The day has remained fresh with a gentle breeze upon my face as I have trekked toward the southern end of the Sirris. The day has been uneventful as I pass beside the behemoths that block the horizon from the Chrystum. My walk has been easy as the meadows roll gently with only soft ground beneath my feet. It is a welcome path compared to the rocky hillsides and ambling creeks that had been my map to this point.
A twilight sky is settling quickly on this side of the mountains as the sun falls quickly to the west. I have seen little movement across the plain as I proceed. I find myself looking forward with both anticipation and trepidation to the end of this leg. Tales abound with legends of creatures and evil magics that inhabit the Great Southern Wastelands. Long ago it was laid bare. The tales of my youth tell of a great war that was fought between the men of the northern lands and those races that dwell far below the Chrystum.
Though I have only seen the Wastelands from the lofty heights of the Sirris, an ankle of the lower hills as the Dream Valley turns and runs toward the sea, my imagination is rampant. It has been many years since I tread the lower reaches but I can still see the vast rolling desert of sand as far as the eye can see. I remember how my eyes rebelled at the stark scenery, my vision obscured by a harsh glare that seemed to encompass all of the southern border. Would there have been a war, all traces I could imagine have been erased from the memory of the world.
Night settles in quickly as my meandering thoughts have kept all sense of passing time from me. This day escapes and night intrudes again. My stomach calls from its depths and reawakens my senses. Another day of rolling fields and stalks of wistful flowers shall greet me before the peaceful meadows of the Far Wilderness will be fully behind and a new trail opens before me.
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