to the Imperial Academy.

...


Euphanix Apotheps is in her office, filing documents, when there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," says the archivist, without looking up from his documents.

The door opens to reveal a Fyros with a burned face. An ugly hole-shaped scar deforms his balding forehead. He's dressed in a ranger's outfit and carries a well-filled bag on his back. His blistered hands hold a fire-blackened retch. Everything about his gestures shows he's at the end of his rope, and his eyes carry intense pain. Yet he takes a few steps forward, standing as upright as possible, his gaze straightforward. For a moment, the Chancellor thinks she sees Dexton when he was painfully emerging from his illness and was determined not to show his weakness.

"oren pyr Euphanix," says the Fyros in a hoarse voice.

Without waiting for an answer, he puts his pack on the floor, axe handle resting along the wall, and opens his bag. He pulls out a thick leather volume, which he places heavily on the archivist's desk. Varinx leather. Euphanix suddenly understands who she's dealing with.

"Azazor?!"
"ney..."
"I... what... everyone thought you were dead! We haven't heard from you in years."
"And my reports? Never received?"
"Yes, those from Fort Beacon. That's all."

The Fyros lets out a raucous laughter.

"I knew that Ranger had a face not to trust him with anything. But it doesn't matter, it's all there," he says, tapping the thick book on the desk.

Euphanix approaches his head to the cover and reads:

"kün geyum"
An account of the journey to Coriolis on the Road of Oflovak*

"It's all there," continues the Fyros. "All my reports burned up because of that damn red dragon. But not my memory." As he says this, he scratches the skin on his puffy face.

"So on the journey back, we put everything back on leather. My memories, those of Eeri. There are also readings of the star of the day, which should be useful for estimating the circumference of Atys,souldn't they? There are also sketches, notably of red dragons, various notes and maps. Anything our noggins can remember. I'll ask the N'ASA to make a copy to share with the other nations."

The archivist is tempted to open the book right away, but changes his mind. Clearly, the Fyros isn't finished yet.

"I'll leave the bag with you. Inside, there are also vials of sawdust from different biotopes for the xylologists. This should delight Ulyton Meros."

He then puts his hand in the pocket of his armor.

"And here's the most important one," he says with an enigmatic smile.

Euphanix sees him take out a small purse and place it on the desk in front of his eyes.

"Go on, take a look."

She can't contain herself and opens the purse, trembling with excitement. Inside, a shiny purple object returns her her reflection. She nearly faints and hangs onto the edge of her desk.

"An... AN?"
"An amber cube. Damaged. But you must know some scholars to repair that?"
"I... ney, some scholars..."

She delicately takes out the cube to admire it in the light of her office window.

"bavèchen coriolis fyrum... ramèch!!"
"Yeah, indeed. And know that some damn kincher attacked us right afterwards. I didn't have time to look for the missing piece."
"Was it in Coriolis?"
"In a temple high up in what's left of the mining town."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing."

With that, he picks up his axe again and sighs.

"Well, I'd spend hours discussing all this, but not today. If anyone's looking for me, I'm at Pecus."

Azazor then pretends to turn back, but the archivist holds him by the shoulder, not without a hint of disgust at the mangled body.

"Wait, Aza. I've got so many questions!"
"No, I'm exhausted and all I want to do right now is knock back a barrel of shookie. You wouldn't believe the crap they drink over there... We'll talk tomorrow. That'll give you time to read the book."

He holds the office door handle and starts to open it. Euphanix nevertheless calls out to him.

"I just wanted to tell you..."

The Fyros turns, looking straight into her eyes. Wet eyes. Eyes so tired and so... sad?

"Sorry Azazor," Euphanix finally says.
"Sorry for what?"
"For doubting you."
"Then arrange for me to study at the talumetim-an. I think I've proved myself," says Azazor wearily.

Euphanix smiles. Yes, he has proved himself. There's no doubt about it. The Fyros then turned and opened the office door to leave.

"And Eeri?" inquired Euphanix before Azazor crossed the threshold.
"She's probably at the Fairhaven bar, getting drunk. She's lost the use of an arm and an eye, but that won't stop her drinking."

The archivist watches the Fyros walk away, replaying in her head his last sentence. A missing arm and eye? Permanent burns and scars? From what hell had they returned? She couldn't wait to find out. She sat down at her desk and began reading the "account of the journey to Coriolis on the Road of Oflovak"*.


* The book includes all the information contained in the texts published on the forum. It also includes more detailed maps of the Oflovak route and the beginning of the AT desert (based on Kigan's map), measurements of the height of the daystar for estimating the circumference of Atys, sketches of fauna and flora, but also of the cities crossed and some of the characters met, as well as Azazor and Eeri's reflections on fyrak and the powers and some various confessions. Only Eeri's allegiance to Trytonnism is not mentioned. Nor is it mentioned that his escape from the Marauders was the work of a Trytonnist. The notes also include Titus's diary, which Azazor was able to recover on the return journey to the Oflovak halt. We can imagine that the reports already sent by Azazor will be included as addenda later on. It was written by Azazor (since Eeri can no longer use his right arm) but co-authored by Azazor and Eeri.

Hello,

I'm Finaen from the Lore Team.

I'm posting this message to thank Azazor and Eeri for taking part in this lengthy narrative experiment, which is - I believe - a first in the history of Ryzom. For my part, I had a lot of fun. The co-creation experience was very interesting, and pushed Lorists to work on specific, concrete subjects. In that, I'd also like to thank the whole team.

As this adventure has been positive, I remain open to discussion with those who would also like to experiment with this format. But I should point out that my level of English unfortunately doesn't allow me to play with non-French speakers... This proposal, of course, only commits me, and not the rest of the team.

Ryzom's universe is rich and beautiful. I think it lends itself to being explored beyond the limits of its gameplay.

I hope you've also enjoyed following this story, and wish you all the best on Atys, so see you soon!

Puisqu'on est dans les remerciements, j'en profite aussi pour remercier Finaean et la Lore team dans son ensemble pour l'accompapgnement, Nilstilar pour les traductions EN faites aussi vite que l'éclair et bien sûr tous les lecteurs et leurs retours.

Merci a vous tous pour cette belle épopée, que j'ai eu grand plaisir a suivre.

[[HRP :
Mon tour de passer aux remerciements !

Merci particulièrement à Finaen, merci Drumel, et merci à toutes celles et ceux qui se sont intéressé.es ou ont participé à cette aventure, de près ou de loin.

Merci pour le retour, le suivi et les commentaires et les encouragements de certaines lectrices et certains lecteurs.

Merci à tout ceux qui font vivre l'univers de Ryzom, de manière constructive et créative.

Enfin, merci à Azazor, sans lequel ce voyage ne se serait jamais passé, pour avoir eu l'idée de ce voyage, pour avoir eue l'idée d'inviter Eeri (et pour avoir été assez fou pour le faire) et enfin pour ses corrections, idées, critiques toujours constructives, j'en passe. Merci.

Eeri est donc revenue dans les Nouvelles Terres (mon irl chargé en ce moment fait que je n'aurai pas le temps de la ramener "pour de vrai"). Afin d'échapper à la réalité du retour et des retrouvailles, elle se cache sans doute quelque part, au fin fond du désert ou des primes racines. À vous de la trouver, à l'occasion ;-)
]]