ROLEPLAY

The wind blows its icy whisper through the trees of the Green Continent. The soft light of dusk transforms the forest into a moving tableau, where the shadows of intertwined trees and roots dance across the moss- and fern-covered ground, like an ever-changing living network. In the far east of the region, perched atop a cliff, stands Fort-le-Phare, a solitary leaning tower and indispensable beacon between the forest and the Mer de Bois. Built from an ancient giant canopy root that has fallen to the ground, the tower seems to defy the laws of gravity, ready to collapse under the weight of the ages. It leans, like a tired sentinel, struggling against the inexorable pull of Atys, which sucks everything into ruin. Yet the thick moss that covers its walls gives it an illusion of immortality amid the lush vegetation that surrounds it.

To the east of Fort-le-Phare, the devastated Mer de Bois stretches out in seemingly endless desolation. A veil of mist envelops the ground, masking all but a few emerging buttes, which seem to float on the surface of the fog of unfathomable whiteness. These isolated islands, lost in the immensity, reinforce the feeling of absolute solitude that pervades this place. The mooing of an armadai, a kind of giant arma whose footsteps vibrate the ground, mingles with the sound of the wind. Its ghostly lament could terrify anyone unfamiliar with these surroundings.

The landscape around the tower, almost unreal in this end-of-day light, testifies to the fragility of a world suspended between life on one side and death on the other. And yet, the lighthouse continues to shine, its persistent glow casting powerful beams over the forest and the Mer de Bois, like a last hope in a decaying world.

There, leaning against the wall at the very top of this tower where the wind is even more violent, lies Azazor. The old fyros, fleeing an Empire that now rejects him, patiently rereads his writings. For two weeks, he has waited here, bravely welcomed by the Rangers occupying Fort-le-Phare. Two weeks postponing the moment when he will enter the Sea of Wood to reach the Oflovak halt. Two weeks of nightmares about eyes and roaring beasts in the mist.

"Dexton was born in Fyre and was able to sire an Emperor. But Lykos was born in Pyr, far from our ancestral lands. And he will die without descendants. Perhaps this is just a coincidence. But perhaps that's all? The birth rate is also falling among all fyros. What is it about the New Lands that makes us so sterile? I think the permanent presence of the Powers is slowly destroying us. It's as if our bodies know, from not dying, that it's no longer necessary to perpetuate our race. Unless the Powers That Be, by resurrecting us, change our ability to reproduce. So I say it with all my might: the secret of fertility is to let death lurk. "

The old Fyros pouted. More pure speculation. And it's badly written too. But then, who's going to judge it now? Who'll even read it anymore? He only writes for himself now. It's bad enough that back then, very few people read it...

A call from the bottom of the tower snaps him out of his thoughts.

"AZAZOR! YOU BIG BODOC! GET DOWN!"

He'd recognize that voice a thousand times over. It was that of his old friend, the marauder Krapoutos, whom he had met many years ago at the Diplomatic Outpost on Cloudy Cliff. This alcoholic Krapoutos, who had joined him in the New Lands to enjoy a less harsh and, above all, more binge-drinking life.

With a smile on his face, Azazor climbed down the tower steps four by four and came face to face with the scoundrel, who slapped him on the back.

"So you bodoc, you're leaving without saying goodbye?
- Hahaha! Sorry Krapoutos, but I had the Trykoth authorities on my ass, so I couldn't linger too long.
- ramèch, but he's going to end up a bastard!"

Azazor laughed outright. It's true that the idea has crossed his mind before.

"So, what are you doing here, you old drunk? Weren't you happy with your marauding buddies and your shooki?
- For shooki, yes. In fact, I've got a whole barrel of it in the toub behind me. But the Akilia business was starting to get on my nerves. And then there was one who was desperate to leave for the Old Lands.
- Ah? Do I know him?

Smiling with all his yellow teeth, Krapoutos steps aside to make way for a young homin, emerging from behind the mektoub.

"oren pyr 'pa, ça va?"

Azazor's face breaks down at the sight of that laughing face and red mane. He wants to kill him. Yet, stepping towards him, he embraces him. His eyes fill with tears of joy, as his son begs him to hold him looser.

In a breath, Azazor manages to say in his ear:

"I told you to stay with Lyren, you toub head!
- Like mother, like son," replies Uzykos with a smile."

Time seems suspended at the bottom of the tower as father and son embrace. Like a pas de deux between life and death. The old fyros, having sunk so low after reaching such heights, tells himself that all hope is not lost as he holds his son close.

After all, hadn't they planned all along to travel together to the Old Lands? Wasn't it their destiny?

