ROLEPLAY

Eeri laissa tomber la viande qui pendait à son sac et vissa son casque sur sa tête. Ses mains se crispèrent sur la hache.

— Un dragon rouge ! gueula finalement Azazor.

L'homine se concentra, décidée à se battre, et observa le kitin afin de déceler la moindre faille dans sa carapace. Ce dernier était déjà à quelques mètres d’eux, et avait ralenti sa course, comme s’il voulait lui aussi observer et apprécier ses proies. Sa carapace était écarlate, vive et luisante. Chaque écaille semblait palpiter d'un feu brûlant, comme si les veines du kitin transportaient des braises en fusion. Ce dragon rouge était un énorme kipesta de plusieurs mètres de long, entouré d’un halo de fumée grise, semblant prêt à exploser. Sa carapace, bardée de crêtes d'épines acérées, reliait son crâne protubérant au bout de sa queue écailleuse. Quant à sa poche à pollen, elle était bien plus imposante que celle qu'un kipeskoo pouvait avoir, et suintait d'un liquide écarlate et fumant, bien différent du celui que les kipestas produisaient habituellement. Pour finir, le battement de ses six ailes faisait voler la sciure autour de lui, et générait un vrombissement assourdissant.

Obnubilée par l'allure de la créature, Eeri ne vit pas sa première attaque arriver. Le puissant coup de queue qu'elle reçut dans la poitrine la fit valser sur plusieurs mètres et l'envoya s'écraser droit sur une souche, qu'elle se prit en plein dans les reins. Le souffle coupé par le double impact, la Fyrette s'écroula dans la sciure, totalement sonnée. Elle ne s'était pas attendue à une telle vivacité. Ne perdant pas une seconde, Azazor lança un sort de soin en direction d'Eeri. Bien qu'il n'était pas un mage expert en magie curative, l'enchantement mis sur son amplificateur était de bonne qualité et faisait parfaitement son office. Enfin... Fallait-il encore qu'il n'épuise pas tous les cristaux de sève qu'il avait en réserve, sans quoi il ne serait plus capable d’utiliser l'enchantement de son amplificateur. Et malheureusement, le premier coup porté par le kipesta ayant mis KO Eeri, il se vit contraint de bien entamer son stock. Tournant autour du corps de son amie en envoyant des salves de soin, et en esquivant les attaques du kitin qui l'avait désormais repéré, il parvint finalement à la relever. Ce qu'il ne vit en revanche pas, c'est le bord de la falaise qui se rapprochait dangereusement de ses pieds...

— Par ici ! hurla Eeri, de nouveau debout.
— Rends-moi ma hache ! Tu soignes mieux que moi ! répliqua le Fyros.

Ignorant Azazor, la Fyrette fonça sur le kitin, qui lui tournait désormais le dos, et lui assena un puissant coup de hache, touchant l'une de ses ailes. La créature fit volte-face et riposta d'un coup de queue circulaire, qu'Eeri esquiva cette fois-ci. Voyant que le kipesta avait à peine bronché, elle comprit qu'il en faudrait bien plus pour venir à bout de cet ennemi. La blessure qu’elle venait de lui infliger était ridicule en comparaison de sa taille... Furieux, le monstre donna un troisième coup de queue en direction de l'homine, qui l'esquiva une seconde fois. En vérité, cela n'était pas chose facile : le monstre était si gros qu'il fallait largement anticiper son attaque pour espérer éviter le choc. Par ailleurs, chaque coup porté par la bête faisait voler la sciure, envoyant un nuage de poussière brouillant largement la vision des Fyros. Repérant l'aura incandescente du kitin dans le brouillard de poussière, Eeri s’élança de nouveau vers lui en hurlant, telle une furie, frappant où elle pouvait. Mais la hache ne fit que ricocher sur la carapace brûlante. Le kipesta tenta une nouvelle attaque avec sa queue et la Fyrette se baissa juste à temps pour sentir les pics acérés racler le dessus de son casque. Elle en profita alors pour exécuter une contre-attaque, que le kitin esquiva d'un battement d'aile en prenant de la hauteur. Se retournant brusquement malgré son immense masse, la bête effectua finalement une charge aérienne et réussit à percuter Eeri, qui valsa une seconde fois à plusieurs mètres. Désarmée et affalée dans la sciure, l'homine eut à peine le temps de comprendre que l'impact avait déboitée son épaule gauche que l'enchantement d'Azazor remit aussitôt l'articulation en place. Son camarade continuait inlassablement de tourner autour d'elle, attentif à soigner chacune de ses blessures. Ramassant sa hache et vérifiant d'un moulinet du bras l'efficacité de l'enchantement, Eeri fonça une nouvelle fois vers la créature. Le combat allait définitivement être long...

