After three weeks of walking, it is two exhausted homins who arrive at the foot of the slope leading to the Cloudy Cliff Outpost. Until then, this one had remained hidden from their view by a thick cloak of fog, except a few days ago, when, the mist having lifted, they were able to see it on the side of the cliff. As had been explained to them before they left the Halt, the ascent begins with a long, narrow path winding through the roots, often replaced by stairs cut into the wood when the path is too steep. It then ends with an elevator as for the Halt. From what they have been told, the desert where the outpost is built is much higher than the verdant continent where Fort Beacon is located. They can't see the top of the cliff yet because of the fog, but it must be gigantic.
After a laborious climb of several hours, pulling mektoubs as exhausted as themselves, Eeri and Azazor finally emerge from the mist. They can then see the outline of the outpost, a structure mainly made of wood on the side of cliff. Built on a large root that protrudes from the cliff, the outpost is solidly protected, to the west by the void, elsewhere by walls. It is held by the Marauders, although the presence of Rangers is allowed. As night falls, it stands out against the starry sky thanks to the torches lit here and there. From where they stand, it already looks imposing. Yet they still have more than half the height of the cliff to climb.
"It's probably at least an hour before we get to the elevator. I suggest we spend the night here and wait until tomorrow morning to go on."
"Surely we'll be fresher."
Eeri notes Azazor's change towards her. Before, he would not have proposed but imposed. But since their conversation a few days ago about their respective plans to gain acceptance from the Marauders, he finally seems to be taking her a little more seriously.
They put their stuff down against the cliff. As always since their departure, Eeri deals with tying up the mektoubs and feeding them, while Azazor takes care of lighting a fire. Before the wood catches, Eeri stops him in his tracks.
"Maybe it's not so careful to signal our presence tonight, don't you think?"
"You're right, no fire tonight."
'You're right.' Yes, definitely, Azazor has changed.
From where they are sitting, they can see to the west the cloud cover that wraps the Sea of Wood. Sagaritis emerges above the mist. The ringed star appears to float on the clouds, like a soap bubble ready to burst. A fragile bubble, like the situation of our two homins, lost in the fog, years from walking from their friends.
Azazor has a dream that night. He remembers the day he announced his departure to the Chancellor of the Imperial Academy.
It was a stormy day, as the desert sometimes experiences. The rain is pounding the facades of the Imperial Academy in a deafening roar. Taking his courage in both hands, Azazor knocks on the door of the Imperial Archivist. He just completed his initial training. With his publication of numerous works, he finally feels legitimate to ask for a place in the talumetim-an, the elitist training of the Academy, the one dispensed by the great masters.
Yet not everything goes according to plan. Euphanix Apotheps tells him that the time has not yet come. Moreover, no master supports him. All grant the akenak a certain intelligence, some intuition and a good memory. But sometimes he lacks a little rigor and discipline, sometimes a little something. Azazor insists, asks for what he is really missing, nothing to do, the archivist has no time for that, she is very busy. The Fyros finally explodes, he demands to be challenged, that he is far more deserving than most of the students he has been around during his late schooling, that it is not fair. He just wants to be told what to do.
So, calmly standing up from his desk to approach Azazor, Euphanix takes a deep tone.
"Do you want to know, Azazor, why few homins at the Academy like you? I'll tell you, since you want to know the Truth so badly."
The Fyros looks intensely at the Chancellor, ready to take the blow. She then tells him what will mark him for life, what will push him to undertake this journey to the Old Lands.
"You are not of their world, that's all. Most of them are from the highest social classes. While your father was a mediocre butcher's apprentice and a poor fighter. As for your mother, she was just a prostitute your father found at the bar one day while drinking. Here is the raw Truth!"
Azazor could hardly take the shock. He had always seen his father as a great soldier. As for his mother, whom he never knew, he only knew her from his father's glowing words. He clenched his fists, his face turning red.
"Sorry akenak, but you come from a social class barely above sawdust. Your rise in the Empire is an insult to many of the well-born."
Unable to take it anymore, the former legionary collapses to his knees, his clenched fists hitting the ground with force. A tear evaporates on his face burning with anger and shame. The last time he shed a tear was when his friend Lopyrech died, a long time ago. However, the rage soon takes over.
"My father died in the Second Great Swarming to defend the retreat of our people to the Kami Oasis! He saved all those palace pesters, all those cowards who…"
"Yes, I know. He was one of the volunteers who stayed in Pyr to cover the retreat of the other homins. And in that, he saved the honor of your family. But your origins unfortunately speak against you with a certain social elite."
She puts a friendly hand on the Fyros' shoulder.
"There was a time when the Empire was much more meritocratic. But nowadays, those at the top are suspicious of those at the bottom. That's just the way it is. So give it time. They'll recognize your value in the end."
"Time… No, I don't have time to waste here! They want credit, so I'll give it to them a hundredfold!"
While saying this, he gets up and prepares to leave. The Chancellor does not try to hold him back. She knows that it is useless to calm a burning fire. It is necessary to wait until this one finished to consume itself. While passing the doorway, Azazor turns to her one last time.
"In truth we, the lower classes, are like wood. It is the wood that bears the bite of the fire. It is the wood that cooks the meat on fire. But when the time comes to eat, we say to the wood: "You can't come to the table, you'll soil the tablecloth." The wood is then left to burn and return to the sawdust.
Before he slams the door of the archivist's office, Euphanix calls out to him.
"What are you going to do, Azazor?"
"I'm going to find the Dragon, whom it all began."
"In the Nexus?"
"dey, in the Old Lands. In Coriolis."
