Saltwrack

oracle: 'X' walker: 'X' -- You are shown to a small gathering-room wallpapered in grubby tapestry. Weak light filters through its salt-crusted windows. Five unfamiliar people sit around the table—actually, you're sure you've seen some of them in passing, in the corridors of the Observational Society. But it doesn't seem like you'll have a chance to talk to them individually before making your choices. It would be folly to go without a [[walker]]. You've been pressured to select an [[oracle]] as your other colleague. [unless noInterpreter; append] But as you scan over the faces, you note the unexpected presence of another [[interpreter]]. [continue; align center] [[the first oracle]] [[the second oracle]] [[the first saltwalker]] [[the second saltwalker]] [unless noInterpreter; align center] [[the second interpreter]]

config.style.page.font: "Iowan Old Style/Constantia/Georgia/serif 18" config.style.backdrop: "#1A1B1D" config.style.page.style: "none" config.style.page.color: "gray-1 on #1A1B1D" config.style.page.link.font: "Iowan Old Style/Constantia/Georgia/serif 18 underline" config.style.page.link.color: "gray-1" config.style.page.link.lineColor: "gray-1" config.style.page.link.active.color: "blue-0 on #1A1B1D" config.style.page.link.active.lineColor: "blue-0" config.style.page.header.font: "16" config.style.page.header.link.font: "small caps" config.style.page.footer.font: "16" config.style.page.footer.link.color: "gray-1" config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" config.body.transition.name: "fadeInOut" config.style.page.style.border: "none" config.style.page.footer.border: "none" config.style.page.header.border: "none" save: false -- If summer meant heat, this ground would thaw. The thin soil would flourish; the wastes beyond the city would be green. You gaze out to the east, past the old ornate window of the Observational Society. The sun glares on dead white. South, the city's low familiar skyline begins, the buildings hunched as though they fear the sky. Soon you will leave this place. [[North lies the salt wrack. North is where you will go.->SALTWRACK]]

You turn back to the clerk sitting across the desk from you, over piles of slightly crumpled paper. Her hands are stained with ink. Her voice is hoarse, as though she has recently been ill. "Oh—what would you prefer to be addressed as?" [["Sen."]] The neutral honorific of respect: a fine choice for any purpose. [["Ammar."]] An honorific translating to "sibling", common among egalitarians, communalists, and anarchists. [["Interpreter."]] The title of your position, an honorific conveying pride in your skills.

This is your profession, so you ought to know what a good one is. Where a walker interprets the land and an oracle interprets dreams, they interpret the structures of life itself. With scalpel and microscope, scientists like you unravel the biologies of the wrack, facing the mystery of this harsh and frozen world. It was said, long ago, that the companions of some creator-deity were interpreters: they named the myriad creatures, dissected newly-made organ systems, tended carefully to the gardens of the heavens. [[Most people don't believe in gods anymore.->meeting]]

address: 'sen' noInterpreter: false -- {embed passage: 'expos convo'}

address: 'Interpreter' noInterpreter: false -- {embed passage: 'expos convo'}

address: 'ammar' noInterpreter: false -- {embed passage: 'expos convo'}

rations: 180 fuel: 1 fairgame: false -- {embed passage: 'preparations'}

They are a slight figure, watching you from behind round silver spectacles without meeting your gaze. Their features are angular and delicate. They have icily pale eyes, and their hair is an odd shade of dark grey; perhaps they come from Firmament. Their clothing is drab, neat, and unassuming save for a single drop of dried blood on their collar. [if noInterpreter] You note that they seemed to bristle at the other interpreter's remark. [continue] [align center] [[select the first oracle]] {back link, label: 'consider otherwise'}

They are tall, brown-skinned, clad in layers of faded floral-patterned fabric; the overall impression is of striking elegance, despite their dishevelment. Their long hair is tied back in a thick braid. The skin of their arms is inked with spiralling, oddly precise sigils, like blueprints for an unknown mechanism. They gaze off into some dreamy distance, eyes wide and dark and utterly calm. [align center] [[select the second oracle]] {back link, label: 'consider otherwise'}