Et effectivement, le combat dura ainsi quelques minutes. Des minutes qui, dans ce genre de situations, étaient pareilles à des heures. Si le kitin réussissait la plupart du temps à blesser Eeri, rares furent les fois où la Fyrette put le toucher en retour. Sans les soins prodigués par Azazor, elle serait morte depuis longtemps... Et lorsqu'elle parvenait finalement à atteindre sa cible, la hache venait se fracasser sur l'épaisse carapace du kipesta. Pas une seule fois elle ne parvint de nouveau à toucher ses ailes, seule partie a priori plus vulnérable que les autres. Comme si la bête avait compris. Comme si elle avait compris qu'il lui suffisait de prendre un peu de hauteur pour éviter les coups les plus dangereux. Le kipesta était, en effet, capable de s'envoler très haut dans le ciel, hors de portée de toutes attaques. Quand il ne pouvait pas s'envoler assez rapidement, il lui suffisait de présenter sa tête de front pour parer le coup de hache qui venait alors buter sur l'épaisse carapace protectrice de son crâne. Pendant ce temps, Azazor vidait progressivement son stock de cristaux de sève en soignant Eeri à chaque fois qu'elle se retrouvait au sol. Il n'avait même pas eu le temps d'ôter son armure lourde pour tenter de lancer un quelconque sort de feu. À quelques moments, le monstre tenta de s'en prendre à Azazor. Lorsque que cela arriva, Eeri enfila sa propre paire d'amplificateurs, afin de soutenir son camarade le temps de réussir à attirer à nouveau l'attention du kitin. Et le manège se répéta.

Il se répéta jusqu'à ce que, soudainement, comme lassé par la tournure que prenait le combat, le kipesta fit tranquillement demi-tour, s'éloignant d'une dizaine de mètres. Déconcertée, Eeri baissa sa garde et jeta un coup d'œil à Azazor. Face à un tel adversaire, un match-nul avait valeur de victoire, non ? Si son camarade n'était pas casqué, la Fyrette aurait probablement pu lire l'horreur qui s'exprima sur son visage alors qu'il pointa ses amplificateurs en direction du kipesta. Mais il était déjà trop tard. La créature se raidit, fit pivoter ses six ailes, et se propulsa en marche arrière en direction d'Eeri. Jamais les deux Fyros n'avaient vu un kipesa opérer une telle manœuvre. Sans même qu'Eeri ne puisse réagir, la queue écailleuse et acérée transperça son ventre. Tel un fouet, le monstre n'eut alors qu'à faire claquer son extrémité abdominale sur le sol pour se débarrasser du corps de l'homine, qui roula dans la sciure telle une vulgaire poupée de chiffon. Son corps mutilé et désarticulé allait demander de nombreux soins avant d'être totalement réparé... Sa précieuse pique aussi, auparavant attachée sur son dos, et désormais brisée en deux dans la poussière.

Probablement conscient de sa réussite, le kitin délaissa Eeri et se retourna vers Azazor, qui tentait tant bien que mal de relever sa partenaire. La créature poussa un grondement terrifiant, mais n'agit pas, comme si elle jaugeait son adversaire. Profitant des quelques secondes qui lui étaient offertes, Azazor fonça vers Eeri, vidant ses amplificateurs de toute charge magique, épuisant tout son stock de cristaux. Cela ne suffit cependant pas à la relever. Elle était vivante, il le sentait. Mais en très mauvais état, quasiment inconsciente. N'abandonnant pas, il tenta de la soigner sans enchantement, en armure lourde, épuisant progressivement son endurance à manipuler la sève. Si le kipesta continuait à l'observer ainsi sans réagir, il aurait le temps de la relever. Il le devait. Et alors que la Fyrette commençait à peine à se remettre à genoux, le kitin la renvoya aussitôt au sol d'un coup de queue. Désemparé, Azazor accrocha sa paire d'amplificateurs à sa ceinture sans quitter la créature des yeux. Il jouait avec eux, il en était certain. Ce monstre jouait avec eux, et après avoir vaincu Eeri, il cherchait désormais à combattre Azazor seul à seul. Sans pouvoir confirmer son hypothèse, qui n'était peut-être que le fruit d'une projection fiévreuse, le Fyros accepta le duel. Quitte à mourir aujourd'hui, que ce soit une retch à la main que des amplificateurs !

