Over a year has passed.
Over a pier has yassed.
A pier. A peer. A peer appeared on your pier, peered into your year, did not jeer, then disappeared. Here is what you missed; here is what passed you by as you passed by those passing you by to get to what they had passed by with the passerbys and basserpies and other pies.
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Oi, joob. H'arabōōsh mackh[ckh]t. H'arah'ara-BŌŌSH.
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JOOB
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4th Day of Trülst, 6 Days since departure from Myriackh, Year 20 of the Fifth Age of the Overworld as recorded heretofore
There is a stigma upon this place, a rot, a corruption. It is unstable. The breeze feels fake, the features of the landscape imposed, the sky a projection. The lighting is too even, and the sound too muffled. There is no echo - voices fall dead and are not revived.
It feels as though the very nature of substance has changed. Matter exists as a mere complement to the energy holding this place together. It is a very real fear amongst our expedition that our purpose here - of which we are as yet unaware - may result in the reversal of this energy, as though it is all a frail construction of the denizens of the demiworld, held together with a force not beyond our power to counteract entirely.
I am obliged by my nature and that of my position to remain both skeptical at such eventualities and fearful of such finality. It is not our place to meddle in the affairs of those of the demiworld, regardless of the extent of their ingressions into our own. By their very presence here, I am sure they are in violation of numerous ancient codes, the likes of which I vaguely recall described in a battered tome dated to the latter half of the Second Age, housed in the Library's cellar archives, deep underneath the oldest part of the city. It was there, coincidentally, that I felt closest to the ominous draw we now know to be remnants of the demiworld's incursions of the very early Second Age.
Their portals remain intact below those cellars, I am sure of it. Far below, no doubt - deeper than anybody would be willing to excavate, for fear of the entire city centre becoming a sinkhole, swallowed by the great maw of time like this place here.
The Former Fields. We know now that the name is a bastard, taken from several tongues, as the region itself has more than one name. I believe the count stands at seven, though that of course comprises only the various stylings of those whom we have encountered thus far. We have not been here long, that is for sure. Fortunately, the sun rises and falls as it does everywhere else we have known, which I indicate as "fortunate" because the passage of time itself seems, how shall I say it, stunted in this place. We are only vaguely aware of it. We feel neither rushed nor bored. The days do not drag on, nor do they pass by too quickly. We simply are completely unaware of the progression of our journey and indeed our own existence until we are finding it harder to see, and only then do we notice it is nightfall, and make camp for a time.
Nightfall here is not indicated by the emergence of different creatures from their daytime hideaways, nor by different sounds echoing from the trees...or the shadows, I should say, because there are very few trees here and I do not believe I have seen one that appeared very...alive. But I digress. It is unfortunate that this place is known, at least in our lands, as "The Former Fields." True, a sizable portion was once fields, but the same could be said of our own city, could it not? It furthers my theory that this landscape is not a construction entirely of this world. Perhaps the fields are still there, underneath us as I write this.
It is for certain that this is a wilderness. In my past accounts, now that I read through them (also to gauge the passage of time, I admit), I notice a distinct trend in my descriptions of these strange lands. I must amend such accounts, considering I have portrayed the impression that these lands are desert-like, barren, unforgiving, and devoid of recognizable life. This is not the case. They are, in fact, quite temperate, and at night grow quite cool, and are similar to a desert only in that the ground does not appear fertile and I understand rain, while not unheard of, is rather scarce. This does not prevent vegetation from taking root, however. They are plants and herbs and even small fruits the likes of which we have never seen, though I am unsure if these are simply relatives of the native fauna of the northern and eastern lands, having adapted to the environment here. We have met several nomadic groups, with all of which we have been able to communicate. They have informed us of what we can and cannot eat, and their warnings were hardly dire - it seems, to my knowledge, that the worst side-effect possible from eating these plants - one in particular, which was called "Vkhājz" - is a mild stomach discomfort and aches in one's joints, both of which pass in a matter of hours. Interestingly, Lyćheaŕ (who, being the high-spirited risk-taker we begrudgingly allow to act of his own free will, reckless boy) seems completely immune to these effects, though also admits the plant is rather bland and offers little addition to the flavour of a dish when cooked or ground up. At least he is no longer claiming it has miraculous nutritive properties - for several days, he insisted on consuming an entire leaf with his breakfast, for reasons he claimed to be "strength and speed," but later admitted he just did so for the varied reactions of his peers and he in fact felt no better or worse than he would after eating a normal "warrior's breakfast."
I am satisfied to see the militaristic attitude of our party has dissolved and given way to the spirit of adventure. It keeps my mind off the bigger problems that weigh on my mind. There is a stigma upon this place, a rot, a corruption. It is unstable. I am sure of it.
This was not spoken, merely understood.