The proper term of address for a saltwalker is Sel. Without them, no trade would be possible; no transregional communication; no travel. They were the first to breach the wrack, the first to learn its ways. Saltwalker culture may seem superstitious or crude to outsiders. It developed out of necessity, during the apocalypse. The first salt snow, an inexplicable deathly miracle, occurred 239 years ago. Its effects were catastrophic: groundwater leaching, dead briny seas, the end of entire ecosystems. The earth's albedo raised, and its carbon diminished as though it were being siphoned. A swift ice age settled. By the time salt no longer sifted from the sky, six harrowed and desperate city-states remained in this corner of the world, isolated by a stretch of hostile white wasteland. _Hearth, Clay, Noble, Wick, Firmament, and Rye._ [[You recall their names even now in the format of a children's song.->meeting]]

Oracles are a strange class of people: those whose minds are touched by something outside the usual sphere. They are often androgynes, usually asocial or inclined towards solitude. They possess eerie abilities, unorthodox ways of thought, and more senses than humans generally have. Vivid, prophetic dreams, or visions of impossible shapes, or perpetual knowledge of where the poles are. Some oracles are highly respected researchers and theorists. Some are the object of cults. [[Some burn themselves alive.->meeting]]

day: 1 dread: 1 omen: random.d100 mold: false cartrouble: false north: 40 lateral: 0 mi: 40 crew: 3 checkpoint: 0 halfrations: false starving: false returning: false glaciereturned: false onfoot: false knives: false trepanthem: false trepanyou: false twotents: false glacierdeath: false pooldeath: false beastdeath: false usedwick: false usedart: false usedroadside: false murderer: false cannibal: false usedbackstory: false usedhistoryques: false parasite: false bloodcar: false rationcar: false specimencar: false splodecar: false oracletent: false walkertent: false journalnav: false usedfirmamentconvo: false badair: false useddeadwalkers: false usedscavenging: false usedshortcut: false useddice: false usedclay: false used1wtravelques: false used1wcityques: false usedsunset: false usedoccipit: false usedvehiclethought: false specimens: 0 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" config.header.right: "Rations: Plentiful" -- There is no boundary between Hearth, your everywhere-place—the familiar place of dwelling—and the forsaken place outside of it, surrounding it. There is no line, not even a fading gradient. Your vehicle lopes over grey frozen heath for a few dozen miles. Soon, there is a thin film of ash or ashlike material on the ground. [[The sun is a glowing white spot behind the clouds.]]

[if relationoracle < 20] They look at you sharply. "This is where my talents lie." True. But perhaps they're concealing something. [else] They look away from you, rubbing a hand over their forehead before pushing up their glasses. "There were... incidents. I couldn't live that way anymore." You can guess, roughly, what might have happened. Oracles are not known for their stability. [if relationoracle > 25; append] "Often," they add, "I have wished I could have remained an interpreter. Rational systems are appealing. My studies were meaningful. But in order to fulfill my purpose, it was a sacrifice that had to be made." [if relationoracle > 25; align center] [["What do you consider your purpose to be?"]] [continue; align center] [[leave them alone about it]]

The ground is hard and offers few tracks, and you're no saltwalker; you can't read the signs of a trail. But you think there's a line of indentations, leading north. It winds between jagged boulders taller than you are, and past an iced-over stream bed, and into a wide flat plain. And you must have been right, because many paces away, you see [[you see]]

You can feel the empty gaze of the oracle on your back still, still, throughout the scrambling motions of packing all your remaining supplies. You leave the other [unless twotents; append] tents [else; append] tent [continue; append] well alone, hollowed by the low rushing voice of the wind. South. South, as fast as you can. Alone now, or so you have to hope. What if you encounter the saltwalker? Belatedly you realize what she may have done with the body, and why none of the rations are missing. You kneel on the bitter frozen ground, a mile and more east of the campsite, and come close to vomiting. Your eyes swell with tears. [align center] [[south, alone->normal leave]]

