РОЛЕВАЯ ИГРА

Folially 24, 3rd AC 2619

Les choses commencent à se préciser quant à notre départ. Le temps de nous préparer, nous repartons dans deux jours. On sera de nouveau accompagnés, mais cette fois pas par Kickan. Lui repart dès demain vers le Fort, avec un autre équipier et des marchandises.

Celui qui nous accompagnera, c’est Titus. Un fyros, qui parait jeune, mais semble avoir l'énergie d'un celiakos grabataire. J'exagère. Il est juste jeune, en fait. C'est apparemment aussi dû à l'altitude, ici tout le monde semble un peu plus lent qu'ailleurs. Moi-même, je me sens faible. Je vois bien que Ru-Dun mâche son fourrage plus lentement que d'habitude, aussi. Azazor semble vouté comme après 3 fioles d'ocyx. Comme si tout tournait légèrement au ralenti.
Ce Titus, donc. Depuis que nous sommes arrivés, il nous a suivi, nous a regardés avec de grands yeux, puis nous a posé des questions. Puis il nous a demandé de nous accompagner. Il veut quitter l'île, partir, trouver les maraudeurs. Il parait que son père en était un, sauf qu'il ne l'a jamais connu, il a grandi sur l'île. À force, Azazor a finit par céder à sa demande avec un "Bon. Mais pas de blague, hein?". Emmener un fils de Maraudeur, la belle affaire. Je me suis opposée à ça. Azazor pense sans doute que ça jouera en notre faveur. Et si le père les avait trahi? Bon, ça doit faire un sacré bout de temps, ils auront oublié. Il semble surtout trop inexpérimenté pour un tel voyage. Tu sais au moins tenir une épée par le bon bout, j'ai demandé? Soit disant, il s'entraîne tous les jours, il nous a dit. Je n'ai pas voulu être trop dure avec lui, mais je ne pense pas qu'il se soit déjà confronté un kirosta, ou quoi que ce soit de cette taille.

Et il a demandé pourquoi on voyageait, si nous aussi nous allions rejoindre les maraudeurs.
Je n'ai rien répondu de plus que "voyage scientifique", en sortant tout naturellement ma hache afin de refaire l'affûtage de la lame. Je n'aime pas ça, mais c'est vrai qu'arriver à notre prochaine destination avec un homin de la Halte pourrait être un bon point pour nous. Tenez, une recrue toute fraiche, faites en ce que vous voulez. Ou pas, qui sait. Il faudra que l'on s'adapte très vite à l'accueil qu'ils nous feront.

Donc c'est décidé, il fera le voyage avec nous jusqu'à l’Avant-Poste Diplomatique de la Falaise Nuageuse. Discrètement j'ai demandé à Kickan s'il le connaissait, si on pouvait avoir confiance. Ici, m'a t-il dit, personne n'a de raison de vouloir notre perte, tant que l'on ne provoque pas de catastrophe. J'ai compris ça en buvant un baba avec lui et le matis. En passant, le baba est légèrement meilleur ici qu'au Phare, mais ça reste quand même plus fadasse et insipide que la plus légère des byrh.

Ils nous ont raconté tout un tas de choses sur la Halte. Les habitants ici sont des descendants des Rangers d'Atys, qui se sont installés ici. Au début, il y a maintenant plusieurs générations. Afin de guider les réfugiés, leur offrir une pause sur le chemin des Nouvelles Terres. Ça on le savait. Beaucoup sont partis, mais certains ont fait le choix de s'installer, et la Halte s'est rapidement transformée en une petite ville. Ils ne manquent de rien, ici, m'explique Coccio, le matis. Peu de prédateurs, quelques Javing au nord, tout au plus, assez de gibier, une forêt assez généreuse, un lac. Les homins chassent l'Armadaï, aussi. C'est donc ça, les os et cuirs qui servent à construire les maisons. Azazor a demandé comment, et s'il pouvait assister à une chasse, mais la prochaine n'aura lieu que dans un bon mois. Il y a un grand trou, un piège, quelque part au sud-est de l'île. Des homins imitent le cri de l'animal, ou de son prédateur, et l'attirent vers le piège. Quand ils arrivent à le faire tomber, il est achevé à la pique par les chasseurs, puis dépecé sur place. Il ne pourra de toute façon pas ressortir du piège en un seul morceau. La chasse de l'Armadaï nécessite de nombreux homins, et donne en parfois lieu à une grande fête. Sa viande est très fortifiante et revigorante, la principale source d'énergie pour eux. Coccio nous a d'ailleurs offert deux grands sacs remplis de cette viande séchée, pour la suite de notre voyage.

