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[This is a sort of RP-prompt quest to acquire the shown Phyri. Only one will win him, however. Rules at the bottom of the post!]

January 3- 10th, judging 10th-12th!



Location: Outskirts of Death Mountain, where a forest once thrived, but had recently been turned to ash by an unknown source.

Where once vibrant green leaves upon healthy trees once grew high, all that remained was a field of ash, with various embers still clinging to the corpses of the trees that once flourished here. There was no life or movement, except the slowly drifting smoke and ashes which slowly fluttered in the air.

But then!

Lo and behold, a flicker of movement, of life! One of the forest Phyreflies had somehow survived. It drifted through the smokey atmosphere, as if mourning the other Phyreflies it would never see again. Its colors were fading, and if it didn't do something soon, it would also cease to exist.

In a moment of desperation to survive, it descended into the corpse of a tree that the embers still fed upon. The energy from the embers and tree wrapped around it, and enabled it to grow from phyrefly to Phyri. The newly born Phyri erupted from the corpse of the tree, shaking ash and embers from it, before it wandered away, leaving little trails of ash and ember behind it. But it was unsure of itself, what to do. It had grown up far too quickly to be able to know how to deal with things. It needed somebody to help it survive and flourish.

[Rules and How-To]

You will be posting ONE post in this thread if you wish to attain this Phyri. In it, you must use your OC to roleplay how you would come across it and attempt to bait it to bond with you. You can do it through a means of force, love, treats, etc.

Remember, only ONE post per person. Myself and the staff will be judging, and judging will be based on:

Detail
Creativity
Character

Good luck and have fun!

Q. I'm a staff, can I still participate?
A. Yes, but if you do, you will not be able to judge. :3

Q. Can I PM you the prompt?
A. No, you need to join the guild so you can post it here.

Heels crunched against ash and the remains of what had once been timber, now scattered aimlessly in burned hunks over the landscape. When the wind picked up, the footfalls stopped; the stranger cast his gaze over what had once been a beautiful, thriving forest. He’d only been once, but his visit had been pleasant and unforgettable. It was regretful to see how it had met its end.

Pursing his lips in disapproval, the young man lifted a gloved palm to his cheek, slowly running it up, over his eye, and through his hair, his other hand resting on his hip. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to cry. As unmanly as blubbering over a dead forest was, he’d been raised to love and respect nature and creatures alike. Always – he’d always loved animals. Better companions than most people he knew, to be sure.

“It’s a damn shame,” Fyre muttered, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. If anyone had survived, they had been left without a home. Of course, it was to be expected, living at the base of the questionable Death Mountain, but thus far, the surrounding landscape and village hadn’t had any problems with fallen rock that he’d heard of. Really, it was a mystery as to how the forest had lit aflame and died.

The wind was barely a silent breeze now, gently wisping around him and at his back. Bits of ash picked up and spread, lost in even more ash.

He was about to leave when something caught in the corner of his eye.

No, it hadn’t been something he’d seen. Something was caught in the corner of his eye. Wincing, Fyre immediately touched his fingertips to his closed eye as it watered, hot and painful.

“Good god!” he growled, opening his eye halfway to let the tears fall freely. That was going to burn for a few minutes. Bending a bit at the waist, the tanned man scowled at the ground, which was becoming increasingly blurry in one eye.

When finally it seemed the substance was out, he dubbed the intruding bit of ash a nuisance and frowned, squinting this time when the breeze decided to pick up. Well, now he had an excuse if someone passing by asked if he’d been crying.

“Let’s try this again,” he started, taking a few steps over a dark, charred tree branch. Best to hurry and get out of there; if some creature had ruined the forest, who knew if it’d come back? The man wasn’t too inclined to draw his blades on anything at the moment. There always came the risk of losing a limb in the process.

Snap!

He paused, slowly drawing the back of a hand over his mouth and holding it there. Eyes narrowing, he glanced around, searching for the source of the noise. Unless the wind had managed to break a twig, he wasn’t alone.

From the ground rose a mound of ash, not three feet from Fyre. He half-turned, emitting a small gasp as the ash split and spilled out around a creature, the likes of which he’d never seen. It was as dark as the ash it seemed to have come from, and when it shook itself free of the substance, wide, startled grey eyes rose to meet his own.

