ROLEPLAY

Folially 24, 3rd AC 2619

Things are starting to get clearer about our departure. Once we are ready, we leave again in two days. We will be accompanied again, but this time not by Kickan. This one leaves again tomorrow towards the Fort, with another team member and some goods.

The one who will accompany us is Titus. A Fyros, who looks young, but seems to have the energy of a bedridden celiakos. I exaggerate. He is just young, in fact. It's apparently also due to the high altitude, everyone here seems a bit slower than elsewhere. I feel weak myself. I can see that Ru-Dun is chewing its food more slowly than usual, too. Azazor seems to be stooped as if after drinking three vials of ocyx essence. As if everything was going in slow-motion.
This Titus, then. Since we arrived, he followed us, looked at us with big eyes, then asked us questions. Then he asked us to come with us. He wants to leave the island, to move away, to find the Marauders. I heard that his father was one of them, but he never knew him, he grew up on the island. Azazor eventually gave in to his request with a " Well. But no foolery, right? Taking a Marauder's son along, what a big deal. I objected. Azazor probably thinks it will work out in our favor. What if the father betrayed them? Well, it must have been a long time ago, they'll have forgotten. Above all, he seems too inexperienced for such a journey. "Do you at least know how to hold a sword at the right end?" I asked. Supposedly, he trains every day, he told us. I didn't want to be too hard on him, but I don't think he's ever faced a kirosta, or anything of that size.

And he asked why we were traveling, if we too were going to join the Marauders.
I answered nothing more than "scientific trip", naturally taking out my axe to resharpen the blade. I don't like it, but it's true that arriving at our next destination with a homin from the Halt could be a good point for us. "Here is a fresh recruit, do with it what you will." Or not, who knows. We'll have to adapt very quickly to the reception they'll give us.

So it's decided, he will travel with us to Cloudy Cliff Diplomatic Outpost. Discreetly I asked Kickan if he knew him, if we could trust him. Here, he told me, no one has any reason to want us dead, as long as we don't cause a catastrophe. I understood this while drinking a baba with him and the Matis we met earlier. Incidentally, the baba is slightly better here than at the Fort, but it's still more bland and insipid than the lightest byrh.

They told us a lot of things about the Halt. The inhabitants here are descendants of the Rangers of Atys, who settled here. At the beginning, now several generations ago. In order to guide the refugees, to offer them a break on the way to the New Lands. That we already knew. Many have left, but some have chosen to settle, and the Halt has quickly turned into a small town. "They don't lack anything here," Coccio, the Matis, explains to me. Few predators, some javings in the north, at most, enough game, a rather generous forest, a lake. The homins hunt armadai, too. So that's it, the bones and hides that are used to build the houses. Azazor asked how, and if he could attend a hunt, but the next one is not scheduled for a month. There is a large hole, a trap, somewhere in the southeast of the island. Homins imitate the animal's cry, or its predator's, and lure it to the trap. When they succeed in making it collapse, it is killed with a pike by the hunters, then butchered on the spot. It will not be able to get out of the trap in one piece anyway. The hunt for the armadai requires many homins, and sometimes gives rise to a great party. Its meat is very fortifying and invigorating, the main source of energy for them. By the way, Cuccio offered us two large bags filled with this dried meat, for the continuation of our trip.

No one is really Ranger here anymore, or part of the guild, now. One of the only ones who could claim to join them is Kickan, like a few others of his temperament. But he is satisfied with his work between the Fort and the Halt. And as he told us: if he didn't do it, who would? Real Rangers regularly pass through here, and are admired and welcomed as heroes, as life outside the island is so harsh. But if many young people dream of joining them, few actually do. As Coccio says, when you are born here, life is so quiet that you don't need to go running around the world... Kickan joked something like: "Coccio, you are telling that to two Fyros who just traveled half of the Oflovak Road! What do you think? That you're going to convince them to settle here?"
So, Titus' case is quite rare. It was triggered when, as a child, he learned that his father was a former Marauder. By the way, the homin in question had died during an armadai hunt, after slipping and falling into the trap. The animal, in panic, crushed him with its paw, a rare but fatal accident.