Plus personne n'est véritablement ranger ici, ou ne fait partie de la guilde, maintenant. L'un des seul qui pourrait prétendre à les rejoindre, c'est Kickan, comme quelques autres de son tempérament. Mais il est satisfait de son travail entre le Fort et la Halte. Et comme il nous disait : s'il ne le faisait pas, qui s'en occuperait? Les véritables rangers passent régulièrement par ici, et sont admirés et accueillis comme des héros, tant la vie à l'extérieur de l'île est rude. Mais si beaucoup de jeunes rêvent de les rejoindre, peu le font. Comme dit le matis, quand on naît ici, la vie est tellement tranqulle, nous n'avons pas besoin de partir courir le monde... Kickan a blagué quelque chose du genre : "Coccio, tu dis ça à deux fyros qui viennent de traverser la moitié de la route d'oflovak, tu crois quoi, que tu vas les convaincre de s'installer ici?"
Le cas de Titus est assez rare, ainsi. Ça s'est déclenché lorsqu'enfant, il a appris que son père était un ancien maraudeur. L'homin en question était d'ailleurs mort lors d'une chasse à l'Armadaï, en glissant et tombant dans le piège. L'animal, paniqué, l'a écrasé d'un coup de patte, accident rare mais fatal.

Mais alors, on a demandé : Sur l'Île, ni rangers, ni maraudeurs, comment peuvent-ils rester aussi désinvoltes? Les Maraudeurs, dans les Nouvelles Terres, sont en guerre contre les nations. Que feraient-ils si les Maraudeurs d'ici venaient envahir l'île ? De ce que j'ai compris dans les explications de Coccio, ça n'aurait aucun intérêt, pour personne. Les maraudeurs sont aussi bien accueillis que n'importe quel homin, par fidélité à la tradition Ranger. Les capacités physiques sont moindres, pour ceux qui n'y sont pas nés, ce qui fait que ces derniers ne restent pas bien longtemps, ils se sentent trop faible. Tout comme pour nous. Et puis, il n'y a rien à combattre ici : pas de Kitins, pas de puissances, pas ne nation, et une organisation populaire. Le travail du Conseil de l'Île est de veiller aux respects de ces traditions, et d'administrer la ville en concertation avec tous. Coccio est élu avec 5 autres pour quelques années de Jena, il laissera sa place, dans deux années. Peut-être à Kickan, a-t'il sourit. Il ferait du bon travail. Ce à quoi Kickan a répondu sarcastiquement qu'il n'était pas assez vieux, comme lui, pour une telle tâche. "Le conseil? Un truc de grabataires". Pas autant que chez nous dans le désert, j'ai ajouté.
Nous savons calmer les fauteurs de trouble, pour en revenir aux maraudeurs, me dit Coccio. En général ils se comportent bien. Il est même arrivé par le passé que certains s'installent sur l'île, ce qui est très mal vu chez eux. Tout comme nous, on sera très mal accueillis, nous prévient-il. Le fait que nous partions avec un homin d'ici aidera peut-être, et si l'on amène quelques marchandises, aussi.

Outre leur bienveillance, Azazor et moi avons cru voir une sorte d'insouciance face aux problèmes du monde, et surtout, étions stupéfaits par ce manque de curiosité, cette absence totale de la soif de savoir qui nous habite. Nous nous sommes regardés, et n'avons rien dit. Comme si pour la première fois depuis pas mal de temps, nous nous comprenions.

