I have not been back to the city. Right now, it is too painful. I was there, when Mr. Engberg warned us away from the new crack. I was there when people ignored him.
And I saw the shadows begin to boil and roll and build. It is too late to stop it, to late to do anything but find a way to survive this latest event of the Fall.
The very stones of D’ni remember. They remember the bustle of people, they remember moments of joy and sorrow. But most of all, they remember the Fall. The streets were seeped in pain and fear and death, all driven on by the curling fog of gas, reaching for them, to devour them.
The fog still lives…a creeping, tendriled shadow of hate, rage and bitterness. The emotions that drove two men to destroy an entire culture are too strong to be dispelled by mere time. They have taken on a life of their own in the memories of this place.
There are stories in the stones. Stories of the Fall, stories of before…and stories of after. I can hear the stories.
This is my path, to tell the stories. To help people remember.
There is a story in the Pub…but the pub brings me to my knees. Blade was there last night. So was Butch. They both led me out of the shadow.
And then the Bahro screamed. They too, have stories. I will bring the stories to the people. I am not afraid anymore.