They were haunted. His guard dropping, Fyre knelt to one knee to peer at the creature, each searching the other’s face for clues of who, and what, they were.

The Phyri’s ears docked, and he backed up a few steps, eyeing him intently.

Fyre blinked once, watching him move away but remaining still. “Why’re you afraid?” he asked softly, examining the mysterious being. He wasn’t sure if it could understand him, but he continued, “I won’t hurt you.”

The Phyri seemed unconvinced. Eyes wide and wary, he continued to back away until his rump gently bumped against a charred tree. With a small gasp, the Phyri backed around the tree in a poor attempt to hide behind something thinner than itself. This forced a chuckle out of Fyre, which he quickly clapped his hand over his mouth to subdue.

What a beautiful creature. Eyes thick with black, yet alive and startled in the purest shade of grey he’d seen; his frightened face framed in uneven layers of hair, a black creature. A child of the ash.

Snapping his fingers, Fyre came to one conclusion of many. Smiling widely, he pointed to his hair, fiery in color, then traced his index finger along the thin scar that had once split his face diagonally down the middle.

No wonder the poor thing was frightened; he probably looked like a fiery demon, with hair so red, and his face was already ruined by a large scar. Many questioned his heritage, trying to find links to him and the nearly women-exclusive Gerudo race, but without a history to call his own, he had no answer to give them.

“I guess I’m a little strange looking, huh? Can’t be helped. I didn’t know my parents –“

A deep rumbling sent the ground shaking, quick and unexpected, and with an “Oof!” from one and a startled cry from the other, both fell.

Rubbing his side, Fyre waited for the rumbling to stop before leaping to his feet, a scimitar in one hand, his free hand extended to the Phyri on the ground. “I guess we’re not alone,” he yelled, to be heard over the sudden, deafening roar. Growing a bit frantic, he cried, “Come with me! It’s not safe here!”

The Phyri stood and moved from hoof to hoof, conflicted and alive with fear. From behind the man now yelling for him to take his hand, he watched as a magnificent beast rose from behind the mountain, circling it once. It wouldn’t be long before the creature came around and spotted the man, with his flaming head of hair, and himself.

Shaking his head, the Phyri ran in the opposite direction, away from the mountain and the man. Fyre stared, mouth agape, and was going to call after him but was cut off by another roar, this time closer than the last.

He turned on his heel, face set, hand reaching back to pull his other blade from its sheath. If he had to fight the creature, so be it. Better to stop it here than let it terrorize others.

Giving the blades a light spin, he grimaced at the approaching creature. He had no idea what this was, either, but it seemed to have wandered to Death Mountain in its journey. Valoo wouldn’t have allowed it to remain, which meant it likely hadn’t been the cause of the forest’s death.

Spreading his legs apart for better footing, he raised his blades in a crossed fashion when the beast lunged, and was propelled backwards as a result. He caught his footing and raised his swords again to meet the beast, who had easily overlooked the ashen Phyri as it swooped back around.

Gritting his teeth and biting back the ash that was swept up, Fyre cut through the thick cloud of grey that was destroying his vision. Flames erupted around the metal of the swords, successfully clearing a bit of the ash.

Too late, sadly.

The beast headbutted him with the force of a train, knocking the wind out of him and sending him coasting onto his back, into a tree. As the back of his head connected with the trunk, he could feel himself fade. The light quickly left, replaced by darkness.

------------------

His heart raced.

Honestly, he didn’t think his eyes could get any wider.

His legs… were shaking.

Yet, something filled the Phyri when he watched his protector fall. Someone he hadn’t even known until this day. He wanted to do something for someone other than himself; where had that come from? Adopting a queasy look on his face, he stamped at the ground lightly, debating whether or not he should interfere. The man was probably going to die, anyway. What would be the point in wasting his sacrifice?

Brushing aside his natural pessimism, the Phyri shook his head quickly and braced himself for the run of his life. Digging his hooves into the ash and ground, he ran.

------------------

“Unh…”

Fyre awoke, his head aching and body obviously bruised. Still very disoriented, he shifted, wincing when his arm stung violently at the movement. Broken, maybe? Great.

Blinking away the ash that now covered him in a light layer, he used his good arm to wipe it off his face, blowing it out of his mouth and coughing hoarsely. Thankfully, he’d gotten more on him than in him. When he could freely open his eyes, he shot forward, ignoring the pain in his body as he turned his head left and right.