But then, we asked, "On the island, neither Rangers nor Marauders, how can they remain so carefree? Marauders in the New Lands are at war with the Nations. What would they do if Marauders here tried to invade the island?" From what I understood from Coccio's explanation, that would be of no interest, to anyone. Marauders are as welcome here as any homin, out of loyalty to the Ranger tradition. The physical capacities are less, for those who are not born there, so they don't stay very long, they soon feel too weak. Just like us. And there is nothing to fight here: no kitins, no Powers, no Nations, and a popular organization. The job of the Island Council is to ensure that these traditions are respected, and to administer the city in consultation with everyone. Coccio is elected with five others for a few years of Jena, and will leave his place in two years. "Maybe to Kickan," he said with a smile. "He would do a good job." To which Kickan replied sarcastically that he was not old enough, like him, for such a task. "The Council? Stuff for bedridden!" he said. "Not as much as back home in the Desert," I added.
"Getting back to the marauders... We know how to quell the troublemakers," Coccio tells me. "Usually they behave well. It even happened in the past that some of them settled on the island, which is very frowned upon among them." Just like it will upon us: he warns us that we will be very unwelcome among the Marauders. But, the fact that we are traveling with a homin from here will maybe be helpful, and if we bring some goods, too.

Besides their benevolence, Azazor and I thought we saw in our hosts a kind of insouciance regarding the problems of the world, and above all, we were stunned by this lack of curiosity, this total absence of the thirst for knowledge that inhabits us. We looked at each other, and kept our mouths shut. As if for the first time in a long time, we understood each other.

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.

fin de Nivia, 4th AC 2619. Ou déjà 2620?

Nous y voilà, nous sommes chez les maraudeurs.

Depuis que nous sommes arrivés, nous avançons de surprise en surprises. Certaines plus désagréables que d’autres.
La plus inattendue, c’est qu’Azazor a été de bien meilleure humeur ces derniers jours. Nous parlons plus calmement, et nous nous sommes mis d’accord sur notre ligne de conduite. C’était pas trop tôt. Je ne m’y attendais plus. Le bodoc, il m’a même demandé mon avis, et pas qu’une fois. J’ai cru qu’il manigançait quelque chose, mais j’ai dû me tromper.

Bref. Nous avons passé une nuit à flanc de falaise. Je n’ai jamais escaladé une falaise si haute. Nous nous sommes arrêtés à mi-chemin environ, suivant les indications des homins de la Halte, lorsque nous avons pu trouver une plateforme convenable. Puis nous avons encore marché quelques heures le matin avant de trouver cette fameuse nacelle. Là, ça n’a pas été aussi facile.
Déjà, il a fallut comprendre ce qu’ils racontaient. Plus on s’éloigne des Nouvelles Terres, plus l’accent est atroce. Toub, et il a fallu qu’on se rende compte que c’était réciproque. Que nous devions parler lentement, avec des mots simples, articuler. Ne pas parler vite en mangeant des mots comme j’avais pris l’habitude de le faire chez les trykers, par imitation.

Alors, ils ont descendu la nacelle, et gueulé des trucs d'en haut. À force de gueuler de chaque côté sans se comprendre, ils ont finit par remonter la nacelle avec nous dedans. Elle était bien plus large que celle de la Halte, ce qui nous a permis de tenir avec les deux mektoubs. En arrivant en haut, on a tout de suite senti que les homins en face de nous avaient une autre carrure que ceux de la Halte. Le système de poulies était pourtant similaire, faut croire qu'ils savaient tirer plus fort.

Ils nous ont regardés avec des yeux un peu effarés, sans doute à cause de notre accoutrement ou de ce qu'on avait gueulé d'en bas, puis l'un nous a dit qu'ils ne s'attendaient pas à voir un convoi de la Halte avant plusieurs semaines. J’ai laissé Azazor parler, comme convenu. Nous ne sommes pas un convoi de la Halte, même si nous en arrivons. Nous sommes des scientifiques fyros des Nouvelles Terres, nous nous dirigeons vers la Citadelle. Ils étaient visiblement confus, comme on s’y attendait. Ils ont demandé si on avait des marchandises, on leur a vaguement expliqué ce que l’on transportait, un mektoub chargé de sacs de viande d’Armadaï. De derrière eux est arrivé un matis le pas un peu pressant et l’air sévère.

"c’ui là, je l’aime pas" j’ai chuchoté à Azazor. Deux heures plus tard, on était fixés, j’avais entièrement raison de pas l’aimer.

Celui là, c’est Ostini. C’est une sorte de chef des gardes, ou plutôt c’est l’un des sous-fifre du chef du clan qui possède l’avant-poste, les Passeurs, comme ils se font appeler. C’est toujours comme ça avec les homins. Donne leur un peu de pouvoir, ils s’emploieront à dévaloriser les autres pour conserver le petit bout de privilège qu’ils ont en plus. Au final, Ostini a posé les mêmes questions que ses homins, employant un ton condescendant et obséquieux. Un bon matis du genre de ceux qui m’avaient manqué depuis notre départ. Après quelques minutes, nous avons compris qu’il ne s’intéressait qu’aux marchandises que l’on pouvait transporter, et comprenant que nous n’étions pas des marchands, il nous a alors demandé de payer notre séjour ici. Un sac de viande d’armadaï par personne et par nuit. On lui a donné deux sacs du mektoub de Titus, sans rechigner. Celui-là ne viendra plus les réclamer, sauf dans mes cauchemars. Ostini nous a fait un topo des règles de l’avant-poste. Ils nous laissent nos armes, mais nous devons les garder rangées lorsqu’on est à l’intérieur de l’enceinte, ainsi que deux ou trois trucs relativement logiques, l’eau est rationnée et il nous faudra la payer. Nous sommes libres d'utiliser le dortoir, la taverne, et un hall en partie ouvert qui sert de lieu d’échange, de marché. Il nous a montré le dortoir où l’on pourra rester, en précisant de nouveau : tant qu’on a de quoi payer.

Nous avons donc pu arriver au centre de l’avant-poste. Il y a en effet six bâtiments dont deux visiblement réservés aux membres du clan, disposés en cercle à l'intérieur des murs d'enceinte. Une tour de guet, le marché, l'auberge, le dortoir. Rien de bien joli, comme à la Halte. Un style plutôt fonctionnel, mais certains détails ressemblant vaguement à ce que les maraudeurs construisent dans les nouvelles terres.

"Deux sacs par nuit, on ne va pas faire long feu", j’ai chuchoté à Azazor.
À ce moment mes yeux se sont posés sur deux étranges silhouettes qui passaient plus loin, entre deux bâtiments. Deux silhouettes étrangement familières.
J’ai eu un moment d’inattention, comme si j’avais cru rêver. Azazor m’a dit des choses que je n’ai pas intégrées sur le moment. Il me les a répétées plus tard : on allait peut-être passer plus de temps que prévu ici. Par exemple qu'on devrait se faire embaucher comme bouchers ou cuisiniers à la taverne pour payer notre séjour, le temps d’organiser et surtout de récupérer notre énergie après plusieurs semaines dans la Mer de Bois.

Les silhouettes, entre-temps, avaient disparu. Sur le moment, Azazor ne m’a pas crue. Quoi, des Fraiders? Qu’est-ce qu’ils foutraient là? Tu es sûre? Que feraient-ils dans un camps maraudeur? Nous sommes entrés dans ce dortoir. C’est très rudimentaire, mais ça sera toujours mieux que de passer une nuit en bas. Je profite d’un moment de repos pour écrire ces lignes, puis nous irons à la taverne. J’ai un 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.