rogue_3

Finally, Magallan finds herself at the end of the road.

There is a great tree there, not unlike the clan trees that Magallan has seen before.

It is wrapped in an oval membrane that expands and contracts.

Each cycle sends a ripple into the darkness in the distance.

That light led Magallan here.

The end of an exploration, a journey for knowledge.

Magallan decides to seek her reward in the most primitive way.

She reaches out and touches the membrane.

It throbs powerfully and repels her hand.

A light shoots out towards the distance from the rock wall above, splitting and glowing like stars in the night.

Magallan thinks.

She puts her hand to her chest.

She feels her heartbeat and that of the tree.

She understands now.

It is no plant.

It is the heart of Sami.

She has walked across Sami's spine, challenged Sami's will.

She has descended into Sami's scar, and wandered inside Sami's body.

Through Sami's bones, following the lights of Sami's neural network.

Sami forgives her intrusion.

It has shown her Its scars and vulnerability, as a gift to the explorer.

No one knew of Sami's pain, until now. Compassion from a kindly spirit gives comfort to Its tired soul.

Magallan turns around and finds the rope she came down from.

All she needs to do is tie it around her, tug on it, and she will return to the surface.

Or...

Magallan keeps walking.

The wall at the end of the road.

There are symbols there, which Magallan has seen on sculptures.

Sami's message.

A message of concern, not for Sami Itself, but for Magallan.

The path ahead will not be so smooth.

But she keeps walking.

Past the illusion of the end, past Sami's mirages, from light into darkness.

Sami does not understand. Sami is silent.

Magallan keeps walking.

She wants to reach Sami's brain, understand the source of Sami's memories and emotions.

She wants to learn about Sami.

She wants to understand Sami.

Press onward.

The drone proceeds smoothly and quietly under the operator's control. The rock structure is crushed, and Magallan carefully collects the plants with their complete root structures exposed. She then recalls her Soaring Dragon drone and disassembles the modules one by one.

After completing the specimen collection, Magallan takes out her pen recorder.

This is the first time the joint expedition team has entered Sami...

She remains silent for a long time. The exploration craze on the Infy icefield has been going on for a few years now. Following the expedition team, Magallan has set off for the icefields from Sami countless times by now. Humanity's understanding of them has finally started to come into focus, and the university she once studied at has now invited her back to teach, where she would be greeted by countless expectant eyes filled with dreams. In the many days and nights prior, she had tried her best to record everything she saw and learned, carefully picking out the knowledge to be passed on to future explorers.

She stays silent for a moment, then puts away the pen recorder and begins to conduct a routine inspection on the drone. Due to the lack of maintenance in these harsh conditions, a number of components are worn out. It is fortunate that there were no malfunctions during the operation, no flashing lights, no abnormal beeping.

Magallan shuts the somewhat loose inspection hatch, slings her equipment over her back, and heads out from the chilly cave.

The mountain trail is covered by snow, the way forward completely obscured by a black haze. Magallan pauses at the mouth of the cave, briefly hesitant, before taking out a compass and barometer to help get her bearings.

She lowers her head to check the compass while at the same time taking her first laborious step onto the ice––

Press onward.

Surrounded by nothing but silence.

She trods on alone, not a soul to keep her company. The other members of her team, including the local Samifjod who offered to help, have already fallen along the way.

However, even were they still here, they would no longer recognize the researcher in front of them.

Melted black snow flows through the air, blocking the road ahead, but Magallan simply ignores it and continues to plod onward.

––The subtle movements amidst the Fjal Vetrtonn are but distorted shadows. Due to the gravitational disturbance, instruments are stacked atop their forms. The biological specimens collected along the way expand their outlines, constituting their predatory behavior. Their shifting shape seems to simulate rhythmic footsteps, while their position in real space fluctuates incoherently.

With no sense or reason, the shadows cross through the barrier.

The straps, worn away by the long trek, had snapped a long time ago, but only now did the tote bag fall due to the gravitational disturbance.

The explorer's manuscript to those who would carry her torch is buried beneath black snow.

Tucked within is a letter yet to be sent.

'Without attempting to address the root cause, I've experimented with various methods of avoiding Collapsal contact, but I know these methods are far from foolproof. As we accumulate experience and gain a deeper understanding of these phenomena, Collapsals in turn exhibit even more diverse phenomena. They can never be fully documented.

'Perhaps we are not yet ready to face this realization. Perhaps we never will be.'

'But I also know that despite the warnings, despite the dangers, we will ultimately–'

Press onward.

Even the compass in her hand can no longer identify which way is north.

The surface of its disk has been sealed by a murky black, and upon Magallan giving it a little shake, it briefly reflects a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors.

But Magallan is indeed heading north.

Between frost-bound cliffs and drifting black snow, the icefield yet looms.

A glimmer of silvery light pours through the crevice, shimmering in the darkness.

A procession marches on, to the sight of the gray dawn rising from the horizon of frozen soil.

It is a tribe in the process of migrating to the south, escorted by warriors. Their steps are heavy, perhaps because of injury, illness, or weakness. The sound of footsteps fades into the snow. Even the wind is silent. A baby's crying echoes in the great wilderness.

The leading Snowpriest slows his steps and turns around, as though spurred by the crying. The mountains are almost pitch black in the twilight. Through his helmet, he gazes backwards, towards their erstwhile home. Those in the procession follow suit, looking in the same direction as if they had been resisting the urge to for a long time.