Today, two strangers arrived from the west. They accompanied our dear Kickan. I haven't seen them yet, but Tikra says they are two Fyros from beyond the green lands. Farther than Fort Beacon. Farther than Kickan's. I say that Tikra is talking nonsense again. Ever since she started working at the West Elevator, she's been telling me all kinds of crap. The last time, she claimed to have seen an armadai bigger than the others crushing a yetin under its weight. If she wasn't my big sister, I would hate her. Tomorrow I'll go see the two strangers and see if that is still some craps from Tikra.


I can't believe it, the two Fyros do come from a place far to the west of the Halt. Beyond the horizon, there are countries where homins have built huge cities. The Fyros homin spoke of an empire ruled by a guy who is over a century old. This made the Fyrossa accompanying him laugh. But the most incredible thing is that these two homins are heading east, towards the Citadel. So I told them about my father, who was a former Marauder who came here to retire. They found it interesting because they immediately asked me questions about what it was like there, and where my father was now. I could see the disappointment on their faces when I told them that he had died two years after I was born and that I didn't know anything about the Citadel. But as for me I have a lot of questions for them. Strangers from so far away must have a lot to say, certainly more interesting than the bullshit of Tikra and her giant armadais.


The Fyros' name is Azazor. He told me that he was a kind of dragon seeker. So I showed him the drawing of my father's tattoo, the one with the fire-breathing flying monster the elders of the Council name a red dragon. My father, he too was a dragon hunter. I could see that this pleased Azazor. He has a dragon tattoo on his face. But it's not the same one. Yeah I told him, my Marauder father was a real dragon slayer. I wish I could be like him. But I'd have to get out of this dump. They say that outside the Halt, it's too dangerous. But I don't care about the danger! I am a son of Marauders! Son of dragon hunter! What do I care about yetins or armadais?


I'M GOING TO LEAVE THE HALT !!!! After three days hassling their asses, they finally gave in. So I will leave with them, towards the Citadel! Azazor showed me the map of the route they've been following all this time. It goes first through the Cloudy Cliff Diplomatic Outpost. They'll leave me over there and then I'll have to figure out how to continue on my own. Azazor told me that he would like me to go on with them to the Citadel, but Eeri, the Fyrossa, doesn't want to. It seems that she doesn't trust me. Azazor reassured me that I would gain her trust along the way and that Eeri might change her mind once we got to the Outpost. 
Mom, if you ever come back from the Great Puddle, I'll leave you my diary, so you'll know that I love you. But my destiny awaits me, far to the east, among the Marauders. I want to live like Dad.


The big departure is coming. I finished loading Polly with my jerky. My two new companions tasted it and loved it. They are butchers at home, among other jobs they have. So my meat must be exceptional. I'm going to open a market at the Cliff Outpost, it's going to be crazy!
Come on, what can I write as the ultimate sentence on my diary? Something snappy. I know, the sentence Azazor told me when Eeri said it would be too hard for me to go with them.
Don't wish it was easier, wish it made you better. 
Yeah, I know I'm going to have a hard time. But when I get to the Citadel, I'll be a different homin. Strong and proud, like my father!

Germinally ???, 4th AC 2619

I told him to wear a helmet.
If only he had. The beast would have ripped the helmet off, and his head would still be on his shoulders. Who knows.
But "dey, I get hot under my helmet, itchy," he said.

Azazor and I have been walking for five days without saying a word, without even swallowing anything. I feel like I can see the eyes of this Titus in front of me, in the mist. His eyes exorbitant with terror on his bodiless head, a stream of blood soaking his still open mouth.
And yet, I have seen some disgusting things. Scenes of torture, horrific deaths, flying limbs. For instance, when I was a young legionary, the day when Icus had cut the arm of a Matissa, before opening the veins of her neck one by one. The blood had splattered on my armor, and she had been told not to come back. We laughed. And of course, she came back. We did it again until she stopped coming back.

If only we could, reaching the Cloudy Cliff, find there a fresh Titus, brought back by some Power… Maybe by the Marauders? But it seems unlikely that he has a crystal, and even if he had his father's, that this one would be active.

In the moment, I didn't have time to don my amplifiers and try to heal him. The beast was already gone, bringing his body away. I know now that it would have been futile. No healing magic, no matter how powerful, can stick a head back on a body, other than by passing through the hands of the Powers. So we fled, taking the mektoubs, and leaving his head where it had fallen. Had Jena or Ma'Duk called him back to them, his terrified face would have already disappeared into fine dust, giving off that bluish glow.

