ROLEPLAY

Cela fait plusieurs heures qu’Azazor contemple le plafond de la tente où il est allongé. Plusieurs heures à observer la toile de peau légèrement craquelée par des années d’usure. Regarder les ombres danser au rythme du crépitement du brasero. Ecouter de vagues murmures lui parvenant du dehors. Des sons, des rires, où se mêlent la voix d’Eeri et d'autres homins.

— … ont l’habitude de les chasser avec leurs vaisseaux. Mais même eux font attention lorsqu’ils doivent les combattre. Les flamboyants sont intelligents. Ils savent se mettre à l’abri quand ils se savent traqués.
— Une intelligence individuelle ? Je croyais que les kitins n’avaient qu’une intelligence de groupe ?
— Pas tous a priori.
— Il s’est montré en effet particulièrement roublard au combat.
— Oui, et quand ils ne peuvent fuir, ils ont aussi leur terrible attaque de feu.
— J'étais probablement déjà à terre... Azazor a dû trouver son point faible pour qu'il attaque de la sorte.

La douleur de ses brûlures le fait décrocher de la conversation. Au début, il n’y avait que la douleur, comme un déchirure en continu irradiant tout son corps. Le noir, le silence, l’impression de flotter dans… une grande flaque de souffrance - la Grande Flaque - Eeri qui se fait avaler par le prakker. Eeri… Puis vint la sensation de son propre corps, l’impression d’être alité, d’avoir un haut et un bas. Puis les sons, des murmures, Eeri qui lui dit de se battre. Et maintenant, la vue. Ces ombres qui dansent.

Il n’est pas descendu dans les profondeurs combattre le dragon. Il a survécu. Et c’est à la Karavan qu’il le doit. N'en pouvant plus, il retombe dans ses songes angoissants.



De nombreux jours passent avant qu’Azazor ne puisse parler. Ses lèvres, qui s’étaient fondues l’une à l’autre sous la chaleur, ont fini par être séparées grâce aux soins apportés par les Rangers. Il peut maintenant marmonner quelques mots, en articulant péniblement. Il lui faudra des jours pour réapprendre à parler, et probablement autant pour remarcher. Mais au moins, il n’a pas perdu sa tête. Pourtant, des images lui parviennent, comme venues d’un rêve. Il se revoit encore flotter au dessus du désert. Les Rangers qui prennent soin de lui ont pu lui expliquer ce qu’il s’est passé.

On lui parle du repérage et de la mise à mort du flamboyant par un vaisseau de la Karavan lorsqu’il a utilisé son attaque de flamme et fait exploser une partie de la falaise - il se souvient d'ailleurs de cette conversation avec les Maraudeurs lors de sa dernière soirée avec eux, ils lui avaient dit que la Karavan traquait ce genre de kitin en priorité. On lui explique aussi le déblayage des décombres pendant plusieurs heures pour retrouver les corps des deux homins l’ayant combattu, le corps d'Azazor, toujours aggripant et protégeant celui d'Eeri, leur transport dans une sorte de nacelle et le choix fait de les ramener dans ce campement ranger de l’autre côté de la dorsale, malgré leur état, malgré le peu de chance de survie qu’ils avaient. Oui, la Karavan, ou du moins ces agents là, ont fait un choix qui ne leur était pourtant pas favorable : celui de sauver deux homins sans importance. Ainsi, la défense de l’hominité fait bien partie des valeurs de la Karavan.

Eeri vient d’entrer dans la tente. Elle a un sourire aux lèvres et une larme coule de son unique oeil, le deuxième étant caché par un bandeau. Une larme de culpabilité ? Peut être, mais il ne lui en veut pas.

— oren pyr mon gros ! Il paraît que tu peux enfin parler ?
— n..ney
— Ouais ben te force pas trop hein, je suis pas pressé de t’entendre de nouveau beugler !
— de… tal

La fyrette éclate de rire puis, contre toute attente, enlace d'un seul bras le fyros allongé qui grimace de douleur.

— ramèch, j’oubliai que t’étais sensible. Attend, je vais voir si je peux te ramener de cette crème miracle qu’ils t’appliquent depuis notre arrivée ici. Ça répare et ça calme la douleur.
— a...ke..p

Eeri soulève un pan de toile pour sortir de la tente puis tourne la tête vers son ami.

— C’est moi qui te remercie. Les Rangers m’ont dit que tu t'étais probablement placé devant moi, pour encaisser l’attaque de flamme. Sans toi, je serai morte.
— MM..m
— Garde tes forces, je reviens tout de suite.

Il aurait voulu lui dire « moi aussi » mais n’a pas pu. Il ferme les yeux et replonge dans ses rêveries.



Plusieurs semaines s'écoulent ainsi dans le campement ranger. Celui-ci est l'un des nombreux postes arrières rangers de la région. Il y en a d'autres, plus discrets, et parfois plus proches encore de la menace kitin, y compris en hauteur sur la dorsale. Le camp actuel est un lieu de passage également pour les maraudeurs et les tribus des alentours. Une sorte de lieu de paix, préservant sa neutralité dans les conflits entre tribus homins et clans maraudeurs. La Karavan l'a bien compris et y dépose parfois les homins blessés trouvés ci et là.

Pendant toutes ses semaines de repos, Eeri apprend à remplacer l'usage de son bras droit par le gauche. Il est clair qu'elle ne pourra plus combattre comme avant, d'autant plus avec un oeil en moins. Quant à Azazor, il réapprend à marcher et à parler, mais les progrès sont lents et difficiles. Par ailleurs, un éclat de bois avait traversé son crâne, abîmant probablement sa graine de vie. La Karavan, en les ramenant au camp, a parlé de "miracle". Ses chances de survie était nulles. Et pourtant, il était bel et bien vivant. Vivant mais durement blessé. La Karavan ne savait pas quelles seraient les conséquences d'une telle blessure, mais qu'il fallait s'attendre à des troubles. Pour l'instant, hormis une large zone devant son crâne où ses cheveux laissent place à une vilaine cicatrice, rien ne semble indiquer que sa graine de vie ait été touchée. La pire crainte était qu'Azazor perde la raison. Mais il parait pour l'instant avoir encore toute sa tête. Si les cheveux ont commencé à repousser à l'arrière de sa tête, malgré les brûlures, le devant sera à jamais dénué de cheveux, rendant son visage encore plus hideux avec ses plaques brûlées et ses cicatrices.

Les Rangers leur disent qu'ils devraient attendre encore avant de reprendre la route, qu'ils pourraient les accompagner, des expéditions rangers en direction de Fort-le-Phare et passant par la Halte d'Oflovak s'organisant régulièrement. Il s'agit principalement d'une rotation de Rangers, pour ne pas toujours laisser les mêmes au front. Le chemin du retour n'en serait que plus sûre et plus rapide pour eux. Azazor et Eeri s'empressent d'accepter. Leur état ne leur permettrait de toute façon pas de faire le chemin seuls.

Ainsi, les jours continuent de s'écouler lentement dans le camp, en attendant une futur expédition...

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 ;-)
]]