De longues secondes s'écoulèrent, durant lesquels les deux guerriers se jaugèrent, puis Azazor passa finalement à l'action. D'un habile mouvement de pied, le Fyros ramassa la pique brisée d'Eeri et la lança en direction du kipesta, qui la para d'un énième coup de queue et fonça sur son adversaire. Le duel avait commencé. Jouant sa vie, Azazor évita la charge du kipesta d'une roulade et ramassa la hache qu’Eeri avait laissée échapper de ses mains. Puis, il s’élança également vers le kitin, hurlant comme une bête. Cet accès de courage n'impressionna pas le monstre, qui fit valser le Fyros par-dessus le précipice d'un coup de crâne en pleine poitrine. Plantant sa hache in extremis dans le rebord de la falaise, faisant fi de son souffle totalement coupé, Azazor réussit à éviter la chute mortelle. Il arrivait à peine à respirer, ses côtes étaient probablement brisées, et il n'était désormais plus capable de relever Eeri. Mais il n'était pas encore mort. Réussissant à se hisser sur le plateau, le Fyros leva sa hache et la fit tournoyer au dessus de lui, gueulant de toutes les forces qu'il lui restait. Un cri de guerre, peut être son dernier. Puisant dans ses dernières ressources pour régénérer son corps blessé, il chargea le dragon rouge. D'un saut, il évita la queue acérée, et à la suite d'une ultime roulade, il réussit à porter un coup de hache furieux sur le flanc de la créature, qui ne s'attendait probablement pas à voir le frêle homin prendre tant de risques. En récompense de sa bravoure, Azazor vit alors voler une écaille écarlate. La bête avait finalement un point faible.

— ORAK !!!!

Mais la joie fut de courte durée. Le kipesta poussa un hurlement ignoble, et au même moment, le Fyros crut voir des flammes palpiter en lieu et place de l'écaille qu'il avait réussi à arracher. Comprenant que quelque chose était en train de se préparer, Azazor décrocha le bouclier qu'il portait jusqu'alors sur son dos et vint se placer devant Eeri, gisante toujours sur le sol. À peine eut-il le temps de se positionner qu'il sentit la température augmenter. C'est en observant la créature une dernière fois qu'il comprit que son impression était fondée. Le kitin était en train d'enfler de part en part. Du bout de sa queue à son crâne. Mais cela n'était rien en comparaison de sa poche à pollen, qui venait de tripler de volume en à peine quelques secondes. D'un mouvement erratique, le monstre planta sa trompe dans le sol, et Azazor sut alors que c'était la fin. Une explosion gigantesque survint, brisant la portion de falaise sur laquelle ils combattaient, et libérant un flot de flammes si puissant qu'elles rasèrent tout sur une centaine de mètres. La dernière chose que sentit Azazor fut la chaleur.

Faisant fondre son bouclier.

Puis son armure.

Et enfin sa peau.

((HRP: texte écrit à 6 mains par Eeri, Azazor et Finaen))

Azazor opens one eye. A single one. He sees himself floating, flying, like smoke from a great blaze. He is floating above the desert. He sees the Great Ridge, the desert and even water further away, beyond another mountain range. The Wide Puddle perhaps.

Dead, he is dead. There is no doubt. His body is all the way down, charred, reduced to ashes by the red dragon, and he is floating like smoke. Yet he has to fight the urge to let himself be carried away.

gladuch odraèt og, didrauch fyrak gladuch, these are the words of the gey-zas who died in battle, this is his duty. To fight the smoke that rises to descend into the depths for fighting the dragon. Then he closes his eye and concentrates to go back down to his last fight.

Eeri opens one eye. Maybe both, who knows. Everything is blurred. She sees nothing, feels nothing, except the impression to be posed on a substance at the same time icy and burning, vibrating of energy. The pain and the absence of pain. A long, endless howling seems to have taken possession of her mind, a shrill crash resounding on the sides of her skull. A long and terrible scream locked in her, erasing all notion of time, of past, of present, of future.

So this is the void? The nothingness? The punishment for her soul and her seed of life, the punishment for the mistakes of her past life, her secrets, her lies, her escapes, her abandonment?


An endless, deafening howl.

A shadow emerges from the chaos. There are shadows in the void? A shape, rather, a silhouette, a helmet. The helmet of horror. The din in her mind becomes more intense and piercing, as the figure gets closer. Icy daggers come to plant themselves in her orbits, her eardrums, her throat, her chest.

The pain, last release before the death.

And suddenly, the silence. Her spirit sinks into oblivion.

Eeri gently threw the bone she was holding into the fire, the last remnant of the yubo leg she had just eaten. Her interlocutor stopped talking and looked at her, in silence, aware that it was going to be necessary to leave her some time for her to absorb what he had just told her.

"It was that, then she articulated. They didn't say anything more?"
"They said they thought you were dead. It's happened before, and sometimes they give a decent burial to the homins they find, if they can. Does that surprise you that much?"
"From them, yes," said Eeri. "I always thought they were working against hominity."
"Against hominity? You know, they need hominity. And despite what their appearance suggests, they are not all the same. Some of them have the heart to protect all of us."
"ney, I see. And we owe them our lives. They saved us and healed us… A kamist and an… agnostic."