I am scared. We are scared. But we have to move on. We won't see him again. Except in my own madness, his eyes in the mist, and my own voice replaying in my head: "If you fall here, you won't come back."

According to our estimates on the map, the outpost should still be five or six days away. I've never been so delighted about the prospect of meeting Marauders.

End of Nivia, 4th AC 2619. Or 2620 already?

Here we are, we are at the Marauders.

Since we arrived, we go from surprise to surprise. Some more unpleasant than others.
The most unexpected one is that Azazor has been in a much better mood these last days. Our talks are quieter, and we have agreed on our course of action. It's about time. I didn't believe it anymore. The bodoc even asked my opinion, and not just once. I thought he was scheming something, but I guess I was mistaken.

So. We spent a night stuck on the side of a cliff. I've never climbed a cliff so high. We stopped about halfway up, following the directions the homins at the Halt gave us, when we could find a suitable platform. Then we walked for a few more hours in the morning before we found this famous pod. There, it hasn't been that easy.
First, we had to understand what they were saying. The further away from the New Lands, the more atrocious the accent. Toub, and we realized that it was mutual. That we had to speak slowly, with simple words, articulate. Not to speak fast and eat words as I had become accustomed to doing among the Trykers, by contagion.

So they descended the pod, and shouted things from above. By dint of shouting from each side without understanding each other, they finally put the pod back up with us in it. It was much wider than the one at the Halt, which allowed us to get into on with the two mektoubs. When we reached the top, we immediately felt that the homins in front of us had a different build than those of the Halt. The system of pulleys was however similar, so it should be believed that they were able to pull harder.

They looked at us with slightly startled eyes, probably because of our attire or what we'd yelled from downstairs, and then one said they didn't expect to see a convoy from the Halt for several weeks. I let Azazor do the talking, as agreed. We are not a convoy from the Halt, though coming from. We are Fyros scientists from the New Lands, heading for the Citadel. They were visibly confused, as expected. They asked if we had any goods, we vaguely explained what we were carrying, a mektoub loaded with bags of armadai meat. From behind them came a Matis with a somewhat hurried step and a stern look.

"This one I don't like," I whispered to Azazor. Two hours later, we were sure, I was completely right not to like him.

This one is Ostini. He's a sort of chief of guards, or rather he's one of the minions of the chief of the clan that owns the outpost, the Passers, as they call themselves. It's always like that with the homins. Give them a little power, and they'll work to devalue others to keep the little bit of privilege they have. In the end, Ostini asked the same questions as his homins, using a condescending and obsequious tone. A good Matis, the kind I had missed since we left. After a few minutes, we understood that he was only interested in the goods we were carrying, and understanding that we were not merchants, he then asked us to pay for our stay here. One bag of armadai meat per person per night. We gave him two bags of Titus' mektoub, without begrudging. This one will not come to claim them anymore, except in my nightmares. Ostini gave us a briefing on the rules of the Outpost. We will be allowed to keep our weapons, but must keep them stowed away when inside the compound, as well as a couple of relatively logical things, water is rationed and we will have to pay for it. We are free to use the dormitory, the tavern, and a partly open hall that serves as a place of exchange, as a market. He showed us the dormitory where we could stay, specifying again: as long as we have enough to pay.

So we were able to get to the center of the outpost. There are indeed six buildings, two of which are obviously reserved for the clan members, arranged in a circle inside the surrounding walls. A watchtower, the market, the inn, the dormitory. Nothing very pretty, like at the Halt. A rather functional style, whose some details vaguely resembling what the Marauders build in the New Lands.

"Two bags per night… we won't last long here," I whispered to Azazor.
At that moment my eyes fell on two strange figures passing further on, between two buildings. Two strangely familiar figures.
Disturbed, believing I was dreaming, I had a moment of inattention, and Azazor told me things I did not take in at the time. He repeated them to me afterwards: maybe we would spend more time here than planned. And that we should get hired as butchers or cooks at the tavern to pay for our stay, the time to organize and especially to recover our energy after several weeks in the Sea of Wood.