The desert heat was still enveloping the Cloudy Cliff diplomatic outpost in the early evening. In the camp's only tavern, various homins of all races were chatting, playing dice or drinking in an atmosphere vibrating with a mixture of sweat, sawdust and alcohol. The dancing light of the torches cast unstable shadows on the glowing walls, and the smell of roasted armadillo wafted through the air. Azazor, wearing a shabby tunic covered in dried blood, was emptying his glass of glork with a pensive look. He watched his son Uzykos swallow his meat with difficulty, looking sulky. At their table, unconcerned as to whether he was being listened to, Krapoutos recounted, with gestures, how he had finally convinced O'Tello, the owner and manager of the Outpost, to let him make shooki liqueur. It was the fifth time in the three months since their arrival that he had told them.

"When I made her drink a glass of the shooki I'd brought back, you should have seen her face. I thought she was going to kiss me!"

At a table at the far end of the room, members of the Atakorum tribe were drinking in silence, their blue eyes piercing beneath the turban that enveloped their faces.

Azazor stood up suddenly, as Krapoutos attacked, for the second time this month, the anecdote about the pierced barrel and the drunken yubo.

"I've got to go and say a few words to them," he said simply, heading towards Atakorum's group.

Uzykos grumbled, his eyes fixed on his glass.

"What's wrong with your father? I hadn't finished my story yet!" growled Krapoutos.

Uzykos huffed and grumbled.

"He wants us out of here. He wants to go live with those damn turbans!"

The young fyros was not in the least pleased by this prospect. Having arrived here three months ago, he had quickly settled in, assisting his father in the kitchen and Krapoutos in making shooki liqueur, the first to be brewed on the road to Oflovak. Life in the camp was certainly hard, with almost no rest except in the evenings, when most homins gathered at the tavern to eat and drink. But there was this young homin, Akerna, who caught his eye. She worked at the tavern too, and they took advantage of their shared break to fool around in the scullery. Leaving the outpost to live with a nomadic tribe adept at potions and mysticism didn't appeal to him, and he decided to give his father a hard time in return. Not that he had the slightest hope of changing his father's mind. But at least he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him accept without flinching.

Almost half an hour later, just as Krapoutos had decided to leave the table to tell his anecdotes to other homins at the bar, Azazor returned with a smile on his face. Uzykos knew that his slim hope that the Atakorum would refuse to welcome them had vanished.

"They're leaving in two days to join the tribe. They've agreed to let us join them while they test us, to see if we're fit to join them permanently.
- Oh, because you're planning to end your life there? And you think I want to end up with those lunatics?" Uzykos insisted.
- They're not crazy, but they're carriers of great secrets. And no, I don't want to end my life with them. I just want to spend some time with them. We have a lot to learn from them."

Azazor paused for a moment, then added with a jaded look.

"After that, you don't have to follow me. If you think it's your destiny to stay here, spending every evening at the tavern, drinking and banging your fyrette...

Uzykos leapt to his feet, pushing the table away with a furious gesture.

"You're such a creep!"

He left the tavern, his face red with anger and shame. He wouldn't have admitted it to his father, but his father was right. Was this the routine life he'd been dreaming of, when the unknown opened up east of the desert? Raising his eyes to the sky, he spotted the star of the day, shining faintly in the east. Indeed, it was a little higher in the sky than when he had left the New Lands. His mind wandered as he imagined what might lie just below the luminary...

The Cybele nebula rose high in the night sky in late spring. In the atakorum camp, the crackle of a brazier mingled with the dry wind of the Morcelé Desert, while the scent of incense and wood fire perfumed the air. Around the hearth, the members of the tribe, dressed in their shimmering tunics resembling those of the frahars in some respects, stood and sang a strange tune, in which a rustic fyrk blended with an unknown dialect that only the desert seemed to understand. The flames cast dancing shadows on faces scorched by heat and sawdust. As part of the circle, Azazor's face was painted with the ritual tattoos of the Great Journey Ceremony. His eyes closed, he sang with them. Sitting nearby in the half-light, Uzykos scrutinized the turbaned silhouettes of the atakorum with suspicion. Their dark eyes shone with a strange brilliance, as if this people perceived more than the world showed.

When the melody ended, Azazor opened his eyes and stared at the old sage, standing on the other side of the fire, a black cup in his hands. The old atakorum, draped in a cloak adorned with varinx bones, slowly raised his head.

"The time has come, Azazor," he said in a throaty voice. You have shown over the last few months that your search for Truth is pure. The spirits of the desert are ready to open their eyes to you... if you are worthy. Are you still willing to complete the Ceremony of the Great Journey?
- ney," he said.
- So drink up!"