“Hey!” he called, staring hard at the newly fallen ash that had been spread in his struggle. Never mind where the beast had gone, or how he’d survived; all he remembered was hitting a tree and passing out, leaving the creature to fend for itself. A knot twisted in his stomach as he grabbed it, hoisting himself up shakily. Another cough raked his body, causing him to hunch over and spit up ash.

Eyebrows knit together in discomfort, Fyre scanned the area once more.

“… looks like you left,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with a lopsided smile. “At least… I pray that’s what happened.” There was the chance the beast had somehow found the Phyri, eaten it, and left, but why would it leave him alive? It didn’t sound right.

Both scimitars were sticking out of the ground in opposite directions. Stretching gingerly, he worked his shoulder, concluded that it was at least heavily bruised, and went to pick up his first sword. When he approached the second, surprise lit upon his face.

Curled next to the blade was the Phyri, his body battered, bloody, and breathing heavily. He barely lifted his head when Fyre sank to his knees next to him, extending a hand.

Ugh, there they came again. Tears welled shamelessly in his eyes as he realized what the creature had done. Fresh wounds on his body made it clear; he had protected Fyre and somehow fought off the beast.

“You…”

The Phyri flinched and tried to avoid his touch, but Fyre managed to run a hand over his grey hair, expression turning soft. He bit his lip, voice quivering. “You saved me, didn’t you…? You… you didn’t have to do that, you know…”

Head bent down, he let his tears fall to the ash between them, his hand now firmly resting on the Phyri’s head. The Phyri made a face, too weary to fight back now, and whispered something in an unknown language to the man. When he looked up, the Phyri’s wide, clear eyes were gazing into his, and he could see again the hopeless, lost look they provided.

Breaking into a weak grin, Fyre reached down and wiped some ash from the Phyri’s face, giving it a light pat on the cheek. “I owe you my life,” he said, lowering his hand back to his side, “…. Thank you.”

The Phyri, looking a bit embarrassed, simply shook his head and stood, his legs wobbling. Giving one last nod to Fyre, he turned, tail dragging through the ash as he began to make his way away from the place he had once been too scared to leave. Filled with renewed strength, he thought he might give life a try again.

“H-hold on!” Fyre yelped, scrambling to his feet. When the Phyri stopped and looked over his shoulder, Fyre was already at his side, panting.

“Wait… I owe you, and I want to pay you back… come with me?”

The Phyri blinked, eyes widening. Did this man truly want to be his… companion? He’d never had a… companion before. Even when the forest had been alive, he’d always been alone, due to his personality. Now… this man, who nearly got killed because he’d wandered and dawdled in the dead forest, trying to talk to him…. Now he wanted to travel with him? What if he only brought more misfortune upon the man?

Fyre could see the doubt in his eyes, and smiled in what he hoped was an assuring way. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t certain I wanted to walk with you,” he said quietly, brushing red bangs out of his eyes. They were grey, like the Phyri’s. And, for a moment, the Phyri thought he saw himself in them.

Nodding, slowly, the Phyri dragged himself around to face Fyre, looking weary.

A grin broke out on Fyre’s face. “You seem to be able to understand me,” he said, rubbing his chin and eyeing the Phryi thoughtfully. “Do you have a name? Something I can call you? Mine’s Fyre, by the way…”

The Phyri blinked. A name? Did he have a name? … no, he’d never been given one. Shaking his head, he jumped a little when Fyre smacked his fist into his palm.

“I’ve got it, then! For you, a brave warrior, only a name such as Tybalt would be suitable. Do you like it?”

Newly-dubbed “Tybalt” didn’t smile, nor did he show much of any sign of approval. He only stared, unblinking, then turned and began walking again. This time, he waited for Fyre to catch up before continuing.

It was funny, how effortlessly Tybalt could have risen from the ashes had he only had the willpower to do it alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Tybalt is not only the name of a familiar character in William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” but a name that means “Brave or bold people.” I chose it because the little guy has to be pretty brave to make it on his own. Naming things is one of my favorite parts of character-creation.

I wish Fyre’s name wasn’t so lame, but I made him years ago, eheh… I can’t find the meaning for his name, but then again, I did make it up in a lack of creativity.