dread: dread + 3 -- It's stuck to the snow, frozen in place by the last drops of blood. You have to wrench it free. Heavy, cradled in your hands. Such a heavy weight for something so delicate. The eyes won't close. They hardly ever did in life, anyways. Perhaps, tied to your pack, the head of the oracle will watch over you. Guard your path from dread things. You need to believe in that because if you have nothing to hide in, some swift and terrible white shape will come out of the salt and swallow you up. Are there tears in your eyes? They're freezing on your face. [align center] [[south, alone?->in for it]]

day: day + 1 oracle: 'X' walker: 'X' crew: 1 rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- It's quiet when you wake. The sky is still purple-gray. Very quickly, you are faced with a problem: both the oracle and the walker have vanished. The oracle's belongings seem more or less as they left them. A pile of [[notes]] are spread out across their bedroll. As for the walker, her tent and all her gear are nowhere to be seen. [align center] [[search for your colleagues]]

Little drops of freezing mist spit down from a heavy sky. You feel a tension pressing on you. The walker checks her compass, fidgets with the knives at her belt. "We're coming close to the end of the mapped area. [unless oracle === 'X'; append] We'll have to rely on the oracle from here on out." [if oracle === 'X' && journalnav; append] We'll have to rely on the oracle's notes from here on out." [continue; append] A grim smile flickers on her face. "Travelling blind."

dread: dread + 3 -- It's their journal. The one they always carry. But it looks to have been cut open, dissected, and left in a heap. You take the time to look closer, flipping through the abandoned pages. If the oracle were here, they wouldn't let you do this. {embed passage: 'journal'} You put down the papers. Time has passed. When you [[leave the tent]], only the wind meets you.

The oracle's belongings seem more or less as they left them. A pile of notes are spread out across their bedroll. As for the walker, her tent and all her gear are nowhere to be seen. It's full day now, though without a visible sun. [align center] [[search for your colleagues]]

config.header.left: "" -- There are flies in your tent. They cluster on the walls in throbbing black spots, despite the closed flap and the freezing cold night. You thought for some time they wanted the oracle's head, but they're circling yours instead. You can't kill them, and you can't push them out, and when you try to brush a clump of them off the fabric the buzzing clot dwindles to a pinprick. So you sleep, instead. Your dreams plunge you into feverish confusion. Garbled voices from beyond a doorway, a flat warped gap in the air. You wake moaning in fear, with the remnant of the sound in your mouth, gripped by unshakeable terror and by the conviction that there is something outside the tent. It's here for you. [align center] [[look outside the tent]] [[look outside the tent]] [[look outside the tent]]

Only the dead colorless light of your lamp illuminates the ground. Stretches of rough ice and salt. For an instant it's abstract, merely shapes, jagged and stark in the immediate wash of white. The ground. The figure. Before you stands the oracle, your oracle. The rest of them. Wax-white skin bled dry; clothing spattered with rusty stains. Their open coat flaps in the wind. From the wound where their head was severed, faint auroric light streams up into the night air. Ribbons of charged particles, shifting like smoke. They kneel into the open tent. Something about the motion, the collapse, is reminiscent of a puppet. Slowly they extend a hand toward you. [align center] [[scream->so no head]] [[sob->so no head]] [[close your eyes->so no head]]

dread: dread + 6 -- On a mound of stiff and reddened snow is the head of the oracle. Their bloodless face is a blank rictus of fear; their long hair strays into unseeing eyes. The rest of the body is nowhere to be found. When you recover your senses somewhat, you start to piece together a narrative. The killing must have been done overnight, with the walker's blade. Some rite or ritual? Or just a senseless, paranoid murder? The morning is bitterly cold. No sun. Just a thick stretch of ragged gray-white. [align center] [[leave this place]] [[take the head]]