The figures, meanwhile, had disappeared. At the time, Azazor didn't believe me. "What? Fraiders? What the hell would they be doing here? Are you sure? What would they be doing in a Maraudeurs camp?"… We went into this dormitory. It's very basic, but it's still better than spending a night down there. I'm taking a moment of rest to write these lines, then we'll go to the tavern. I have a plan.

2620, summer of third AC

Here we are, we leave tomorrow. So much has happened here I forgot this journal.
To summarize very quickly... in case I'll lose my memory.
Arrived at the Outpost. They grabbed our meat, we crashed there for a few nights wondering what we could do, then we got hired at the inn as cooks. We started stashing meat to prepare for the rest of our journey. They noticed. Ostini, the chief of the guards, jumped on us. Azazor had the brilliant idea to tell him that we were trading the meat with the Akatorums for poison. Then I had to show my poison to that bastard Ostini,. A Matis. Of course, he immediately saw that this poison did not come from the Akatowhatevers... Then, the Trykeri we thought was merely the tavern keeper turned out to be the leader of the local clan. She made us spill the beans, but was relatively understanding. Which goes to show the Marauders here are not like the ones back home. Here, one can talk with them.

As a result, we agreed to make a delivery for her, as payment for our mistakes. Well, our actions, not our mistakes. They were kind enough not to throw us over the cliff, or anything else. At the time, the situation was pretty exciting, I didn't realize until later we were really gambling our lives.
The good thing is that O'Teelo is ready to provide us with equipment for this job. Marauder's armors, local. Just what we need to hope to get to the Citadel a little more unnoticed than with our naked Fyros dazed faces. She gave us a map, the way to follow seems simple, at first sight. First, go along the cliff to the south, to find the delivery point. Then, there, we are supposed to meet other Marauders. They will be able to tell us more about the dangers that await us if we decide to follow the big mountain range that leads to Sentinel. It's either that or turn around, find the Outpost and go back to the Rangers's path.
And this is the less good thing: whatever we choose, we will be compelled to make a detour of several weeks, maybe several months…

What we have to deliver? I've never seen anything like it. O'Teelo brought us a small box, and opened it in front of us. She knew our curiosity would have led us to open it anyway. She carefully took out three objects, with slightly greenish edges, decorated on one side with strange, shiny inscriptions. Lines, in all directions, dots. Up close, I noticed that they were engraved patterns, not merely drawn. The dots are tiny picots, inlaid. On the other side, how to describe… a multitude of ornaments, small objects, clumped together. Like pieces of jewels of different colors, connected by small shiny threads. Rectangles, circles. At first sight something chaotic, and yet revealing an incredible organization, each element seeming to find its place. As if it were a miniature city.

O'Teelo quickly wrapped them in fiber cloths, to wedge them into the box, recommending that we not open it. Not too often, anyway. She thinks the wind and sawdust of the desert might damage them. We promised to take care of them. I then asked: this is Karavan, isn't it?
The Trykeri then looked at me with a distressed look: "No, it has been laid by a lumper". Azazor didn't waste an opportunity to make fun of me, before taking the box and waving us to follow her to the stable. I would have liked to ask her a lot more questions, but my first one having been totally stupid, I didn't dare to add any more. Really, sometimes I'd better keep my mouth shut.

She took out armors for us. Color of desert sawdust, gleaming. One for Azazor, one for me. Already worn, obviously, but incredibly well made. We had negotiated those. Well… Azazor managed to negotiate. He bluffed me on that one. Oh yes, I forgot: before that, we had to go and get the famous meat stock. We felt like two idiots anyway, even if we were relieved of the outcome of all that. In the end, we even understood that they were going to miss us in kitchen.

I must write this, too: I have to admit that I was wrong. We were all wrong. The Marauders here have nothing to do with what we had expected. Akilia is only a clan leader among others, and all do not recognize her authority, nor her fight, nor her ideals. Far from it. The war she leads is not the war of the Marauders of the Old Lands.
Barmie knew that, no doubt. I can't remember if he told us, but we were probably too sure of ourselves, of our knowledge, we wouldn't have believed him anyway. What ? Marauders who don't pull out their sledgehammers to solve any problems, who know listening, and who are more concerned with containing the kitin threat than with the tomfooleries of our New Lands empires. Almost like Rangers, in fact. You'd think they'd be the same. We've only run into a few Rangers so far.