I hope you don’t mind that I brought a creature in. I have no idea what it is, and purposefully didn’t describe its appearance to leave it open to be possibly anything. I just needed something large and flying to follow my response.

I’m… also really sorry this is so long. It became a bit of an adventure.

First, there was the disaster.

It came and the screams swallowed the Earth, it seemed as if nothing had mattered before and nothing would again. Terror bathed the sky in blood and bodies burst in the blazing heat, roasting and popping in the heat. The world was bathed in fire, and the flames, screaming with delight, free at last from their confines in a world of potentiality, devoured their first meal and last before it guttered and died as well. They killed everything, except the witness, whose eyes widened in terror as he made lonely footprints in the crumbling ash.

Every disaster had to have a witness. Who could say what had happened if nothing remained to tell people? Without a witness, people forgot. They said it was a tragedy, then they said it was nature's way, then they didn't even believe that anymore, and the collective conciousness erased the pain, became more careless about their fires, and it happened again. And they'd say it was horrible until it happened again. No, without the haunted eyes of the witness, people could not be trusted to remember.

The witness was there so people would remember. But Leva was there so people would know why they were remembering.

She was technically a woman, but most people referred to her a nuisance. She herself took neither of these titles. She was a historian. It was up to her to look at the tragedies and comedies of life and all their sad witnesses and bully them into telling her what happened. Then she wrote down why. And the why stayed there, since the people needed a reason to remember things, and they needed a reason to stop things, and Leva had a million reasons for everything. Some of them were even good ones. But, trudging through the ash, she could not for the life of her think of a good reason for the fire. It had happened spontaneously and ended abruptly, leaving charred corpses of plants and animals and quiet brokenness, hanging in the air like a shroud. All that was left was her, her and the muttering wind, picking through the corpses and wondering why.

The only thing she could think of was that everything happened, whether one expected it or not, and the best one could do would be to build one's fire a little better the next night and pray the wind didn't pick up and remember. Remember the screaming forest.

She shuddered, partially because thinking about things like this all the time would only end up making you want to get drunk in a hurry, and partially because the wind was beginning to moan. She needed to find a survivor. She needed to find a witness, then run home, run to where it was safe and you couldn't see the pain of the future settling down to become the ash of the past.

The problem with finding a witness though, was that, much like the endangered margay of the South American rainforests, there were very few of them that weren't dead, and those that had survived weren't stupid enough to jump out into the open and dance about pointing at themselves. It was all rather frustrating, and in Leva's case even more so, because unlike South Ameerican wildcats, witnesses were usually paranoid and totally useless if you tried to calm them down with tranquilizers. She had tried it once. Asking someone a question when they were unconscious was not the most productive activity.

However, long years of hunting down knowledge had left her with senses like a hawk, and persistence like an angry badger. Thus, when she heard the whispers of sliding ashes, she decided to tackle first and ask questions later. Taking a deep breath she leapt, flying through the air like a hideous pantomime, a historian with a vengeance. The last thing she saw before impact was the startled face of a lump of soot with pointy horns.

Pointy horns.

What she wanted to say on impact was 'Where were you last night when this happened?' but she ended up saying "OwdamndamnDAMNow." This was not as useful, but it felt better. After she collected herself, she looked at her captive, daring it to mention anything about her outburst and barked "Where were you last night when this happened?" It looked bewildered and vaguely horrified, but it didn't answer. This was because it was a Phyri.

Feeling a bit foolish, she said "Oh." It was rare to see a Phyri. They didn't come out around humans often. She was willing to bet good money that they weren't tackled to the ground by humans often either, but not too much good money, since when you're a historian you know that humans do some pretty weird things to pass the time. She paused, collecting herself. It was okay. She had just tackled a Phyri to the ground, swore loudly, and tried to interrogate it, but history would forgive her. It was things like important people having affairs and stabbing government officials that history didn't forgive.
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He was having a trying day. He had been born, which would have been exhausting enough under normal circumstances, but he had also been born into a place where it currently appeared fashionable to be dead. Feeling very alone, he had stumbled around a bit, and then a foulmouthed monster had tackled him to the ground and asking him where he was yesterday.

He couldn't remember. Try as he might, the time before his eruption, newly formed, from the tree was a blur, blocked by a hazy mental wall that sternly said: 'Don't Think This.' All he could remember were snatches. Smoke, voices...