You heat up some canned food for dinner. When you open it, you're startled: a film of deep black fuzz floats atop the soup. [align center] [[throw out the rations]] [[eat the rations regardless]] [[view the mold under a microscope]]

rations: rations - 6 dread: dread - 1 rations: rations - crew -- This cannot be safe to consume. And now you have your doubts about the safety of the remaining supplies. You explain what you saw to the walker, hoping for approval, and you are vindicated. [if walker === 'A'] He looks dolefully down at the opened jar, and nods. "Where one is afflicted, others will surely be. Let's look through the rest of the rations, hm?" [if walker === 'T'] "Seen this stuff before," she says. "Good thing you brought this to me. We'll check if anything else is infected." [continue; append] Together, you find a bag of rye flour and a portion of dried fruit which have been overgrown with the strange mold. Neither of you likes having to throw out food, but you feel better knowing that what you eat won't make you sick. The walker is familiar with tomorrow's route, which promises to be [[an easy enough voyage.->hot spring yay]]

dread: dread + 6 -- You are aware that this is a terrible idea in every sense. You are motivated not by a desire to preserve rations, but by manic curiosity. You skim off the patches of mold and thoroughly heat the contents of the jar, before taking a cautious spoonful. It tastes normal: watery broth made of vegetables and unspecified meat. Too bland. You finish it. You've almost forgotten about your decision by the time the toxins begin to affect you. You find yourself twitching, shivering. Even through your thermal clothes, you feel cold and nauseous. Colors have become muted, as though you're seeing in the dark, in the grey and indistinct shades of night. But it's still early evening. The moon floats above the landscape, a huge white smear bordered by bright doubles of itself. A ring of light surrounds it like an eye. You lick your lips, run a hand over your face. A vast fear strikes you: the sun, the sun will eat you. You stagger, fall, and lie down in the salty ice, unable to hold yourself up. Feverish tears stream down the sides of your face. Nobody can help you; you are more alone than you have ever been. And then you close your eyes, and see a pattern of swirling chaos that grips you entirely. [align center] [[succumb to delirium]]

dread: dread + 1 rations: rations - 1 rations: rations - crew -- You scrape some of it onto a microscope slide and take it to your tent. Up close, there are none of the sporing bodies you expected. Instead, the mold is slick, black, angular, and jagged as the branches of coral. Is it mold at all? It is like a miniature city, you think. The microscope's lens creates chromatic aberration, making glassy rainbows play around the edges of the tiny structures. The word *spire* lodges in your mind, but you're not sure where you're recalling it from. You write up your observations, considering that this is a kind of wrack biota you haven't seen before. You'll have to find something else for dinner. The walker is familiar with tomorrow's route, which promises to be [[an easy enough voyage.->hot spring yay]]

dread: dread + 3 -- The sun is half-obscured behind low fast-moving clouds, translucent things made greasy by its light. You watch, feeling displaced from yourself, as it slides double, then skids and multiplies and escapes itself, till the sky is clotted with pale cold-burning suns. You blink hard, and reel. A darkness comes up towards you. The vision is gone. The oracle looks sharply to you, though you haven't made a sound. Their eyes widen. "You felt it too?" [align center] [[no; you felt nothing at all.->a lie]] [[there was a sense, as though in a dream, that you knew what was ahead. that it could harm you. nothing real blackened the horizon.->a lie]]

It's not their voice, but their presence, that somehow speaks in your head. "Is that so? I saw you. I saw what you saw." [unless walker === 'X'] The walker laughs. It's not a comfortable sound. "Are the two of you all right?" [continue] At the same time, you realize that you don't know how much of that exchange with the oracle was spoken out loud. But how could you have talked at all without opening your mouth? You must have—you must be exhausted, losing your sense of [[reality->cold snap 2 return]]. Or picking up on their madness.