The ranger smiled softly and looked at the hominid sitting across from him. It had been several weeks since their bodies had been brought to his camp, and he had taken it from there. The care he had given them was beginning to pay off. Eeri had been the first to come to her senses the day before. She had let out an incredible howl, and had become so agitated that it took two homins to hold her down until she came back to her senses. Then she fell into a dumb silence when she saw her friend beside her. The next day, she got up calmly to find him, finally accepting some food. He was hopeful for the other fyros, even if he still needed several days of rest.

"It looks like your friend protected you from the flames. He was much more burned and injured than you, but he seems to be slowly recovering. They found him clinging to you, which is probably why you were less affected by the flames than he was."
"He protected me…"
"They suspected that hisseed of life had been hit. They had to extract a huge wooden thorn that went right through his skull, and that should have killed him. I hope he didn't lose his mind completely… In any case, his survival is undreamed. And yours too! In truth, it is a miracle that you are still alive. 'Miracle', that's the word they used. Can you imagine?"

Eeri remained silent, her gaze plunged into the campfire. Her fault. It was her fault. Again. Taking the path to Fyre, as if after Coriolis it would only be a walk without any danger. Then she lowered her gaze to her hand, lying motionless on her lap. The burns were still alive there, marking her palm and a part of her forearm. She turned her left arm over, to contemplate the palm of her other hand, miraculously spared by the flames.

"It won't come back, dey?"
"I don't think so. You were in a bad condition, unconscious, unable to regenerate. They spent a long time clearing up to find you under the rubble of the partly blown-up cliff, and after a certain time, some wounds become untreatable…"
"So these marks are imprinted in our seed of life…"
"Yes. And even their technology can't do anything about it. As I told you before, it's already a damn miracle that you survived."
"We Fyros are said to be very resistant to fire."
"And to being buried under tons of rubble, obviously! By the way, how is your eye?"
"Still nothing."

Eeri got up slowly, leaning on her left arm, and took a few steps to reach the tent that housed Azazor. She looked at the scarred face of her friend, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully on a cot. A light cloth modestly covered his torso and legs.

She felt a tear running down her face.

For several hours Azazor has been contemplating the ceiling of the tent where he is lying. Several hours observing the skin canvas slightly cracked by years of wear and tear. Watching the shadows dance to the rhythm of the crackling of the brazier. Listening to vague whispers coming from outside. Sounds, laughter, where the voice of Eeri and other homins are mixed.

"… used to hunt them with their ships. But even they are careful when they have to fight them. The Flamboyants are smart. They know how to take cover when they know they are being hunted."
"Individual intelligence? I thought kitins had only group intelligence?"
"Not all of them."
"It has indeed proven himself to be particularly cunning in battle."
"Yes, and when they can't run away, they also have their terrible fire attack."
"I was probably already down… Azazor must have found his weak point to attack like that."

The pain of his burns made him stop following the talk. At first, there was only pain, like a continuous tearing radiating throughout his whole body. Darkness, silence, the feeling of floating in… a wide puddle of pain —the Wide Puddle— Eeri being swallowed by the prakker. Eeri… Then came the sensation of his own body, the impression of being bedridden, of having an up and a down. Then the sounds, whispers, Eeri telling him to fight. And now the sight. Those dancing shadows.

He didn't go down into the depths to fight the Dragon. He survived. And he owes it to the Karavan. He can't take it anymore and falls back into his anguished dreams.

…

Many days passed before Azazor could speak. His lips, which had melted together in the heat, were finally separated thanks to the care provided by the Rangers. He can now mumble a few words, articulating with difficulty. It will take him days to learn to speak again, and probably just as long to walk again. But at least he hasn't lost his mind. However, images come to him, as if from a dream. He still sees himself floating above the desert. The Rangers who take care of him were able to explain to him what happened.

They tell him about the tracking and killing of the Flamboyant by a Karavan ship when it used its flame attack and blew up part of the cliff —besides he remembers that talking with the Marauders during his last evening with them, they had told him that the Karavan was tracking this kind of kitin as a priority. They also explain to him the clearing of the rubble during several hours to find the bodies of the two homins having fought it, the body of Azazor, always gripping and protecting that of Eeri, their transport in a kind of pod and the choice made to bring them back in this Ranger camp on the other side of the ridge, in spite of their condition, in spite of the little chance of survival they had then. Yes, the Karavan, or at least these agents, made a choice that was not favorable to them: to save two unimportant homins. Thus, the defense of hominkind is indeed part of the values of the Karavan.

Eeri has just entered the tent. She has a smile on her lips and a tear flows from her only eye, the second one being hidden by a blindfold. A tear of guilt? Maybe, but he doesn't blame her.

"oren pyr my fatty! I hear you can finally talk?"
"n… ney."
"Well, don't push yourself too hard, I'm not in a hurry to hear you bellow again!"
"de… tal."

The Fyrossa bursts out laughing then, against all expectations, embraces with one arm the lying Fyros who grimaces with pain.