'Eikthyrnir.' Someone whispers a reminder.

The leading Snowpriest-warrior gathers his emotions and continues to lead the procession forward in silence. He clutches the Foldartal in his hands, and the tiny wooden board makes a little sound in his knuckles.

Eikthyrnir is not prone to sentimentality.

He has seen too many demon attacks and tribes forced to migrate. The conversations between the Snowpriests and Sami help the warriors of the north predict demon appearances, so that tribes may be moved away and troops mobilized. The All-Father has favored him, answering virtually any questions he had, but simply knowing the ill fate ahead of time is not always enough to avoid it. The exhausted pack following his warriors are just another group of survivors.

Eikthyrnir rarely thinks of her, but she intrudes into his thoughts for no particular reason, along with the winding walls of the Fjal Vetrtonn and the charcoal marks on the wooden map. He can almost imagine her among this band of survivors, even though he has never seen a sight like that, nor was he part of her final rescue mission.

The tribe walks without a word. No complaints, laments, or questions. It seems that they all knew this would happen to them, since long ago. The present is bearable, for death eventually comes to all, and they will return, unbound, to the demon-corrupted earth—the home that they were forced out of—and be reunited with their families and ancestors.

But Eikthyrnir does not know—the one question Sami never answered: Is she still alive? Where is she? Even the most experienced channelers amongst the shamans could not divine the answer.

As the calming herbs she had stuffed in his helmet wilt and fade away, Eikthyrnir begins to accept the inscrutable fate. He will never see her again, not even in the afterlife. Just like those warriors who never turned back in the face of demonic corruption. No one saw them again. He should reminiscence, but his burden is too heavy. He has no time.

He will fight, be injured, recover, fight, avoid defeat, and survive.

As long as one spark of life remains within him, her figure will continue to exist in his memory, and his shame and regret will keep it alive.

The Sami walk on the frozen earth in silence, accepting their fate. Only the infant in her mother's embrace cries. The mother, who is a shaman, sings in a low voice to comfort her child. She has already removed her warrior's helmet, tying it to her bag. In it are some herbs and fruits.

Eikthyrnir warms a little stone with Arts and puts it in the infant's tiny hands. The mother smiles, then looks at her daughter with grieving eyes.

'I am sorry,' she whispers.

'For what?'

'For bringing her into a Sami that does not know peace.'

Eikthyrnir remains silent for a while.

'I am too,' he answers.

As soon as he heard the news, Eikthyrnir returned from the Fjal Vetrtonn to the Sami heartlands, in search of the black blade roaming the forests.

Whether it was the machinations of the Ursus or if they had already paid the price for their arrogance, there was only one thing to do. All invaders must be expelled. It was not a matter of responsibility; the land of Sami was the home of the Sami people, and one needs no reason to defend one's home.

But Eikthyrnir could not shake his uneasiness. It was not often that Eikthyrnir felt uneasy. He was not afraid of death, nor of the manifestations of fear that transcended death.

Falling leaves tremble, wilted branches moan, and the wind brings soundless lament. Sami speaks, but Its words are swallowed by new holes.

The fallen animals have no life in their eyes. Black blood convulses from their wounds, forcing its way out of the blood vessels and forming a stream on the muddy ground.

Death becomes more concentrated as the warriors advance deeper into the forest. Streams converge into a river. Wilted leaves and branches obscure the sky above, but the river is filled with reflections of the stars in the sky.

The air is cold and sticky, condensing the mist into a pallid shroud, welcoming the march of death.

The flames that the Snowpriests call up flicker like candles in the wind. At the end of this baleful river, Eikthyrnir verifies the hypothesis he had formed over the past few days.

The shaman of Colddeath is unrecognizable, but rumors from survey teams along the way and the results of numerous fruitless rituals by the Snowpriests point to the same conclusion: She is Santalla, or rather, she was.

The blade's armor is scattered on the ground, surrounded by the black souls of the dead. Santalla put an end to the Demon's Blade at the foot of this great tree, but did not manage to destroy the death that it spread. The warped space no longer obeys the rules of reality. Black rivers slither and arise in the shadows of a new frozen monstrosity. They soon converge into tangible form, and sharp, black ice spikes hurl themselves towards the struggling warriors with impossible trajectories and unbelievable velocity.

Eikthyrnir would not and need not show quarter. This was not the first time he or his fellow warriors executed a fellow Sami that had been taken, or purged the evil that defiled his kinsfolk.

But gradually, the black curtain falls. The dissonance of countless deaths echoes amongst the living, and the warriors fall one by one, like trapped beasts in an arena. All they can manage is to end their lives with what strength they had left, so that what is left of them will not nourish the demons.

As the last warrior falls, Eikthyrnir is left with no choice but to gamble. He attacks the wall of black rivers with all his strength. Eldritch hues leak from the crack, melting into colorful mud that sprays itself around unnaturally, accumulating and floating in the air. He runs until he reaches the frozen monstrosity, plunging his weapon deep into the calamity's physical form in an effort to stop it.

All the demons freeze in place. Eikthyrnir has struck the core. All that was left was to use his Snowpriest powers to fold and seal it, and this demonic mire will not spill beyond the Sami heartlands.