For a brief time before we lost Sirus, I would have called these fellow exiles friends. Perhaps, even family. A certain bond forms between those who believe they are about to die, and that kept us focused... but we did not die. Sirus sacrificed himself, and we won the day.
At what cost? We are drifting apart. Each of us sees that which we desire on the formless horizon, and each of us pursues our own path. I saw Baran continuing his crusade in a righteous wrath, though I know not how many days past, for the sun is false in this place. I suspect each valley I tread has a sun only because I expect it to be hanging in the sky. Does each valley only have a sky because I expect that, too? I no longer believe anything at all.
I would not call myself bitter, but I do see the others descending, while I remain steadfast in my convictions. Drox believes he can forge a new land here, with himself as king. His pride draws him ever further from me. Al-Hezmin seeks to hone his skills against ever more dangerous enemies in a vain attempt to be more powerful than Drox and Baran, a curious kind of envy that poisons both his soul and the land around him.
