I am writing this entry because I am reasonably certain we almost died today.
At the moment we are sheltering inside a place called the Leeward Scar.
The sandstorm finally weakened several hours ago.
But nobody has enough strength left to continue moving.
Not just me.
Not just Ryn or Spathian.
Everyone.
The hunters.
The caravan guards.
The animals.
Even the desert horses look emotionally defeated.
And the worst part is that we cannot remain here too long.
Because if we fail to leave before the next storm cycle begins…
then we will simply gamble our lives all over again.
I hate this desert.
The Howling Basin is one of the most unpleasant places I have ever seen.
And I have already visited Yggdra.
The basin itself looks unnatural from above.
Like a giant hand pressed downward into the world long ago and left behind a massive wound in the earth.
The walls are steep dark-red stone covered in cracks and scars carved endlessly by wind.
At the bottom—
only red sand.
No grass.
No insects.
No water.
Nothing.
The sky even feels wrong here.
Lower somehow.
Heavier.
As though the basin traps clouds, heat, dust, and exhaustion together beneath it.
But the true horror is the sound.
The wind inside the basin does not behave normally.
It circles.
Rotates.
Builds upon itself.
The entire place screams constantly.
Not metaphorically.
Actually screams.
Thousands of low howling sounds overlap together endlessly across the stone walls.
Like wolves.
Or something pretending to sound like wolves.
During the storm the noise became so loud I could barely hear my own thoughts.
At certain moments it honestly felt like the desert itself was furious we existed inside it.
The sandstorm began much faster than I expected.
One moment the wind simply felt unpleasant.
Then suddenly visibility vanished almost entirely beneath red dust.
I could barely breathe.
Sand entered everything.
Eyes.
Hair.
Clothes.
Mouth.
Ears.
Even now I still feel grains of sand between my teeth while writing.
The worst part was psychological.
There is something uniquely terrifying about realizing the air itself is trying to bury you alive.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Fortunately several caravans nearby immediately redirected toward the Leeward Scar.
A shallow natural shelter hidden within the western wall of the basin.
Without it…
I genuinely do not know whether we would have survived.
Inside the Scar, people huddled together between wagons and stone barriers while the storm screamed outside for hours.
Nobody spoke much.
Everyone focused on conserving strength.
Even panic felt too exhausting eventually.
Over the last several days Ryn has repeatedly warned me not to drink too much water.
Which honestly feels emotionally cruel inside this heat.
But apparently she is correct.
Water here is everything.
Earlier today she looked directly at me while we refilled our containers and said:
“In Deep Red, water is gold.”
Not metaphorically.
Practically.
Every sip must be calculated carefully.
Every refill matters.
Travel routes exist almost entirely around survivable water access.
People argue over water prices with more intensity than artifact negotiations.
At first I thought Ryn was exaggerating slightly.
Then I experienced the basin personally.
Now I understand.
The heat destroys thought slowly.
Your body begins making decisions emotionally instead of rationally.
You want to drink constantly.
Even when you know you should not.
Ryn somehow remains absurdly disciplined despite all this.
Careful portions.
Careful movement.
Careful planning.
At this point I suspect merchant heirs survive primarily through spite and organization.
Meanwhile Spathian has entered what I can only describe as “dangerous inventor mode.”
During the storm he spent nearly forty minutes discussing possible methods of extracting underground moisture from deep mineral layers using pressure differentials and heat condensation systems.
At one point he attempted drawing diagrams directly into the sand while being partially buried by more sand simultaneously.
Personally I believe the desert heat is slowly cooking his brain.
Ryn agrees.
Unfortunately this has never stopped him before.
Tonight the basin is quieter.
Not silent.
Never silent.
The wind still moves through the cliffs constantly, producing those long terrible cries somewhere beyond the Scar.
Sometimes the sound resembles breathing.
Other times it resembles mourning.
Nobody here sleeps deeply.
People keep glancing toward the basin entrance instinctively as though expecting the storm to return at any moment.
Perhaps because it probably will.
Deep Red feels alive in a way forests never do.
Not alive gently.
Not alive beautifully.
Alive like something enormous that simply does not care whether humans survive crossing it.
And for the first time since entering this desert…
I think I finally understand why so many travelers never return from it.
Komentar
Posting Komentar