You hear a grinding thunk, and pitch forward in your seat as the forward motion of your vehicle comes to an abrupt halt. The walking machine has stopped. In the last few miles, its pace slowed to a steady limp. Now its legs are stuck stiff partway through their walk cycle, still steaming at the joints. [align center] [[see if you can fix it]] [[prepare to walk]]

dread: dread + 5 onfoot: true -- {embed passage: 'on foot'}

Without the use of your vehicle, you'll be stranded in the wrack. The return journey will be far longer and more hazardous. If it's possible to fix it now, you have to try. This machine was made in Hearth, and its design principles are unlike those you're more familiar with. You are not an engineer, but you've tinkered with vehicles before, and picked up some knowledge of engines, back in Firmament. [unless walker === 'X'] You and the walker [else] You [continue; append] pry off a casing plate to expose the vehicle's engine-heart, the arcane mechanisms of its chemical metabolism: delicate pistons and loops of tubing, slick with some sort of clear glossy oil. It is as warm as a body, steaming thickly in the frigid air. [unless oracle === 'X'; align center] [[ask the oracle to fix it]] [unless walker === 'X'; align center] [[ask the walker to fix it]] [continue; align center] [[fix it yourself]]

splodecar (omen > 16): true -- You manage to pry open the casing and reveal the vehicle's engine-heart, the arcane mechanisms of its chemical metabolism: delicate pistons and loops of tubing, slick with some sort of clear glossy oil. "I don't know much about engineering... I can try, though." They cast a doubtful glance at you, but turn their attention to the machine. Their fingertips hover just above the still-warm steel components. [if omen > 16 && oracle === 'V'] "Here! There was some sort of blockage in this tube. I think I understand—it's a bit like a circulatory system. If you give me some leverage, here, just enough for this little gear to turn—see, that should start it up again." And, miraculously, it does. The engine comes back to life, idling with a smooth whir. You bolt the steel plate back on [if omen > 16 && oracle === 'S'] "Here. There's a clot in the system. I think... oh, this one should..." The work of their fingers is steady and precise. They fiddle with a small gear, then stand back to watch, head tilted. And, miraculously, the engine comes back to life, idling with a smooth whir. You bolt the steel plate back on [if omen > 16; append] and board the walking machine again. Hopefully the core problem was fixed. {embed passage: 'redirects'} [else] There is a yelp of pain. Your oracle scrambles back from the lifeless machine, clutching their hand. A stream of blood spills onto the rocky ground and freezes where it lands. "It bit me." Their eyes are too wide, aghast in horror. "The engine, it's already infected—there's nothing we can do." You look over their shoulder. A chunk of flesh has been torn out of the side of their hand, where the muscle of the thumb meets the palm. [if omen < 17 && walker !== 'X'] After that, neither you nor the saltwalker has the heart to argue. Or touch the vehicle. [if omen < 17 && walker === 'X'] After that, you don't have the heart to argue. Or touch the vehicle. [if omen < 17; align center] [[prepare to walk]]

[if walker === 'A'] He groans softly. "Figures. Just figures. The wrack doesn't like machines, I could have told you. It eats them." He holds up a tangle of wires and cylinders. Flakes of metal fall with a powdery clinking. The engine is disintegrating as though it's a rotten branch. [if walker === 'T'] She snarls. "It came apart in my hands. Look." She holds up a tangle of wires and cylinders. Flakes of metal fall with a powdery clinking. The engine is disintegrating as though it's a rotten branch. [continue] An engineering oversight, maybe. Could the machine have been infected somehow? All you can do now is [[prepare to walk]].

splodecar: true -- It's not hard to see what might be wrong, once you apply your observational skills. One of the tubes is clotted with a crust of dried fluid. You carefully disconnect it, and prod out the blockage. Lubricant smears over your gloves. When you reattach the tube, you're not sure that you've fixed the core problem. But the engine starts again when you power it on. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

oracle: 'V' relationoracle: 20 -- "_Yes._ Thank you ever so much, Interpreter." Their tone is unexpectedly fervent, given their carefully controlled appearance. The eyes of the two oracles meet. Some unshared communication seems to pass between them in that glance. The other oracle rests their fingertips on your new partner's wrist, for just a moment. [if walker === 'X'] You still have a walker to choose. [if walker === 'X'; align center] [[the first saltwalker]] [[the second saltwalker]] [else; align center] [[And so your crew is selected.]]

oracle: 'S' relationoracle: 20 -- They nod. "I will serve as well as I can." You can't tell what they're thinking. The eyes of the two oracles meet. Some unshared communication seems to pass between them in that glance. The other oracle offers your new partner an uncertain smile. [if walker === 'X'] You still have a walker to choose. [if walker === 'X'; align center] [[the first saltwalker]] [[the second saltwalker]] [else; align center] [[And so your crew is selected.]]