We go from surprise to surprise. Barmie had warned us about desert frahars. They are mostly Fraiders! I keep the axe that I hold from those of the New Lands on my belt, but unfortunately I did not have time to create a bond of trust with any of them. We'll probably run into more of them in the desert. I need to know more about them.

Oh, and Azazor decided to send all his notes to Pyr. I think that's silly, he's more likely to have them stolen or the carrier to be eaten by whatever bug is on the way. I told him to make a copy. No time for that, he says. Well, that reminds me, the letters I sent when we were in Fort Beacon may have arrived. I hope they are all well, over there.

To sum up… Actually, no, there's not much to sum up. We are just to get back on the road.
Yes, there is something. I must add… and confess: I would so much like to spend more time with the homins here, to discover their richness and knowledge, to understand them better. To come back one day to the New Lands with their message. But come on, this is not the time to stop, we are so close to our goal. A new desert awaits us.

I resolved to send to the New Lands all my reports written between our departure from Fort Beacon and the time we left the Diplomatic Outpost. On O'Teelo's advice, I gave them to a trusted Ranger who was to go to the Halt. Let's hope everything goes well. The way through the Sea of Wood is much more risky. At worst, too bad if the package gets lost. All the information we collected is in my head and I swear to come back alive to share it one day.

So, as already mentioned in my previous report, we have three artifacts to deliver to the Marauders settled near the Wide Puddle in the south. They are supposed to be used to build a zinuakeen in the area. The Marauders are settled below some cliff. But a priori, we will not find there neither elevator nor staircase. So it will be climbing, sweating and elbow grease. If they have established themselves at the bottom, without any practical means of descending, this can only mean one thing: that the region is very dangerous and that this is a means of defence for them.

I will try to describe as best I can these artifacts that make me really uncomfortable. First of all, we can see right away that they are not homin creations. They look like some kind of green and orange dragon scales, on which are painted or maybe engraved lines that cross and crisscross. Inlaid on the scales are black square, round or rectangular things and some kind of shiny, solid, cold drips that connect them to the scales. Eeri talks about jewels. To me, they look like black pustules of an unspeakable creature oozing a gray, shiny liquid that would have solidified. There are also some symbols on it. Letters, numbers, but without any meaning. Symbols that breathe life like those of the Kamis' drills? But there is nothing kami about them. Just touching this thing disgusts me. At least I didn't see any traces of goo on it. I'll write down all the symbols on a separate page and try to draw the biggest artifact, to give you an idea. But you know my drawing skills…

Drawing of an artifact part.


We weren't told the name of this thing, O'Teelo just calling it 'trinket'. In any case, it's clearly Karavan produced to me. I don't imagine the Marauders creating these kinds of artifacts. I'll have to find out more about the connection between Marauders and Karas. In the New Lands, there are sometimes alliances of circumstance during outpost battles. One can imagine that it goes the same here. The Karavan provides the technology to make zinuakeens in exchange for resources harvested by the Marauders. A rumor I had once heard spoke of dissidents from the Karavan. Eeri may know more about this. In short, all this reinforces the hypothesis of a mechanical Fyrak of the Karavan whose scales would be this kind of artifact, even if in this case it is not a dragon but a zinuakeen.


