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…

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."

C’est un Azazor et une Eeri exténués qui arrivent à Silan. Ils saluent l’assistante instructeur de garde Be’Arlly Emer d’un simple woren siloy quand celle-ci vient à leur rencontre. Ils ne s’arrêtent pourtant pas pour discuter et continuent leur route jusqu’au petit campement de base installé juste après. Arrivés là, ils s'arrêtent, soufflent un coup, lancent un regard aux alentours, puis se regardent un instant sans parler. Ils ont du mal à y croire. Alors ça y est, ils sont enfin arrivés? C'est fini?

Six longues années de voyage et maintenant qu'ils sont de retour, ils hésitent. Que faire? Aller se reposer dans leur appartement respectif? Revoir leurs amis? Parler aux autorités? Et à qui? Aux Rangers? Aux Fyros? Aux Trykers? Qui les croierait? Ils ne sont plus que l'ombre d'eux-même. Une Fyrette avec un bras paralysé et un oeil en moins, un Fyros défiguré et en grande partie brûlé. Mais surtout, ils ont du mal à se séparer. Depuis six ans, ils sont ensembles. Ils ont tout affronté, les kitins, les maraudeurs, les monstres en tout genre et même les disputes entre leurs deux forts caractères.

C'est Eeri qui brise la glace et dit d'un ton qui se veut nonchalant.

— Je vais à Fairheaven. On se revoit plus tard.
— Tu y vas comment?

La question fait hésiter la Fyrette. C'est vrai ça, comment? Ici, ils peuvent se téléporter. Alors pourquoi continuer à pied?

— Je vais prendre le téléporteur Karavan, dit-elle sans émotion. Je viendrai à Thesos plus tard.
— Ok, alors à plus tard. Je passe d'abord à l'Académie Impériale, lui répond Azazor sur le même ton faussement détaché.

Celui-ci la regarde partir vers le sanctuaire de la Karavan. Voilà, elle est partie. Ils se sont quittés, sans effusions de joie ni de larmes, froidement, en fyros au coeur dur.

Et maintenant? Il souffle un peu, respirant à plein poumon cet air rempli de magie, puis se dirige vers le téléporteur kami.

Arrivé dans l’enceinte sacrée, il s’approche du Kami. Un Kami blanc aux yeux étoilés qui le regarde avec curiosité. Le Fyros met un genou à terre devant lui et reste silencieux. Il a encore le souffle rauque d’avoir couru aussi vite dans la petite mer de bois entre le Continent Verdoyant et Silan. Contrairement à Eeri, qui avait semblé hésiter à rentrer dans les Nouvelles Terres, il était pressé de rentrer chez lui. Pressé au point qu’une fois de retour sur les Nouvelles Terres, il préfère prendre le téléporteur vers Pyr que de terminer le trajet à pied en passant par le tunnel ranger menant au Bosquet de la Confusion. Mais devant le Kami, il hésite. Même s’il sait au fond de son cœur que les Kamis sont responsables de sa survie lors de son combat contre le dragon rouge, il sait aussi que depuis son départ d’ici, il y a de ça de longues années, il ne ressent plus ce qu’il ressentait avant pour les Kamis. Plus d’attachement, plus de… confiance ? Comme si les années passées sans faire appel à leur puissance avaient coupé le cordon qui le reliait à eux. Il se sent maintenant libre des Puissances. Alors pourquoi remettre de nouvelles chaines ? Pourtant il est curieux. Curieux de voir si « ça marche encore ». Quelle était cette sensation déjà, quand on se téléportait ? Il ne sait plus trop. On tombait dans l’inconscience pour se réveiller ailleurs. Rien d’autre ? Il faut qu’il essaie, au moins une fois. Ensuite, juré, il ne le fera plus que pour les cas d’extrême urgence.

Il se relève et s’adresse au Kami pour qu’il le téléporte à Pyr. Celui-ci lui demande de confirmer, comme s'il avait vu le doute dans la demande d'Azazor. Mais bien sûr qu'il confirme. Pyr. La capitale. Chez lui!