"ramèch, I forgot that you were sensitive. Wait, I'll see if I can get you some of that miracle cream they've been applying to you since we got here. It fixes and calms the pain.
a… ke… p."

Eeri lifts a piece of canvas to get out of the tent and then turns his head to his friend.

"I'm the one who thanks you. The Rangers told me that you probably stood in front of me, to take the flame attack. Without you, I would have died."
"MM… mm."
"Save your strength, I'll be right back."

He wanted to say "me too" but couldn't. He closed his eyes and fell back into his reverie.

…

Several weeks thus pass in the Ranger camp. This is one of many Ranger outposts in the area. There are others, more discreet, and sometimes even closer to the kitin threat, including high on the ridge. The current camp is also a place of passage for Marauders and surrounding tribes. This is a kind of peace place, preserving its neutrality in the conflicts between homin tribes and Maraudeurs clans. The Karavan has understood this and sometimes drops off injured homins found here and there.

During her weeks of rest, Eeri learns to replace the use of her right arm with her left. It is clear that she will not be able to fight as before, especially with one eye missing. As for Azazor, he is learning to walk and talk again, but progress is slow and difficult. Moreover, a piece of wood had gone through his skull, probably damaging his seed of life. The Karavan, on returning them to the camp, called it a "miracle". His chances of survival were nil. And yet, he was well and truly alive. He was alive, but badly injured. The Karavan did not know what the consequences of such an injury would be, but disorders were to be expected. For the moment, apart from a large area in front of his skull where his hair gives way to an ugly scar, nothing seems to indicate that his life seed has been touched. The worst fear was that Azazor would lose his mind. But for the moment he seems to have his all wits about him. While the hair has begun to grow back on the back of his head, despite the burns, the front will be forever devoid of hair, making his face even more hideous with its burned patches and scars.

The Rangers tell them that they should wait before going back on the road, that they could accompany them, as ranger expeditions towards Fort Beacon and passing by Oflovak's Halt are regularly organized. This is mainly a rotation of Rangers, so as not to leave always the same ones at the front. The way back would only be safer and faster for them. Azazor and Eeri hurry to agree. Their condition would not allow them to make the journey on their own anyway.

Thus, the days continue to pass slowly in the camp, waiting for a future expedition…

He is sitting with his friends at the Thesos bar. The flames of a brazier light up their smiling faces. There are of course the legionnaires, Naveruss, Wixarika head leaning on Lylanea's shoulder, Zuros and even Lopyrech, back from the dead. There is also Jazzy and the whole Drakani gang, the Talodis, the Rangers of the Almati Wood Circle and others. They are all there, listening to the story of their journey. Eeri is also at his side, and Uzykos, their son, in a red tunic and playing with the mace of Naveruss. The shooki is flowing and the laughter can be heard all the way to the fortress. He speaks, without difficulty, without the need to articulate. His wounds have miraculously healed and he is not in pain anywhere. He is at the episode with the red dragon.

"So we accepted the fight. We fought with savage fury and met death incarnate with all its horrors, without backing down or complaining. Neither of us asked to be spared nor did we run away. We fought as long as we could stand. And when death in the form of a rain of fire fell on us, we greeted it with the smile of proud fighters who had died with dignity. I understood then, just before I lost consciousness, what akep really meant. akash depyr, death with honor. And yes, I thanked then with a last sigh this red dragon for having resisted us so valiantly."

He pauses for a moment and then resumes.

"And yet my friends, here we are, before you. For destiny had not finished with us. It took the form of the Karavan, which came to our rescue and saved us both. Yes, the Karavan!

Do I regret being saved? No! I, who do not hold the Karavan close to my heart, say thank you to them. For if this death in front of the red dragon was the most beautiful that I had been offered, the one that will come one day will be even more beautiful. But not yet! Not today! So let's live my friends, and raise our glasses to life! May it be the most glorious of all! CAL I SELAK!"

They all raise their beakers, shouting the legionnaire's salute. And many laughs are heard. It's Uzykos: he has managed to raise the mace above his head. He is strong! Like his father! The laughter becomes even louder when he falls backwards and starts to cry. A cry… Almost a scream. Yes, a shrill scream, getting louder and louder. A shriek! And… and her son's face which changes. Which… becomes… vaporous… as if seen behind a smoke screen. The smoke of a great fire. A hot breath… A breath of fire! It is now a dragon in front of him! HIS dragon! And what he thought was crying was its scream. A hoarse, guttural sound that cuts through him. A pouch under his gullet begins to swell, swell… And fire begins to spurt out over his body as it burns, burns like a blazing log which consumes.

