Ten days east from Grimhaven, we finally arrived at Crimson Ridge Outpost.
And unfortunately…
this was the exact moment I began missing Momon, Popo, and Toto.
Which feels deeply concerning in retrospect.
Perhaps I should have stayed there.
At the very least, Grimhaven understood the importance of dramatic speeches and emotionally unnecessary capes.
Crimson Ridge Outpost feels different.
Not dangerous in the theatrical sense.
Not cursed.
Not sacred.
Just tired.
From a distance the outpost looked almost like a wound carved into the desert itself.
Dark red stone.
Old black wood.
Walls patched together repeatedly with warped planks and faded cloth that snapped violently beneath the desert wind.
Even the sand surrounding it looked wrong.
Too red.
Like dried blood stretched endlessly beneath the sky.
The entire place blended into the landscape so completely that it felt less constructed and more… exposed.
As though the desert itself had split open slightly and human beings were desperately attempting to survive inside the crack.
The air smelled terrible.
Dry sweat.
Animal leather.
Dust.
Salted water stored too long beneath heat.
Inside the walls there were still signs of ordinary life.
Small merchants arguing over water prices.
Caravan guards sleeping beneath shade cloths.
People repairing wagon wheels while cursing loudly.
Desert horses tied beside exhausted camels chewing slowly through feed bags.
And at the center of everything—
a massive well.
Ryn explained the water here was expensive because it tasted awful.
Apparently that somehow increases its value in desert regions.
Merchant logic continues confusing me.
Still…
despite the heat and noise and rough laughter echoing between the buildings…
the outpost felt fragile.
Like the final breath of civilization before something larger swallowed the world completely.
Beyond the gates stretched Deep Red.
The real desert.
No walls.
No settlements.
No protection.
Only endless crimson sand and whatever survives inside it.
Tonight we camped outside the outpost walls alongside several other caravans preparing to cross deeper eastward tomorrow morning.
The wind has been loud all evening.
Sand keeps slipping beneath everything.
Even writing feels difficult here.
Eventually boredom consumed me.
So naturally I challenged Ryn and Spathian to a tongue twister competition.
Not even a difficult one.
A simple one.
I said:
“tiny tina
tiny tina tightly tied
ten tiny turquoise towels to tall wooden towers.
towers twisted, towers trembled, but tiny tina stayed totally focused through every tricky task.
talented and tireless, tina trained daily to talk faster and clearer each time.”
Then I asked them to repeat it quickly.
Instead of participating like emotionally healthy people…
they both stared at me silently.
“What?” Spathian finally asked.
I repeated it again more clearly.
Then Ryn slowly lowered the cup she was holding and said:
“Miss DeLuna… what exactly is that sentence.”
“A tongue twister,” I explained.
“No,” she replied immediately.
“I mean why is Tiny Tina tightly tying ten tiny turquoise towels to tall wooden towers.”
I did not understand the question.
Because obviously that part does not matter.
The point is the repetition.
Apparently both of them disagreed strongly.
Spathian spent several minutes attempting to determine whether Tiny Tina was involved in some kind of architectural ritual.
Ryn asked why the towers were trembling.
Then she became suspicious about the towels specifically.
At one point Spathian muttered:
“Actually the structural instability raises concerns.”
They were taking this far too seriously.
Eventually I attempted the tongue twister myself several times quickly in a row.
Perfectly, obviously.
Neither looked impressed.
Which honestly felt unfair.
The entire conversation somehow exhausted me emotionally.
And strangely enough…
while listening to the desert wind afterward, I suddenly realized something uncomfortable.
If I were still inside Grimhaven right now…
Momon would absolutely have participated immediately.
Toto probably would have misunderstood the entire game and started inventing prophecies about Tiny Tina.
And Popo—
Actually…
I still do not fully understand why Popo agreed to participate in anything.
But she would have.
The realization made the desert feel unexpectedly quiet afterward.
I think this is becoming a recurring problem.
Every time I leave somewhere strange…
the next place feels slightly less real for a while.
Which is perhaps the most dangerous thing Yggdra, Isla de la Luna, Greyharbor, and Grimhaven have done to me collectively.
They keep altering the shape of “normal.”
And now apparently part of me genuinely misses a fortress city governed by theatrical former bullying victims who accidentally became apocalyptic legends.
This cannot possibly be healthy.
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