config.header.left: "" config.header.center: "" config.header.right: "" config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- [align center] SALTWRACK [[~~ABOUT~~->ABOUT]] [[~~BEGIN~~->BEGIN]]

He seems every bit a man of Hearth, with his warm dark skin and tightly coiled hair. He must be the oldest person in the room; there are deep wrinkles around his eyes, and his wiry beard is mostly grey. He looks almost skittish. You notice little glinting pendants wired onto his clothing: the saltwalker waysign sigils, you think. You can't tell what they mean. [align center] [[select the first walker]] {back link, label: 'consider otherwise'}

She is plumply muscular, short-haired, with moles scattered over her pale skin. Her hands are cut by the crossing marks of scars. She wears a selection of knives openly. Her eyes are concealed by a glassy black helm whose purpose is arcane to you, but her body language seems friendly and energetic. [align center] [[select the second walker]] {back link, label: 'consider otherwise'}

noInterpreter: true -- He barely glances at you; he's preoccupied with turning over some glass model, a green tangle that looks like it might represent the inside of a cell. As you look him over, the functionary notices your attention, and her brow furrows. "Interpreter?" She's addressing him. "I thought you—it was agreed you weren't going to accompany the expedition. We've only enough resources for three." He scoffs, not loudly. "So it's settled? Rather than another naturalist, you would assign some _mystic_ to my colleague. Thereby preventing any productive discussion in the field, where the observational work of two trained minds would be most valuable. Hardly a scientific expedition, if you ask me." The clerk seems weary rather than angered as she begins: "Interpreter, you are aware that given the nature of the salt wrack, the Society's subcouncil has determined—" "Spare me." He gives you a sympathetic grimace as he [[leaves.->meeting]]

rations: rations - 6 day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" mi: mi + 61 north: north + 60 lateral: lateral + 1 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The saltwalker seems confident this morning, pointing at the map where a curve has been drawn in white ink. "This part's safer than most. The old route from Hearth to Clay passes through here. Nowadays, we use a faster path, but the ground here is quiet." [unless badair] The sky grows heavy and blue-purple, overburdened with moisture. As you stop to make camp for the night, it begins to snow. Thick clumps spiral out of the sky, landing with a puff against your sleeves and hood. You eat dinner quickly, brushing snow out of your face every so often. The walker finds a pack of spiced biscuits in the rations and distributes them. As you lie in the quiet softness of your tent afterwards, appreciating the one time of day when you can take warmth for granted, you think about your colleagues. You reflect on... {embed passage: 'reflect'} [if badair && oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'oracle first badair'} [if badair && oracle !== 'V'] {embed passage: 'you first badair'}

They are quiet and neurotically watchful, with a demeanor of wary stiffness. Physically smaller than you and the saltwalker, and fragile-looking. Perhaps sickly, perhaps just sleepless. They spend much of their free time scrawling down arcane notes in a thick book they carry. [unless address === 'Interpreter'; append] They unfailingly refer to you as "Interpreter". [continue] You find them to be... [align center] [[Unsettling. Less than an ideal colleague.]] [[Polite. Nothing to complain about.]] [[Helpful. You're glad they're around.]]

They are young, and seemingly inexperienced with the wrack, though they certainly have the oracular talent. Based on what they've told you, they see things that haven't yet come to pass, hidden ways and long-lost secrets. Visions and voices in dreams. None of this seems to disturb them. You find them to be... [align center] [[Strange. Less than an ideal colleague.]] [[Harmless. Nothing to complain about.]] [[Sweet. You're glad they're around.]]

He is self-assured, old enough to be a father to you and the oracle. He has a strong Hearth accent, and likes to tell tales of his travels. He's outgoing and friendly, though sometimes he scoffs at your ideas. Or anything you say that reminds him that you're from Firmament. You find him to be... [align center] [[Dreary. Less than an ideal colleague.]] [[Prudent. Nothing to complain about.]] [[Steadfast. You're glad he's around.]]

