ROLEPLAY

Probably Nivia, 2nd AC, 2618. Or 3rd AC, we don't know anymore.

Done with playing.
This place annihilates our discernment.
If I really have an advice to leave, if we manage at least to leave a trace of this trip, and that we don't stupidly die on the way, it's this one: Take a guide, my li'l ones. Leave your Fyros pride aside, your Matis dignity, your Tryker assurance, or your... whatever, I can't find anything for the Zorais... Leave everything aside, take a guide. Recognize that you are not up to it. No one is. Ah, yes, your Zoraï certainties. In the end, it's all the same, certainties, dignity, pride... You're going to die. We will die.

What we just went through, what happened between Azazor and me, I won't write about it here. I don't want to leave that to future generations. We are not ourselves, we are on edge. The smallest detail becomes a pretext for endless quarrels. Well, we should have brought up some things long ago, before we left. But he wouldn't have accepted my methods anyway... Rightly or wrongly.
I do my best not to show him that I am freaking out. He tells me he saw "something". And that seems to be enough for him to choke back many things and focus on the road. Or he is playing with me, it is his turn, but he does not have enough energy to invent a proper story. Something, a shape, gigantic, in the mist. Eyes. More eyes, he sees eyes everywhere. I think I'm going as crazy as he is here. All I saw was mist.

First, we have to reach Fort Beacon. We need to rest and eat something other than grasses. Then we will be able to talk, and make a decision. If we don't die first.