I dreamt of Matasten. A city tall and dark, surrounded by massive trees that looked like mere shrubs at its base. Klotian towers, black and covered in spikes. The river that flowed around it red with blood.

All of the questions I should have asked Gront flooded my mind and forced me awake. My curiosity tormented me all day. How many other Titans are still alive? How many once were? Did they ever have children, descendants we might recognize in some form? The sheer volumes of history stored in that creature’s mind must dwarf most libraries in the Old Empire. Though he seemed oblivious to much of what has happened, the world he sees through those eyes is one we can only begin to imagine.


Just more knowledge about the Atmosphere would have been invaluable. Dionus and I couldn’t stop talking about it all day. It flows around us with respect? What does he mean by respect? He said the fabric of the jungle was showing signs of wear and the darkness twists it as it grows. How? What kind of effect can it have on us? Does it open weaknesses we can exploit? Can they be exploited in us?

Damn it all. I can’t stop myself from coming up with new questions every time my mind returns to that encounter.


Is there a way we too could learn to see the Atmosphere? Could it serve as a warning of danger?

I need to stop this and go to sleep. If I can sleep.

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