Alors vient la lumière, la sensation de chaud, puis…

La douleur !! Le corps qui se fragmente !! La souffrance de sentir son corps se décomposer !! Tout son corps !! Sa chair intérieure !!

Il s’écroule de douleur à côté du téléporteur kami de Pyr. Il hurle et se roule au sol ! Son corps le brûle, il… il sent la sciure. La sciure chaude sous ses mains, sur son visage. La douleur n’est plus qu’un souvenir. Et cette chaleur du désert… Son désert ! Il est de retour parmi les siens. Les badauds le regardent avec surprise, certains tentent de le relever mais s’éloignent aussitôt en voyant son horrible visage brûlé. Pourquoi cette douleur au téléport ? La perte de contact avec les Kamis pendant tant d’années ? Ses brûlures ? Sa blessure à la tête qui aurait endommagé sa graine de vie ? Probablement ça. La Karavan avait prévenu que cela pourrait avoir des conséquences. Mais peu importe, c’est une raison de plus pour ne plus se téléporter à l’avenir. Il se relève péniblement en s'aidant de sa hache noircie par les flammes du dragon, l'une des seules choses qu'il ait gardé du combat. Puis il se remet en route en boitant un peu vers l’Académie Impériale.



Euphanix Apotheps est dans son bureau, en train de classer des documents quand on frappe à sa porte.

— Entrez, dit l’archiviste sans lever la tête de ses documents.

La porte s’ouvre sur un Fyros au visage brûlé. Une vilaine cicatrice en forme de trou déforme son front dégarni. Il est en tenue ranger et porte sur son dos un sac bien rempli. Ses mains cloquées tiennent une retch noircie par le feu. Tout dans ses gestes montre qu'il est au bout de ses forces et ses yeux portent en eux une douleur intense. Pourtant, il fait quelques pas en avant, se tenant le plus droit possible, le regard franc. L'espace d'un instant, la chancelière croit voir Dexton quand il sortait péniblement de sa maladie et tenait à tout prix à ne pas montrer sa faiblesse.

— oren pyr Euphanix, dit le Fyros d’une voix rauque.

Sans attendre de réponse, il pose son bardage au sol, le manche de sa hache posée le long du mur et ouvre son sac. Il en sort un épais livre en cuir qu’il pose lourdement sur le bureau de l’archiviste. Du cuir de varinx. Euphanix comprend soudain à qui elle a affaire.

— Azazor ?!
— ney...
— Je… que… tout le monde te croyait mort ! On n’a plus de nouvelle de toi depuis des années.
— Et mes rapports ? Jamais reçus ?
— Si, ceux de Fort-le-Phare. C’est tout.

Le Fyros est pris d’un rire gras.

— Je savais bien que ce Ranger avait une tête à pas lui confier quoi que ce soit. Mais c'est pas grave, tout est là, fait-il en tapotant l’épais livre sur le bureau.

Euphanix approche sa tête de la couverture et lit :

« kün geyum »

Récit du voyage sur la route d’Oflovak jusqu’à Coriolis*

— Tout y est, reprend le Fyros. Tous mes rapports ont cramé à cause de ce foutu dragon rouge. Mais pas ma mémoire.Se faisant, il se gratte la peau de son visage boursouflé.

— Alors pendant le trajet retour, on a tout remis sur cuir. Mes souvenirs, ceux d'Eeri. Il y a aussi des relevés de l’astre du jour, ça doit bien servir pour évaluer la circonférence d’Atys ? Il y a également des croquis, notamment des dragons rouges, des notes diverses et variées, des cartes. Tout ce que nos caboches ont pu se souvenir. Je demanderai à la N'ASA d'en faire une copie pour la partager avec les autres nations.

L’archiviste est tenté d’ouvrir dès maintenant le recueil mais se ravise. Visiblement, le Fyros n’en a pas fini.

— Je te laisse le sac. A l’intérieur, y’a aussi des fioles de sciure de différents biotopes pour les xylologues. Ça devrait ravir Ulyton Meros.

Il met alors sa main à la poche de son armure.

— Et voici le plus important, dit-il avec un sourire énigmatique.

