Titus' logbook
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!
Nine days have passed since their departure from Oflovak's Halt. In the desolate, fog-covered plain, Azazor leads the marche, recht in hand. Titus follows, pulling his mektoub Polly loaded with dried meat, then Eeri, closing the march and pulling her own Ru-Dun, a hatchet in her free hand.
Suddenly, a growl can be heard. Like a powerful snort. Before Titus knows what's happening, Eeri releases her mektoub and takes out her shield, standing behind the beast for protection. Azazor moves closer to them and puts himself ahead of Titus. The group, standing together, has a panoramic view of the area. Yet nothing moves on the horizon. The fog prevents to see beyond twenty meters. One hears however like a gallop coming right towards Eeri, followed by a new growl. Then a huge yetin emerges from the fog, as tall as a homin. It leaps on Eeri who parries with her shield and sends it waltzing over her. The yetin falls on Azazor's back who has not had time to turn around. The animal, hardly stunned, is going to plant its fangs in the back of the Fyros when Titus, listening only to his courage, flees while yelling. The yetin has a moment of hesitation while seeing the young homin running away, moment that Azazor seizes to turn over on his stomach and give a blow of axe in the mouth of the monster. This one moves back while growling then charges Titus. He jumps on him with both paws in front and plants his sharp claws in his back. The young homin collapses while howling of pain. His scream is of short duration, because the yetin does not waste time and, with one blow of its jaw, tears off his head that it sends waltzing away. The head rolls on a few meters before stopping, the face deformed by the fear and the glance tightened towards the two survivors. The yetin then turns his mouth towards those, who are back on their legs and are about to fight. But the yetin immediately abandons them and grabs the decapitated body of Titus in its mouth to take it away in the fog, towards the west. Not asking for more, Azazor and Eeri take the opportunity to flee, each taking the reins of a mektoub and hastening east. They take one last look at Titus' head, who continues to stare at them with frightened eyes.
Thus lived and perished Titus, son of a former Marauder of the Dragon Hunter Clan and a homina who had gone on a quest to the Great Puddle for who knows what reason. Such is the life in these remote lands. Cruel, devouring the weak and their destiny, devouring even their own past. You who may dare to venture out there, never forget to write your story if you do not want this one to be devoured.