To change topic, let me briefly describe the desert we are traveling through. At first sight, there is no difference with the imperial desert. Same dunes, same sawdust, same plants, maybe a little bit hotter. Olash, olansis, savaniels, botogas which help us not to draw too much in our water stock. We haven't seen any bothaya yet. I presume that the relative proximity of the Wide Puddle allows a hydration of the subsoils which prevents its appearance. But I don't know anymore, I am probably confusing with another plant. I should have listened more carefully in botany classes at the Academy. We did not find, for now, no papalexi on our way either. Nor any loojine either. It seems that they are of the same family. Maybe the one explains the other… Regarding the fauna, for the moment we have only crossed varinxes in the distance. According to the Marauders, we should not cross Fraiders, not passing on their territory. That seems to displease Eeri, but let her be reassured, it will be for the way back, in some years.
Par ailleurs, j'ai stocké dans une bourse une petite partie de sciure pour analyse ultérieure, quand je rentrerai. Si le maitre xylologue Ulyton Meros accepte de se pencher dessus, on aura peut être une surprise.
In addition, I have stored a sample of sawdust in a bag for later analysis, when I will return. If the master xylologist Ulyton Meros agrees to look at it, we might have a surprise.
Oh yes, an interesting point to note: the day star is much higher than in the New Lands. This is a fact. I could measure it with the sextant. I note all my measurements on a separate page. By estimating the number of kilometers traveled to the East, I think we can give an estimate of the curvature of Atys. But I'm not good at calculations, so I'll leave that to the Academy masters when I return. Could the fact that it is a bit warmer be due to the fact that the rays are less oblique than in the New Lands? The further we progress on the route, the more I discover, but the more I ask myself new questions too. The search for the Truth is an endless path.

We should reach the meeting point in a few days. Hoping not to be devoured by a varinx by then…

What had to happen happened. This morning, we met a group of four homins accompanied by a varinx. ramèch! A pet varinx! A magnificent beast, as high as a homin. A little like Aen's ones at home. Except that they were obviously not Marauders. They didn't even introduce themselves. They are not Atakorums in any case, but surely an umpteenth tribe of desert nomads. They demanded that we leave them all we were carrying and the mektoub in exchange for our lives. We tried to negotiate some meat for them and their varinx, but nothing to do, it was all our stuff if we didn't want to, and I quote: "… end up in Razor's stomach". I assumed that was the name of the varinx. Still, we could not afford to give them the object of our quest. Our Honor was at stake. So for the first time since we left Silan, we had to fight against homins to save our lives.
Result: we killed two of them and the varinx, the two others ran away. Well… Eeri killed the varinx, a homin and wounded another one seriously. I only finished off the latter, getting in the process a nice gash on my right thigh when a spike managed to pierce the Marauder armor at a joint. If it had not been for Eeri, it would have been my thorax it would have pierced. She's a real fury when she fights, this one. I had seen her do it before in the New Lands. But never with such rage and determination. She looked like a goddess of war. Lopyrèch had warned me, this homina is dangerous. Fortunately, I am her friend. At least, I guess so.

Anyway, today I killed a homin. Definitely, I mean. It's not the same thing I have been used to, not at all. I hadn't noticed it until then, but when you kill someone, usually, you always know deep down that it's not, or rarely is, a real killing. When I plunged my axe into my enemy's skull, I knew he would never rise again. It was as if I had sucked out his soul. I felt dirty. It reminded me of Celiakos Lyan Cexius dying of a heart attack after he got mad at me. At the time, I felt some guilt. Except that this time I can't be comforted by telling myself that the homin was very old and that his time had come. I am responsible for the axe blow that struck him down. I thought of our ancestors who, in battle, have had to experience this many times.

Everything gets mixed up in my head, I have a lot of contradictory thoughts. It's really a different relationship to life.
How weak we have become because of the protection of the Powers! How we have lost all this, I would say, philosophical aspect! All warriors, and I first, have been wrong from the beginning. Killing is not a harmless thing. That gives a real force that can drive you crazy. This force has been taken away from us by the resurrection the Powers offer us. These now have this force. And I am not sure that this is necessarily a good thing.

It's definitely the law of series. Today, as we were moving south, I had a fall in a crevasse. A nice fall of about ten meters. It was however not indicated that there are crevasses in the area. It's supposed to be farther, towards the east. In short, we spent one hour so that Eeri manages to pull me up with a rope and the mektoub. Supposedly I was too heavy. It must be the bag, it is loaded with leather of varinx, that weighs its weight. We are going to have to be more careful. As much we have no difficulty to look after ourselves here, contrary to the Sea of Wood, but we are not immune to mortal wounds. If there are crevasses of ten meters deep, one can imagine that there are much deeper ones. I may be tough, but I'm not unbreakable.