The Fertile Lands
The journey north of Altbasar is hell — frozen hell. It is always cold and white: White of snow, white of ice, white of cloud, and back to snow. It is an endless cycle destined to break the spirit of all men. But even when I find my spirits low and footsteps come clumsily through knee-deep drifts of powder, she smiles and laughs. I still cannot say for certain whether her laughter is the product of years in this waste or the sight of me occasionally falling into the snow. She calls me Seal now — well, ever since the first time I fell a fortnight ago. I still don’t understand the name, but she tells me just to wait and I will see soon enough. But what does that mean, “soon enough?” Hasn’t it been long enough in this emptiness? When will I see another color again? I am considering cutting myself just to see red, but since it is too cold to take off my gloves, color will have to wait.
Today we saw a rabbit. White, of course. It was just beyond our capabilities to capture, however. Well, I guess, truthfully, I scared it away. And that would not be so hapless had we not run out of food this morn: The last crumbs of hard — you guessed it: white — bread; the last frozen chunk of fish. Now we have only each other and the wild to rely on. I pray to Pelor that he will provide warmth and food soon, or we will not survive for long.
Her smile disappeared today. Mine was lost long ago. Lost in the deep and ever-falling snow. She dropped hers down into the black river with the last fishing line as we huddled over a small crack in the deep ice, hoping beyond prayer that a fish would see fit to join us in freezing above the ice. Now all we have left is to walk. Onward and maybe Pelor will greet us on the banks of the Frozen Sea with his golden warmth. Otherwise, this Seal will become a frozen sentinel eternal.
She can’t read! All this time I presumed she could read and now I find out she does not understand the written
ward word. Ha! Funny that I travelled so far and wrote so much but noone will ever find these words. No one will ever know my story because I will surely die on the morrow. My strength is vanished: My hand shakes as I write; it is all I can do to mark the pagee. Damn I swear the wind is howling louder now. She tells me that we are finally beyond the Hills of Ice and to not loose fatth; I can only just nod in acknowlidgment in this state. Why did I even come here? Who was I to think that I would find the Eye of the World? A fool. Worse:
A DEAD fool