He wakes up with a start, sitting on his cot. It is still dark. He touches his face with his hands and feels the still vivid patches of his burns. But he doesn't burn. It's that damn dream again. Always the same one. Tomorrow the long awaited return expedition will leave. The trip will be painful with his disability, but it will probably be nothing compared to the outward journey. His body stabs him around. He feels like he is in too small a body. It irritates him all over. The ointment he applies to himself several times a day does him good, but it's not enough to take away that dry, tight feeling on his skin. And of course, the pain. Especially when he doesn't moisturize enough.

Sitting in his camp bed, he thinks back to the evening he spent a few days ago with a group of Atakorum nomads who came to the camp to trade potions. He also had a new revelation on this occasion. One more, of course, but this time concerning him specifically. When he told the nomads his name, Azazor, they were taken aback. In their cult, a form of kamism that does not say its name, Azaz is the name given to the spirits of the desert that only certain sages of their tribe can see. What could have been a simple coincidence turned out to be more profound than that when he gave them his last name: Eridlo Mirihus. One of the nomads then explained to him that Miri is a very common name among them. Maybe one of his ancestors was one of the few Atakorums who managed to escape during the Great Swarming and reached the New Lands, while most had settled on the other side of the great root ridge. When you think about it, this is not absurd. Mirihus means third in lineage of Miri and his father had explained him that his mother was from a nomadic family. So after all, why not? In any case, we all have an ancestor from the Old Lands. From a nomadic people who are very fond of potions and strange rites, this does not surprise him at all. He himself is a stranger among his people. Even more so now with his bloated face and body.

Azaz, the protective spirits of the desert… Yes, the Kamis may also have had something to do with their miraculous survival. Perhaps this was the answer to the "miracle" that the Karavan spoke of? Too many unanswered questions. Too much to think about at the moment. Azazor rests his head on his cot and tries to sleep a little more before tomorrow.

Then comes the long awaited departure. After years of travel on Oflovak Road to the edge of Coriolis, after having survived a thousand dangers and lived what few homins of the New Lands can claim to have lived, our two adventurers take the way back, wounded and bruised in their bodies, their convictions shaken or sometimes reinforced, but above all proud to have been able to go through with their ideals. As they turn their gaze towards the east one last time, melancholy catches up with them, a touch of bitterness at not having been able to go all the way to Fyre and beyond. But they have so much to tell, so much to share. Azazor takes in his pocket the broken amber cube he could protect from the flames, the only proof he has left. He shows it to Eeri who smiles at him. Yes, they have so much to tell, but also to offer. And it is thus with a smile that they turn back towards the west, where their folks await them.

Eeri fell silent, closing her eyes for a moment, having said these last words in an unusually slow and calm voice, as if emerging from a dream. When she regained consciousness of her surroundings, Azazor was still writing. The skin on his bruised forehead was slightly creased. He displayed a concentrated pout as he wrote the last word, while looking up at her. She looked at him, confused.

"I… I digressed. You wrote all this?"
"ney."
"Oh, toub… I was just thinking out loud. Wouldn't you like to erase the last things I said…?"
"You asked me to write, I wrote."
"Well, we can always proofread and edit, right?"

The Fyros grumbled, he had no desire to spend time adjusting every sentence.

"If you're not happy with that, just learn to write with your left hand. Besides, it was kind of touching."
"Touching… For a Fyros girl who is half Tryker and half impotent…"

Azazor smiled and looked over Eeri's shoulder. A Tryker was coming towards them, smiling, emerging from the strangely familiar gloom of this place they had walked through years ago.

"… And half old, too," Eeri continued.
"Save your halves for later, I know one who's coming to offer us baba in full mugs."

By the time they reach Silan, Azazor and Eeri are exhausted. They greet Be'Arlly Emer, the assistant instructor on duty that day, with a simple Woren siloy when she comes to meet them. They don't stop to chat, however, and continue on their way to the small base camp just beyond. There, they stop, take a breath, glance around, then look at each other for a moment without speaking. They can hardly believe it. So this is it, they've finally arrived? Is it all over?

Six long years of travel and now that they're back, they hesitate. What should they do? Go back to their apartments and relax? See their friends again? Talk to the authorities? And to whom? The Rangers? The Fyros? The Trykers? Who would believe them? They're a shadow of their former selves. A Fyrossa with one arm paralyzed and one eye missing, a Fyros disfigured and mostly burned. But above all, they find it hard to part. For six years, they've been together. They've faced kitins, marauders, monsters of all kinds and even arguments between their two strong characters.

It's Eeri who breaks the ice and says in a tone meant to be nonchalant.

"I'm off to Fairheaven. I'll see you later."
"How are you getting there?"

The question makes the Fyrossa hesitate. Really, how? Here, they can teleport. So why continue on foot?

"I'll take the Karavan teleporter," she says without emotion. "I'll come to Thesos later."
"Okay, see you then. I'm going to the Imperial Academy first," replies Azazor in the same falsely detached tone.