Pain.

Recoiling, he twisted frantically under the madwoman, trying to escape. She had to be infectious. Nothing else could explain how she could make him hurt just by asking a question. She was infectious, and if she sat on him any longer, he was going to catch the crazies and then she would cackle madly, and he didn't know, eat him or something. Judging by how things had been going so far, it seemed to fit in with the pattern of his life, but despite things having been rather unpleasant and confusing, he rather wanted to live a bit longer anyway and see if anything better might come along. The woman was making noises now, but he didn't want to hear her voodoo chants, he wanted to get away, he wanted-

She slapped him and his eyes widened. Slowly, he looked at her and saw a grim, sooty face staring back at him, two identical bruises where she had first hit his horns leaping into him. "That," she said slowly, "Is enough." She looked around at the remnants of the forest, the charred trees and creatures and the smell of death. "That's quite enough." she repeated shakily, but this time he felt she wasn't talking to him, rather to something else, something he couldn't see. A ghost. A mad delusion. "See this?" She gestured to the forest. He nodded, begrudgingly giving her fuel for her crazy woman babbling. "This was alive. Now it's not." she said simply. "It's History."

And then she explained, and she explained about a lot of things, some of which made sense, and some of which didn't. She talked about how things moved in cycles, and how people forgot, and how they should remember. She talked about death, briefly. About how things never died, not really, so long as there was a witness. She even stopped sitting on him once she was sure he wasn't going to run away, which was a relief.

And she gave him his name.

"Shahid." she said quietly, offering him a hand. "You're my witness." He took it. For a crazy woman, she wasn't bad. And being Shahid was better than being alone.

It can be hard to tell where history begins. You can say 'Long ago' or 'Time beyond memory', or even 'First there was the disaster', but there will always be something leading up to it, something before. Endings are like that too. Whether the disaster ended in ashes, or in an arrangement between a historian and a witness, or quietly, slipping from human memory years later is something that's hard to say. Maybe it never ended at all. Maybe all we can believe is that it happened, and figure that we'll know the end when we see it.

((OOC note: This was fun. 8D Also, 'Shahid' is a name meaning both 'witness' and 'martyr'. I found it fitting.))

Vard faced the western horizon. Warm bars of deep orange longingly reached over the base of Death Mountain, caramelizing the flickering red embers that dotted the melting blanket of thick ash.

Black soot billowed from the ground as it was brushed aside with his hand to make a clearing for himself. He huddled down low, sitting cross-legged – a small peg of life stuck in the sea of warm gray. Vard sat motionless, allowing his mind to wander over the desolate plains, allowing his body to becoming as still as the ash. Fingers ran mindfully along the frayed edges of a leather-bound journal that sat on his knee, not ready to be opened just yet.

“Rebirth…,” he breathed heavily, extinguishing the small smile that was to escape his lips.

Slowly drawing his hand from the periwinkle cloak that fanned out behind him, an ink pen emerged. He ran his tongue over the front of his slick teeth before finally opening the journal. His body swayed from side to side as it dug itself snugly into the ground beneath. He began to pen out loud.

“Where others tend to see before themselves an end, I recognize a new beginning, rebirth, that elusive 'second chance' we rarely come to meet…”

His pen managed to scratch audibly against the silence.

“Fear not of lofty titles such as ‘Death Mountain,’ for we are akin to that of the great phoenix. It is nature’s law to—”

His mumbling was cut short, as were his taut string of thoughts. At the corner of his mind’s eye, between the crevices of soft flesh of his brain, a small cloud of black ash puffed up gently. The draping of fine leather wrapped over his shoulder dangled lifelessly at his side. Vard’s gaze shot forward, sliding from side to side as dark pupils swam sentry-like along the white of his eyes. He saw nothing, and so he remained motionless amongst the ash.

“It is nature’s law for all that lives to begin anew,” he continued.

Although blurred, his peripheral vision caught the movement of something slick, dancing and tearing itself away from a mound of shadow. Vard’s heart fluttered. His journal was slammed shut. He straightened himself and turned his gaze toward the movement. The orange sunlight began to teeter dangerously at the brink of rose pink.