The cup passed from hand to hand, each spitting into it after a few chanted words, ending up in Azazor's. A greenish liquid rippled inside, thick and vibrant as if alive. A greenish liquid rippled inside, thick and vibrant as if alive. It was more than a poison. It was a test. Those refused by the desert died without further ado. Those it accepted... were never quite the same again. According to the tribe, this rite was indeed risky. You could fall asleep for days, sometimes weeks on end, and never wake up at all. You needed a strong constitution to even survive ingesting the poison. But awakening depended solely on the goodwill of the desert spirits. While awaiting the awakening, the tribe took care of the traveler, hydrating him regularly. For this was indeed a journey. Not everyone saw the same thing. Most floated at ground level or saw through the eyes of an animal. A few could sink into the ground and explore the depths. A handful even claimed to have seen Fyrak himself. That was all it took to convince Azazor to drink the potion. For him, this potion was the equivalent of what he had experienced when he fell into the Nexus rift all those years ago. It was to induce a state between life and death, the only state capable of seeing through the eyes of Kamis. For Azazor, this was what the tribe meant when they spoke of desert spirits. It could not be otherwise. If the Kamis had chosen him during his fall to the Nexus, if they had saved him during his confrontation with the flaming kipesta, they would spare him again tonight. This was his destiny. Everything had led him here, to live this moment. The kamis wanted to show him something. All he had to do was jump again.

Uzykos leapt to his feet.

"Daddy, no! Don't listen to those freaks! It'll kill you!"

His rage turned his face scarlet. He had never wanted to come here. But he had followed his father, out of love for him. There was no way he was going to let him die like an idiot and swallow this poison. The atakorum didn't react, content to stare at the flames of the campfire, which had suddenly become agitated. Azazor looked at his son. Fear shone in his eyes. What if he didn't wake up? What would become of his son, lost here in the middle of the Morcelé Desert. But there was no time for such questions. He stared intently at the young fyros.

"There are some things you can't learn with a retch, Son. There are truths only spirits know."

Eventually, Uzykos sat back down with a frown on his face. Silence fell over the circle. All eyes were on Azazor.
He raised the cup to his lips.

"Let the spirits decide!"

Azazor, still standing around the fire, felt the cup slip from his hands, spilling the few remaining drops into the sawdust. Looking up at the night sky, the stars seem to flicker and the heat becomes more intense. From the depths he hears a breath, a voice, an incandescent call. His eyelids grow heavy and, unable to resist any longer, his body sinks like a lump to the ground. Yet he sees. He sees the sawdust, as close as possible to his closed, translucent eyes.

He feels himself becoming liquid, like a puddle, and intruding into the smallest cracks. He dives, dives into the depths of Atys. He is the sap, flowing through a network of roots, ever deeper.

At the end of a journey that seemed interminable, he emerged in a vast hall. A sea of fire stretches out beneath him. Not a wood fire, not even the blaze of a fyros drilling rig gone awry. No, it's a living, liquid, moving fire. An ocean of flame, its pulsating waves rolling like those of the Great Puddle in which they bathed with Eeri an eternity ago. Waves of bubbling blood, spewing from the heart of Atys. It's the fire of the Great Dragon, the fire of fyrak!

Then he sees it emerge, an indistinct silhouette in the inferno, its eyes like two glowing luminaries. Its open throat, showing shiny black teeth, is the source of all its flames. Liquid fire gushes from its gaping maw, feeding the sea of burning blood. These flames rise to the surface, boiling the sap that bursts the roots. The ground shrieks, twists and gnaws. Atys groans like a wounded beast, his bark cracking under the thrust of the subterranean inferno. Fire invades the surface, sending animals scurrying across the dunes and through the flaming forests. The walls of Zora, the inhabited trees of Yrkanis, the pontoons of Fairheaven, the city of Pyr itself - everything writhes and crumbles under the bite of the blazing inferno from the depths. He even thinks he hears the kamis screaming.

He wants to shout back, but no sound comes out. The fire darkens, turning as black as soot. Only a few glints of embers flicker here and there. But these are not embers, they are stars. He's lying in the sawdust, eyes wide open, looking up at the sky, and a fire is crackling nearby.

"He's waking up!" he hears shouting. His son's voice. His son screaming. Many murmurs stir around him. A few words reach him. Three weeks. That's what stands out most.

He reaches out a hand and grasps Uzykos' wrist firmly. In an almost inaudible voice, he whispers:

"We are doomed... Not even kamis can save us..."