He watches her leave for the Karavan sanctuary. There, she's gone. They parted, without joy or tears, coldly, as hard-hearted Fyrosses.

And now what? He takes a deep breath of the magic-filled air, then heads for the Kamis' teleporter.

Once inside the sacred enclosure, he approaches the Kami. A white, starry-eyed Kami who stares at him in curiousity. The Fyros kneels before him and remains silent. His breath is still ragged from running so fast through the small sea of wood between the Verdant Continent and Silan. Unlike Eeri, who had seemed reluctant to enter the New Lands back, he was in a hurry to get home. In such a hurry that, once back in the New Lands, he would rather take the teleporter to Pyr than complete the journey on foot through the ranger tunnel leading to the Grove of Confusion. But in front of the Kami, he hesitates. Even though he knows in his heart that the Kamis are responsible for his survival in the fight against the red dragon, he also knows that since he left here all those years ago, he no longer feels the way he then did about the Kamis. No more attachment, no more… trust? As if the years spent without calling on their power had cut the cord that linked him to them. He now feels free from the Powers. So why put on new chains? Yet he's curious. Curious to see if "it still works". How was it feeling to teleport? He's not sure. You'd fall into unconsciousness and wake up somewhere else. Nothing else? He's got to try it, at least once. Then, he swears, he'll only do it in cases of extreme emergency.

He stands up and asks the Kami to teleport him to Pyr. The latter asks him to confirm, as if he'd sensed the doubt in Azazor's request. But of course he confirms. Pyr. The capital. Home!

Then comes the light, the warm sensation, then...

Pain!! The body fragmenting!! The pain of feeling his body decompose!! His whole body!! His inner flesh!!

He collapses in pain next to Pyr's kami teleporter. He screams and rolls on the ground! His body burns, he... he smells the sawdust. Hot sawdust under his hands, on his face. The pain is just a memory. And that desert heat... His desert! He's back among his people. Onlookers look at him in surprise, some try to pick him up, but immediately turn away at the sight of his horribly burned face. Why such a pain at the teleport? The loss of contact with the Kamis for so many years? His burns? His head injury, which would have damaged his life seed? Probably this. The Karavan had warned that this could have consequences. But no matter, it's all the more reason not to teleport in future. He struggles to his feet with the help of his axe, blackened by the dragon's flames, one of the few things he has retained from the fight. Then he limped back to the Imperial Academy.

...


Euphanix Apotheps is in her office, filing documents, when there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," says the archivist, without looking up from his documents.

The door opens to reveal a Fyros with a burned face. An ugly hole-shaped scar deforms his balding forehead. He's dressed in a ranger's outfit and carries a well-filled bag on his back. His blistered hands hold a fire-blackened retch. Everything about his gestures shows he's at the end of his rope, and his eyes carry intense pain. Yet he takes a few steps forward, standing as upright as possible, his gaze straightforward. For a moment, the Chancellor thinks she sees Dexton when he was painfully emerging from his illness and was determined not to show his weakness.

"oren pyr Euphanix," says the Fyros in a hoarse voice.

Without waiting for an answer, he puts his pack on the floor, axe handle resting along the wall, and opens his bag. He pulls out a thick leather volume, which he places heavily on the archivist's desk. Varinx leather. Euphanix suddenly understands who she's dealing with.

"Azazor?!"
"ney..."
"I... what... everyone thought you were dead! We haven't heard from you in years."
"And my reports? Never received?"
"Yes, those from Fort Beacon. That's all."

The Fyros lets out a raucous laughter.

"I knew that Ranger had a face not to trust him with anything. But it doesn't matter, it's all there," he says, tapping the thick book on the desk.

Euphanix approaches his head to the cover and reads:

"kün geyum"
An account of the journey to Coriolis on the Road of Oflovak*

"It's all there," continues the Fyros. "All my reports burned up because of that damn red dragon. But not my memory." As he says this, he scratches the skin on his puffy face.

"So on the journey back, we put everything back on leather. My memories, those of Eeri. There are also readings of the star of the day, which should be useful for estimating the circumference of Atys,souldn't they? There are also sketches, notably of red dragons, various notes and maps. Anything our noggins can remember. I'll ask the N'ASA to make a copy to share with the other nations."

The archivist is tempted to open the book right away, but changes his mind. Clearly, the Fyros isn't finished yet.

"I'll leave the bag with you. Inside, there are also vials of sawdust from different biotopes for the xylologists. This should delight Ulyton Meros."

He then puts his hand in the pocket of his armor.

"And here's the most important one," he says with an enigmatic smile.

Euphanix sees him take out a small purse and place it on the desk in front of his eyes.

"Go on, take a look."

She can't contain herself and opens the purse, trembling with excitement. Inside, a shiny purple object returns her her reflection. She nearly faints and hangs onto the edge of her desk.

"An... AN?"
"An amber cube. Damaged. But you must know some scholars to repair that?"
"I... ney, some scholars..."