Euphanix le voit en sortir une petite bourse qu’il pose sur le bureau devant ses yeux.

— Vas-y, regarde.

Celle-ci ne peut se contenir et ouvre la bourse en tremblant d'excitation. A l’intérieur, un objet brillant et violet lui renvoie son reflet. Elle manque de défaillir et se raccroche au bord de son bureau.

— Un... Un ?
— Un cube d’ambre. Abîmé. Mais tu dois bien connaître des érudits pour réparer ça ?
— Je… ney, des érudits…

Elle sort délicatement le cube pour l’admirer à la lumière de la fenêtre de son bureau.

— bavèchen coriolis fyrum… ramèch !!
— Ouais hein, dis toi qu’une saloperie de kincher nous a attaqué juste après. Pas eu le temps de chercher le morceau qui manque.
— C’était à Coriolis ?
— Dans un temple en hauteur de ce qu’il reste de la cité minière.
— C’est à dire ?
— Rien.

Disant cela, il reprend sa hache et pousse un soupir.

— Bon, je passerai bien des heures à discuter de tout ça, mais pas aujourd’hui. Si on me cherche, je suis chez Pecus.

Azazor fait alors mine de faire demi-tour mais l’archiviste le retient par l’épaule, non sans une pointe de dégoût devant ce corps en charpie.

— Attend Aza. J’ai tant de questions !
— Non, je suis crevé et là, j’ai qu’une envie, c’est de me siffler un tonneau de shooki. Si tu savais là daube qu’ils boivent là bas… On discutera demain. Ça te laisse le temps de lire l’ouvrage.

Il tient la poignée de la porte du bureau et commence à l’ouvrir. Euphanix l'interpelle néanmoins.

— Je voulais juste te dire…

Le fyros se retourne, la regardant droit dans les yeux. Des yeux humides. Des yeux si fatigués et si... tristes?

— Désolé Azazor, finit par dire Euphanix.
— De quoi ?
— D’avoir douté de toi.
— Alors arrange toi pour que je puisse étudier au talumetim-an. Je pense avoir fait mes preuves, dit Azazor d'une voix lasse.

Euphanix sourit. Oui, il a fait ses preuves. Il n’y a pas de doute là dessus. Le Fyros tourne alors les talons et ouvre la porte du bureau pour sortir.

— Et Eeri ? s’enquit Euphanix avant qu’Azazor ne franchisse le seuil.
— Elle doit être au bar de Fairhaven en train de se soûler. Elle a perdu l'usage d'un bras et d'un œil mais ça l’empêchera pas de boire.

L’archiviste regarde le Fyros s’en aller, remuant dans sa tête sa dernière phrase. Un bras et un œil en moins ? Des brûlures et des cicatrices permanentes ? De quel enfer revenaient-ils ? Elle a hâte de le savoir. Elle s’assoit à son bureau et entreprend la lecture de « kün geyum » Récit du voyage sur la route d’Oflovak jusqu’à Coriolis*


* L’ouvrage comporte toutes les informations contenues dans les textes publiés sur le forum. On y trouve également des plans plus détaillés de la route d’Oflovak et du début du désert des AT (s'inspirer de la carte de Kigan), des mesures de la hauteur de l’astre du jour permettant d’estimer la circonférence d’Atys, des croquis de faunes et de flores, mais aussi des cités traversées et de quelques personnages rencontrés, ainsi que des réflexions d’Azazor et Eeri sur fyrak et les puissances et quelques confessions diverses. Seul l’appartenance d’Eeri au trytonnisme n’est pas mentionnée. Pour ce qui est de son évasion chez les Maraudeurs, il n’est pas précisé que c’est un Trytonniste qui en est responsable. Par ailleurs, il y a en notes le journal intime de Titus qu'Azazor a pu récupérer lors du voyage retour à la Halte d'Oflovak. On peut imaginer que les rapports déjà envoyés par Azazor seront inclus en addendum par la suite. Il est écrit par Azazor (Eeri ne pouvant plus utiliser son bras droit) et corédigé par Azazor et 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 ;-)
]]