A few days later, he will send a letter to Euphanix, explaining his project, which he had been thinking about for years. To map the Road of Oflovak and the ancestral Desert, to study the local kitins, and if possible, to unravel the mystery of the Fire of Coriolis. He makes no mention of his intention to trade knowledge with the Marauders. He's not even sure he'll discuss it with them. It will depend on the impression they make on him. As for retrieving a possible imperial artifact from the city of Fyre, he might as well not talk about that either. Nothing says that he will reach there…
After a laborious climb of several hours, pulling mektoubs as exhausted as themselves, Eeri and Azazor finally emerge from the mist. They can then see the outline of the outpost, a structure mainly made of wood on the side of cliff. Built on a large root that protrudes from the cliff, the outpost is solidly protected, to the west by the void, elsewhere by walls. It is held by the Marauders, although the presence of Rangers is allowed. As night falls, it stands out against the starry sky thanks to the torches lit here and there. From where they stand, it already looks imposing. Yet they still have more than half the height of the cliff to climb.
"It's probably at least an hour before we get to the elevator. I suggest we spend the night here and wait until tomorrow morning to go on."
"Surely we'll be fresher."
Eeri notes Azazor's change towards her. Before, he would not have proposed but imposed. But since their conversation a few days ago about their respective plans to gain acceptance from the Marauders, he finally seems to be taking her a little more seriously.
They put their stuff down against the cliff. As always since their departure, Eeri deals with tying up the mektoubs and feeding them, while Azazor takes care of lighting a fire. Before the wood catches, Eeri stops him in his tracks.
"Maybe it's not so careful to signal our presence tonight, don't you think?"
"You're right, no fire tonight."
'You're right.' Yes, definitely, Azazor has changed.
From where they are sitting, they can see to the west the cloud cover that wraps the Sea of Wood. Sagaritis emerges above the mist. The ringed star appears to float on the clouds, like a soap bubble ready to burst. A fragile bubble, like the situation of our two homins, lost in the fog, years from walking from their friends.
Azazor has a dream that night. He remembers the day he announced his departure to the Chancellor of the Imperial Academy.
It was a stormy day, as the desert sometimes experiences. The rain is pounding the facades of the Imperial Academy in a deafening roar. Taking his courage in both hands, Azazor knocks on the door of the Imperial Archivist. He just completed his initial training. With his publication of numerous works, he finally feels legitimate to ask for a place in the talumetim-an, the elitist training of the Academy, the one dispensed by the great masters.
Yet not everything goes according to plan. Euphanix Apotheps tells him that the time has not yet come. Moreover, no master supports him. All grant the akenak a certain intelligence, some intuition and a good memory. But sometimes he lacks a little rigor and discipline, sometimes a little something. Azazor insists, asks for what he is really missing, nothing to do, the archivist has no time for that, she is very busy. The Fyros finally explodes, he demands to be challenged, that he is far more deserving than most of the students he has been around during his late schooling, that it is not fair. He just wants to be told what to do.
So, calmly standing up from his desk to approach Azazor, Euphanix takes a deep tone.
"Do you want to know, Azazor, why few homins at the Academy like you? I'll tell you, since you want to know the Truth so badly."
The Fyros looks intensely at the Chancellor, ready to take the blow. She then tells him what will mark him for life, what will push him to undertake this journey to the Old Lands.
"You are not of their world, that's all. Most of them are from the highest social classes. While your father was a mediocre butcher's apprentice and a poor fighter. As for your mother, she was just a prostitute your father found at the bar one day while drinking. Here is the raw Truth!"
Azazor could hardly take the shock. He had always seen his father as a great soldier. As for his mother, whom he never knew, he only knew her from his father's glowing words. He clenched his fists, his face turning red.
"Sorry akenak, but you come from a social class barely above sawdust. Your rise in the Empire is an insult to many of the well-born."
Unable to take it anymore, the former legionary collapses to his knees, his clenched fists hitting the ground with force. A tear evaporates on his face burning with anger and shame. The last time he shed a tear was when his friend Lopyrech died, a long time ago. However, the rage soon takes over.
"My father died in the Second Great Swarming to defend the retreat of our people to the Kami Oasis! He saved all those palace pesters, all those cowards who…"
"Yes, I know. He was one of the volunteers who stayed in Pyr to cover the retreat of the other homins. And in that, he saved the honor of your family. But your origins unfortunately speak against you with a certain social elite."
She puts a friendly hand on the Fyros' shoulder.
"There was a time when the Empire was much more meritocratic. But nowadays, those at the top are suspicious of those at the bottom. That's just the way it is. So give it time. They'll recognize your value in the end."
"Time… No, I don't have time to waste here! They want credit, so I'll give it to them a hundredfold!"
While saying this, he gets up and prepares to leave. The Chancellor does not try to hold him back. She knows that it is useless to calm a burning fire. It is necessary to wait until this one finished to consume itself. While passing the doorway, Azazor turns to her one last time.
"In truth we, the lower classes, are like wood. It is the wood that bears the bite of the fire. It is the wood that cooks the meat on fire. But when the time comes to eat, we say to the wood: "You can't come to the table, you'll soil the tablecloth." The wood is then left to burn and return to the sawdust.
Before he slams the door of the archivist's office, Euphanix calls out to him.
"What are you going to do, Azazor?"
"I'm going to find the Dragon, whom it all began."
"In the Nexus?"
"dey, in the Old Lands. In Coriolis."
A few days later, he will send a letter to Euphanix, explaining his project, which he had been thinking about for years. To map the Road of Oflovak and the ancestral Desert, to study the local kitins, and if possible, to unravel the mystery of the Fire of Coriolis. He makes no mention of his intention to trade knowledge with the Marauders. He's not even sure he'll discuss it with them. It will depend on the impression they make on him. As for retrieving a possible imperial artifact from the city of Fyre, he might as well not talk about that either. Nothing says that he will reach there…