She delicately takes out the cube to admire it in the light of her office window.

"bavèchen coriolis fyrum... ramèch!!"
"Yeah, indeed. And know that some damn kincher attacked us right afterwards. I didn't have time to look for the missing piece."
"Was it in Coriolis?"
"In a temple high up in what's left of the mining town."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing."

With that, he picks up his axe again and sighs.

"Well, I'd spend hours discussing all this, but not today. If anyone's looking for me, I'm at Pecus."

Azazor then pretends to turn back, but the archivist holds him by the shoulder, not without a hint of disgust at the mangled body.

"Wait, Aza. I've got so many questions!"
"No, I'm exhausted and all I want to do right now is knock back a barrel of shookie. You wouldn't believe the crap they drink over there... We'll talk tomorrow. That'll give you time to read the book."

He holds the office door handle and starts to open it. Euphanix nevertheless calls out to him.

"I just wanted to tell you..."

The Fyros turns, looking straight into her eyes. Wet eyes. Eyes so tired and so... sad?

"Sorry Azazor," Euphanix finally says.
"Sorry for what?"
"For doubting you."
"Then arrange for me to study at the talumetim-an. I think I've proved myself," says Azazor wearily.

Euphanix smiles. Yes, he has proved himself. There's no doubt about it. The Fyros then turned and opened the office door to leave.

"And Eeri?" inquired Euphanix before Azazor crossed the threshold.
"She's probably at the Fairhaven bar, getting drunk. She's lost the use of an arm and an eye, but that won't stop her drinking."

The archivist watches the Fyros walk away, replaying in her head his last sentence. A missing arm and eye? Permanent burns and scars? From what hell had they returned? She couldn't wait to find out. She sat down at her desk and began reading the "account of the journey to Coriolis on the Road of Oflovak"*.


* The book includes all the information contained in the texts published on the forum. It also includes more detailed maps of the Oflovak route and the beginning of the AT desert (based on Kigan's map), measurements of the height of the daystar for estimating the circumference of Atys, sketches of fauna and flora, but also of the cities crossed and some of the characters met, as well as Azazor and Eeri's reflections on fyrak and the powers and some various confessions. Only Eeri's allegiance to Trytonnism is not mentioned. Nor is it mentioned that his escape from the Marauders was the work of a Trytonnist. The notes also include Titus's diary, which Azazor was able to recover on the return journey to the Oflovak halt. We can imagine that the reports already sent by Azazor will be included as addenda later on. It was written by Azazor (since Eeri can no longer use his right arm) but co-authored by Azazor and Eeri.

Hello,

I'm Finaen from the Lore Team.

I'm posting this message to thank Azazor and Eeri for taking part in this lengthy narrative experiment, which is - I believe - a first in the history of Ryzom. For my part, I had a lot of fun. The co-creation experience was very interesting, and pushed Lorists to work on specific, concrete subjects. In that, I'd also like to thank the whole team.

As this adventure has been positive, I remain open to discussion with those who would also like to experiment with this format. But I should point out that my level of English unfortunately doesn't allow me to play with non-French speakers... This proposal, of course, only commits me, and not the rest of the team.

Ryzom's universe is rich and beautiful. I think it lends itself to being explored beyond the limits of its gameplay.

I hope you've also enjoyed following this story, and wish you all the best on Atys, so see you soon!

Puisqu'on est dans les remerciements, j'en profite aussi pour remercier Finaean et la Lore team dans son ensemble pour l'accompapgnement, Nilstilar pour les traductions EN faites aussi vite que l'éclair et bien sûr tous les lecteurs et leurs retours.

Merci a vous tous pour cette belle épopée, que j'ai eu grand plaisir a suivre.

[[HRP :
Mon tour de passer aux remerciements !

Merci particulièrement à Finaen, merci Drumel, et merci à toutes celles et ceux qui se sont intéressé.es ou ont participé à cette aventure, de près ou de loin.

Merci pour le retour, le suivi et les commentaires et les encouragements de certaines lectrices et certains lecteurs.

Merci à tout ceux qui font vivre l'univers de Ryzom, de manière constructive et créative.

Enfin, merci à Azazor, sans lequel ce voyage ne se serait jamais passé, pour avoir eu l'idée de ce voyage, pour avoir eue l'idée d'inviter Eeri (et pour avoir été assez fou pour le faire) et enfin pour ses corrections, idées, critiques toujours constructives, j'en passe. Merci.

Eeri est donc revenue dans les Nouvelles Terres (mon irl chargé en ce moment fait que je n'aurai pas le temps de la ramener "pour de vrai"). Afin d'échapper à la réalité du retour et des retrouvailles, elle se cache sans doute quelque part, au fin fond du désert ou des primes racines. À vous de la trouver, à l'occasion ;-)
]]