It was unmistakable. Vard unknowingly leaned forward in his seat, trying to see clearly the creature that cautiously stood behind the fragile remains of a blackened tree stump. The paling horizon light was enough to reveal its four legs, a distinct horn, and its bright, childlike eyes. The creature sported the exact color of the ash surrounding it, if not a creature born from it.

A phyri!, Vard identified with excited fascination.

Through their meeting gazes, Vard immediately saw the shy, uncertain curiosity beneath the creature’s eyes, for he too was a curious creature himself. The phyri’s horned head bobbed up and down, unsure of itself. Vard waited for the creature to scamper away, but it remained still.

He smiled brightly while they studied each other.

Instinctively reaching into the shadows of the lengthiest cloak, he seemed to fish out two silk handkerchiefs, one purple and the other light blue. Each one was embroidered with fanciful designs, and accented with gold and silver threads. The phyri’s eyes widened as the pieces of cloth glinted against the light of the sinking sun.

Summoning the showmanship of the festival magician he often presented himself as, Vard gracefully displayed each handkerchief, then balled them tightly into his closed fist and brought it to his mouth, muttering inaudible words all the while. He took in a deep breath, and blew out, cannonading the two fancy cloths from his fist and into the air. As it seemed the two embroideries would simply sink to the ash below, a gentle breeze cascaded life into them. They fluttered upward, following a double helix dance as they rose higher and higher, catching the light, twisting and warping upon themselves until they resembled exotic birdlike creatures, flapping and gliding along the enchanted gales. Vard’s hands rested discreetly at his sides while his fingers moved to and fro as if he pulled on puppet strings.

The phyri’s eyes were locked in fascination onto the two cloth creatures that fluttered into the air. It let out soft, muffled staccato sound, joyous, as if it were laughing. Vard’s smile remained bright as ever. As his fingers pointed downward, the two handkerchiefs changed course, glided downward, and fluttered their ways toward the phyri, gently spiraling around the ashen creature.

The phyri let out that same joyful sound, prancing on its hind legs, dancing with the bright, makeshift birds. The breeze changed, and the handkerchiefs gracefully drew away from the phyri, unfurling so that they were ordinary pieces of cloth again before they sunk into the shadows beneath the periwinkle cloak. The phyri pranced after the cloth birds, exposing itself fully in the already crimson sunlight, revealing a long tail, another horn. It stood at the halfway point from Vard, its eyes yearning for more.

Vard laughed as he propped himself neatly onto his knees. The phyri fell back a bit at Vard’s sudden movement, but still remained as eager. From beneath the cloak, he drew out a single piece of cloth, stark white in color and much larger than the two handkerchiefs he had showcased earlier. The same wind revisited, dragging the cloth into the air as Vard pulled at the invisible strings. It spiraled into the ground, sliding against the ash until it was as gray as the fascinated phyri before it. It fluttered as Vard used the wild breeze to mold the ash stained fabric, twisting, curving, and bunching it in places as best he could until it formed four legs, and a clumsy, bulbous head. Obeying Vard’s pushing hand gestures, the gray cloth was propelled toward the phyri until it became its mirror image. As the phyri danced, so did the cloth phyri in the same way. As the phyri bobbed its head, so did the cloth phyri mimic that movement, and this continued for quite some time. Time passing, amused and out of breath, the phyri plopped down onto its rear end in a fit of laughter.

The cloth phyri unraveled, revealing its true form of plain, flat fabric and flew underneath the shadowed reaches of Vard’s cloak.

Feeling the tension had begun to melt away, Vard climbed onto his feet, his journal and pen no where in sight. He dusted off the clinging ash dust, and strode toward the bouncy creature. The phyri climbed onto its legs, alert. Vard stretched out at a gentle hand. His fingertips were met with a tiny nose. His hand advanced further, but the phyri shied away.

Vard drew back. A warm smile painted his lips.

Gazing at the creature before him, he decided it was best to let him be. Sending a quick nod toward the creature, he slowly turned around and followed the same course he traveled to enter these dreary forest remains.

Realizing the man was leaving, the phyri trotted after him, but halted, hesitant to leave the familiar reaches of its home. It spun around once, then stared off after the man until he could see him no more. The phyri hoped Vard would return.

Vard turned back and waved, hoping the phyri would see him.

I should come back tomorrow...with some food, he thought.

As he trudged on, he fished out both pen and journal from behind his back, thumbed through to a blank page, and quickly began to pen his thoughts: