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.

End of Nivia, 4th AC 2619. Or 2620 already?

Here we are, we are at the Marauders.

Since we arrived, we go from surprise to surprise. Some more unpleasant than others.
The most unexpected one is that Azazor has been in a much better mood these last days. Our talks are quieter, and we have agreed on our course of action. It's about time. I didn't believe it anymore. The bodoc even asked my opinion, and not just once. I thought he was scheming something, but I guess I was mistaken.

So. We spent a night stuck on the side of a cliff. I've never climbed a cliff so high. We stopped about halfway up, following the directions the homins at the Halt gave us, when we could find a suitable platform. Then we walked for a few more hours in the morning before we found this famous pod. There, it hasn't been that easy.
First, we had to understand what they were saying. The further away from the New Lands, the more atrocious the accent. Toub, and we realized that it was mutual. That we had to speak slowly, with simple words, articulate. Not to speak fast and eat words as I had become accustomed to doing among the Trykers, by contagion.

So they descended the pod, and shouted things from above. By dint of shouting from each side without understanding each other, they finally put the pod back up with us in it. It was much wider than the one at the Halt, which allowed us to get into on with the two mektoubs. When we reached the top, we immediately felt that the homins in front of us had a different build than those of the Halt. The system of pulleys was however similar, so it should be believed that they were able to pull harder.

They looked at us with slightly startled eyes, probably because of our attire or what we'd yelled from downstairs, and then one said they didn't expect to see a convoy from the Halt for several weeks. I let Azazor do the talking, as agreed. We are not a convoy from the Halt, though coming from. We are Fyros scientists from the New Lands, heading for the Citadel. They were visibly confused, as expected. They asked if we had any goods, we vaguely explained what we were carrying, a mektoub loaded with bags of armadai meat. From behind them came a Matis with a somewhat hurried step and a stern look.

"This one I don't like," I whispered to Azazor. Two hours later, we were sure, I was completely right not to like him.

This one is Ostini. He's a sort of chief of guards, or rather he's one of the minions of the chief of the clan that owns the outpost, the Passers, as they call themselves. It's always like that with the homins. Give them a little power, and they'll work to devalue others to keep the little bit of privilege they have. In the end, Ostini asked the same questions as his homins, using a condescending and obsequious tone. A good Matis, the kind I had missed since we left. After a few minutes, we understood that he was only interested in the goods we were carrying, and understanding that we were not merchants, he then asked us to pay for our stay here. One bag of armadai meat per person per night. We gave him two bags of Titus' mektoub, without begrudging. This one will not come to claim them anymore, except in my nightmares. Ostini gave us a briefing on the rules of the Outpost. We will be allowed to keep our weapons, but must keep them stowed away when inside the compound, as well as a couple of relatively logical things, water is rationed and we will have to pay for it. We are free to use the dormitory, the tavern, and a partly open hall that serves as a place of exchange, as a market. He showed us the dormitory where we could stay, specifying again: as long as we have enough to pay.

So we were able to get to the center of the outpost. There are indeed six buildings, two of which are obviously reserved for the clan members, arranged in a circle inside the surrounding walls. A watchtower, the market, the inn, the dormitory. Nothing very pretty, like at the Halt. A rather functional style, whose some details vaguely resembling what the Marauders build in the New Lands.

"Two bags per night… we won't last long here," I whispered to Azazor.
At that moment my eyes fell on two strange figures passing further on, between two buildings. Two strangely familiar figures.
Disturbed, believing I was dreaming, I had a moment of inattention, and Azazor told me things I did not take in at the time. He repeated them to me afterwards: maybe we would spend more time here than planned. And that we should get hired as butchers or cooks at the tavern to pay for our stay, the time to organize and especially to recover our energy after several weeks in the Sea of Wood.

The figures, meanwhile, had disappeared. At the time, Azazor didn't believe me. "What? Fraiders? What the hell would they be doing here? Are you sure? What would they be doing in a Maraudeurs camp?"… We went into this dormitory. It's very basic, but it's still better than spending a night down there. I'm taking a moment of rest to write these lines, then we'll go to the tavern. I have a plan.

2620, été du troisième cycle.

Nous y voilà, nous repartons demain. Il s’est passé tant de choses ici que j’en ai oublié ce journal.
Pour résumer très vite… Des fois que je perde la mémoire.
Arrivés à l’avant poste. Ils ont pris notre viande, on a créché quelques nuits là à se demander ce qu’on pourrait faire, puis on s’est fait embaucher à l’auberge comme cuisiniers. On a commencé à planquer de la viande pour préparer le reste de notre voyage. Ils ont remarqué, Ostini, le chef des gardes, nous est tombé dessus. Azazor a eu l’idée brillante de raconter qu’on échangeait ça avec les akako akatorums contre un poison, En racontant qu'on a perdu celui qu’on avait emmené. Puis il a fallu que je montre mon poison à ce salopard d’Ostini, leur chef des gardes. Un matis. Bien entendu, il a tout de suite vu que ce poison ne venait pas des akatakomachins… Ensuite, celle qu’on prenait pour la simple tenancière de la taverne s’est révélée être la cheffe de leur clan. Elle nous a fait cracher le morceau, mais s’est montrée relativement compréhensive. Comme quoi, les maraudeurs d’ici, c’est pas comme ceux de chez nous. Ici, on peut parler.

Résultat, on a accepté de faire une livraison pour elle, pour repayer nos erreurs. Enfin, nos actions, pas nos erreurs. Ils ont eu la cordialité de ne pas nous balancer par dessus la falaise, ou quoi que ce soit d’autre. Sur le moment, la situation était assez excitante, je n’ai réalisé qu’après que l’on jouait vraiment avec nos vies.
La bonne chose, c’est qu’O’Teelo est prête à nous fournir en matériel pour ce travail. Des armures de maraudeurs, locales. Juste ce qu’il nous faut, pour espérer arriver à la Citadelle un peu plus inaperçus qu'avec nos tronches de fyros hébétés. Elle nous a filé une carte, le chemin à suivre semble simple, comme ça. Premièrement, longer la falaise vers le sud, pour trouver le point de livraison. Ensuite, là-bas, nous sommes censé rencontrer d'autres maraudeurs. Ils pourront nous en dire plus sur les danger qui nous attendent si nous décidons de suivre la grande chaine de montagne qui mène à Sentinelle. C'est ça ou faire demi tour, retrouver l'avant-poste et reprendre le chemin des Rangers.
Finalement, là est la moins bonne chose : quoi qu'on choisisse, on est contraint de faire un détour de plusieurs semaines, voire plusieurs mois...

Ce qu’on doit livrer? Je n’ai jamais vu un truc pareil. O’Teelo nous a ammené un petit coffret, et l’a ouvert devant nous. Elle sait bien que notre curiosité nous aurait poussés à l’ouvrir, de toute façon. Elle a sorti avec précaution trois objets, aux bords un peu verdâtres, ornés d’un coté d’inscriptions étranges, brillantes. Des lignes, dans tous les sens, des points. De près, j’ai remarqué qu’il s’agissait de motifs gravés, pas seulement dessinés. Les points sont de tout petits picots, incrustés. De l’autre côté, comment décrire… une multitude d’ornements, de petits objets, agglutinés les uns aux autres. Comme des éclats de bijoux de différentes couleurs, reliés par de petits fils brillants. Des rectangles, des cercles. À première vue quelque chose de chaotique, et pourtant laissant apparaître une organisation incroyable, chaque élément semblant trouver sa place. Comme s’il s’agissait d’une ville miniature.

O’Teelo les a rapidement enveloppés dans des étoffes de fibres, pour les caler dans le coffret, nous recommandant de ne pas l’ouvrir. Pas trop souvent, en tout cas. Elle pense que le vent et la sciure du désert pourraient les abîmer. On a promis d’en prendre soin. J’ai alors demandé : c’est Karavan, non?
La Trykette m’a alors regardée d’un air affligé : "Non, ça a été pondu par un Lumper". Azazor n’a pas perdu une occasion de se moquer de moi, avant qu’elle nous fasse signe de la suivre vers l’étable en emmenant le coffret. J’aurais voulu lui poser plein d’autres questions, mais ma première ayant été d’une bêtise totale, je n’ai pas osé en rajouter. Quand même, des fois je ferais mieux de fermer ma gueule.

Elle nous a sorti des armures. Couleur de la sciure du désert, rutilantes. Une à Azazor, une à moi. Déjà utilisées, visiblement, mais d’incroyable facture. On a négocié ça. Enfin, Azazor a réussi à négocier... Il m'a bluffée, là dessus. Ah oui, j’oubliais, avant ça, on a du aller chercher le fameux stock de viande. On s’est quand même sentis comme deux crétins, même si on était soulagés de l’issue de tout ça. Au final, on a même cru comprendre qu’ils allaient nous regretter en cuisine.

Il me faut écrire ça, aussi : je dois admettre que je me suis trompée. Nous nous sommes tous trompés. Les maraudeurs ici n'ont rien à voir avec ce à quoi on s'attendait. Akilia n'est qu'une cheffe de clan parmi d'autres, et tous ne reconnaissent pas son autorité, ni son combat, ni ses idéaux. Loin de là. La guerre qu'elle mène n'est pas la guerre des maraudeurs des Anciennes Terres.
Barmie le savait, sans doute. Je ne peux plus me souvenir de s'il nous l'avait dit, mais nous étions sans doute trop sûrs ne nous, de notre savoir, nous ne l'aurions de toute façon pas cru. Quoi, des maraudeurs qui ne sortent pas leur masse pour régler le moindre problème, qui savent écouter, et plus inquiets de contenir la menace kitin que de s'occuper des pitreries de nos empires des nouvelles terres. Presque des rangers, en fait. À croire qu'il s'agit des mêmes. Nous n'avons croisé que peu de rangers, jusque là.

Nous allons de surprise en surprise. Barmie nous avait prévenu des frahars du désert. Il s'agit surtout de Fraiders ! Je garde la hache que je tiens de ceux des nouvelles terres à mon ceinturon, mais je n'ai hélas pas eu le temps de créer de lien de confiance avec aucun d'eux. On en croisera sans doute d'autres dans le désert. Je dois en savoir plus sur eux.

Ah, tiens, et Azazor a décidé d'envoyer toutes ses notes vers Pyr. Je pense que c'est idiot, il a plus de chance de se les faire voler ou que le porteur se fasse bouffer par n'importe quelle bestiole sur le chemin. Je lui ai dit de faire une copie. Pas le temps pour ça, qu'il me dit. Tiens, ça me fait penser que les lettres que j'avais confiées au phare sont peut-être arrivées. J'espère qu'ils vont tous bien.

Pour résumer... En fait, non, il n'y a pas grand chose à résumer. Juste à se remettre en route.
Si. Je dois ajouter... et avouer : j'aimerais tant passer plus de temps avec les homins d'ici, découvrir les richesses et leur savoir, les comprendre mieux. Revenir un jour vers les nouvelles terres avec leur message. Mais allez, ce n'est pas le moment de s'arrêter, nous sommes si près de notre but. Un nouveau désert nous attend.

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.