ROLEPLAY

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…

Il est assis avec ses amis au bar de Thesos. Les flammes d’un brasero éclairent leur visage souriant. Il y a évidemment les légionnaires, Naveruss, Wixarika tête collée sur l'épaule de Lylanea, Zuros et même Lopyrech, revenu d’entre les morts. Il y a aussi Jazzy et toute la bande des Drakani, les Talodis, les Rangers du Cercle du bois d’Almati et d’autres encore. Tous, ils sont là, ils écoutent le récit de leur voyage. Eeri est également à ses côtés, et Uzykos, leur fils, en tunique rouge et qui joue avec la masse de Naveruss. La shooki coule à flot et on entend les rires qui s’entendent jusqu’à la forteresse. Il parle, sans difficulté, sans besoin d’articuler. Ses blessures se sont résorbées comme par miracle et il n’a plus mal nulle part. Il en est à l’épisode avec le dragon rouge.

« Alors nous acceptâmes le combat. Nous combattîmes avec une fureur sauvage et rencontrâmes la mort incarnée avec toutes ses horreurs, sans reculer ni nous plaindre. Aucun de nous deux ne demanda à être épargné ni ne s’enfuit. Nous combattîmes aussi longtemps que nous pûmes nous tenir debout. Et quand la mort sous forme d’une pluie de feu s’abattit sur nous, nous l’accueillîmes avec le sourire des combattants fiers d’avoir su mourir dignement. Je compris alors, juste avant de perdre conscience, ce qu’akep signifiait réellement. akash depyr, la mort dans l’honneur. Et oui, je remerciais alors dans un dernier soupir ce dragon rouge de nous avoir si vaillamment résisté.»

Il marque une pause puis reprend.

« Et pourtant mes amis, nous sommes là, devant vous. Car la destinée n’en avait pas fini avec nous. Elle prit alors la forme de la Karavan, qui vint à notre secours et nous sauva tous les deux. Oui, la Karavan !

Est-ce que je regrette d’avoir été sauvé ? Non ! Moi qui pourtant ne porte pas la Karavan dans mon coeur, je dis merci à elle. Car si cette mort face au dragon rouge fut la plus belle qui m’eut été offerte, celle qui viendra un jour le sera encore plus. Mais pas encore ! Pas aujourd’hui ! Alors vivons mes amis, et levons nos verres à la vie ! Qu’elle soit la plus glorieuse de toute ! CAL I SELAK !»

Ils lèvent tous leur verre en criant le salut du légionnaire. De nombreux rires se font entendre. C’est Uzykos, il a réussi à lever la masse au dessus de sa tête. Il est fort ! Comme son père ! Les rires se font plus fort encore quand il tombe à la renverse et se met à pleurer. Un pleur… Presque un cri. Oui, un cri strident, qui monte et se fait de plus en plus fort. Un hurlement ! Et… et le visage de son fils qui se transforme. Qui… devient… vaporeux… comme vu derrière un écran de fumée. La fumée d’un grand brasier. Un souffle chaud… Un souffle de feu ! C’est un dragon face à lui ! SON dragon ! Et ce qu’il a pris pour des pleurs, c’est son cri. Un son roque et guttural qui le transperce. Une poche sous son gosier se met à gonfler, gonfler… Et le feu se met à jaillir sur son corps qui brûle, brûle comme une bûche ardente, et se consume.

Il se réveille en sursaut, assis sur son lit de camp. Il fait encore nuit. Il se touche le visage avec ses mains et sent les plaques encore vives de ses brûlures. Mais il ne brûle pas. C’est encore ce fichu rêve. Toujours le même. Demain, l'expédition de retour tant attendue partira. Le voyage sera douloureux avec son handicap, mais ce ne sera probablement rien en comparaison de l'aller. Son corps le lance de toute part. Il a l’impression d’être dans un corps trop petit. Ça le tire de partout. La crème qu’il s’applique plusieurs fois par jour lui fait du bien, mais elle ne suffit pas à lui enlever cette sensation de sécheresse et de tiraillement sur la peau. Et bien sûr, les douleurs. Surtout quand il ne s’hydrate pas assez.

Assis dans son lit de camp, il repense à la soirée survenue il y a quelques jours, celle passée avec un groupe de nomades des Atakorum venu au campement pour du commerce de potions. Il a d’ailleurs eu à cette occasion une nouvelle révélation. Une de plus certes, mais le concernant spécifiquement cette fois-ci. En donnant son nom d’Azazor aux nomades, ceux-ci ont été interloqués. D’après leur culte, une forme de kamisme qui ne dit pas son nom, Azaz est le nom donné aux esprits du désert que seuls certains sages de leur tribu peuvent voir. Ce qui aurait pu n’être qu’une simple coïncidence s’est révélée plus profond que ça quand il a donné son nom de famille : Eridlo Mirihus. L’un des nomades lui a alors expliqué que Miri est un nom très courant chez eux. Peut être qu’un de ses ancêtres faisait partie des quelques Atakorum parvenus à fuir lors du premier essaim et ayant rejoins les Nouvelles Terres, tandis que la plupart s’étaient contentés de s’installer de l’autre côté de la grande dorsale. En y réfléchissant, ce n’est pas absurde. Mirihus signifie troisième de la lignée de Miri et son père lui avait expliqué que sa mère était issue d’une famille de nomade. Alors après tout, pourquoi pas ? De toute façon, on a tous un descendant des Anciennes Terres. D’un peuple de nomades très porté sur les potions et les rites étranges, cela ne l’étonne guère. Il est lui même une étrangeté parmi les siens. Encore plus maintenant avec son visage et son corps boursouflés.

Azaz, les esprits protecteurs du désert... Oui, les Kamis sont peut être aussi pour quelque chose dans leur survie miraculeuse. Là était peut-être la réponse au "miracle" dont parlait la Karavan ? Trop de questions sans réponses. Trop à réfléchir pour le moment. Azazor repose sa tête sur son lit de camp et essaie de dormir encore un peu avant demain.

Puis vient le départ tant attendu. Après des années de voyage sur la route d'Oflovak jusqu'au confin de Coriolis, après avoir survécu à milles dangers et vécu ce que peu d'homins des Nouvelles Terres peuvent se targuer d'avoir vécu, nos deux aventuriers prennent le chemin du retour, blessés et meurtris dans leur corps, leurs convictions chamboulées ou parfois renforcées, mais surtout fiers d'avoir su aller au bout de leurs idéaux. En tournant une dernière fois leur regard vers l'est, la mélancolie les rattrape, une pointe d'amertume de n'avoir pas pu aller jusqu'à Fyre et au delà. Mais ils ont tant à raconter, tant à partager. Azazor prend dans sa poche le cube d'ambre brisé qu'il a su protéger des flammes, la seule preuve qu'il lui reste. Il le montre à Eeri qui lui sourit. Oui, ils ont tant à raconter, mais aussi à offrir. Et c'est donc avec le sourire qu'ils se retournent vers l'ouest, là où les attendent les leurs.

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 ;-)
]]