Your saltwalker is a bearish woman, just old enough to have a trustworthy working knowledge of the wrack. She's loud, and swift, and opinionated. At night, you hear her singing vulgar songs to herself in her tent. So far, you have been unable to determine where in the world she came from. You find her to be... [align center] [[Crude. Less than an ideal colleague.]] [[Driven. Nothing to complain about.]] [[Energizing. You're glad she's around.]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 2 rations: rations - crew -- You're not fond of them, of their ghostly presence in the crew. They keep to themself rather too much. Their freakishly pale eyes seem to look through you. Perhaps you'll get used to it. You need them, after all, or so the Observational Society was convinced. You'll make do with what you have. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationoracle: relationoracle + 1 rations: rations - crew -- You haven't been able to glean much personal information about them. They seem like a rational academic sort, unlike the few other oracles you've met. Your colleague is respectful, and they do their job well. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 rations: rations - crew -- They are endearing, in a twitchy sort of way. Earnest and grave, mostly, but you've seen them smile a handful of times. You weren't prepared for the depths of their understanding: so quick to make connections, to posit hypotheses. Their insights rival your own at times. You realize that you're genuinely fond of the oracle, grateful for their presence in your crew. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

walker: 'T' relationwalker: 20 seeneyes: false -- Her smile widens to a grin. She reaches out to shake your hand; her grip is brief and fever-warm. The electric light in the room glints eerily off her helm. It reminds you of the eyes of a biting fly. [if oracle === 'X'] You still have an oracle to choose. [if oracle === 'X'; align center] [[the first oracle]] [[the second oracle]] [else; align center] [[And so your crew is selected.]]

walker: 'A' relationwalker: 20 -- He stands and inclines his head in a very courteous, rather old-fashioned acknowledgement. "It is an honor, {address}." His voice is solemn; his eyes look sharply into yours. The other saltwalker watches him, her slight smile gone. [if oracle === 'X'] You still have an oracle to choose. [if oracle === 'X'; align center] [[the first oracle]] [[the second oracle]] [else; align center] [[And so your crew is selected.]]

If the walker is the body and you are the mind, what does that make the oracle? An eye? A spirit? The role of an oracle is difficult to parse even without metaphor.

The loss is devastating in a metaphysical way. Without your oracle, you are blinded. The uncanny sixth sense that some call "touchsight" can navigate the wrack more reliably than a compass. But you and the saltwalker must rely on what is visible. [if north < 600] And the known world is only mapped to around 600 miles north; the objective point may be hundreds of miles further. Finding it may well be an impossible proposition. [continue] The rations you have will last you longer, now. But that's cold comfort.

[[SALTWRACK]] is a doomed expedition simulator/post-post-apocalyptic hypertext horror novel. You play as a scientist in a crew of three explorers investigating a land scoured by disaster. Things are not likely to go well for you. SALTWRACK contains strong horror themes and may not be suitable for all audiences. Descriptions of death, violence, self-injury, paranoia, sickness, and starvation may be encountered, depending on choice and chance. Reader discretion is advised. This story was created by Henry Kay Cecchini (they/them), using Twine's Chapbook format. It is an effort of 6 years and around 78,000 words of prose and programming combined. Special thanks to Davey for providing testing and feedback! And my sincere apologies for any bugs that remain.

In the following weeks, during the muddle of planning, you don't see much of your new partners. Of course you'll have to share responsibility later on, and rely on your companions, but you can't help thinking of it as your expedition. After all, so many of the decisions are falling to you. How many days' worth of supplies will you pack? The trip is scheduled to take forty days at most, but it's likely your timing will be off. If you return early, surplus food and fuel will weigh you down. If you return late... you'll have to fend for yourself. [align center] [[40 days]] [[50 days]]

"Rye." The southernmost city-state, far from Hearth. Known for its agricultural capability, and thus comparatively easy and bountiful quality of life. Unprompted, the oracle volunteers, "I was an artist." This is unsurprising, considering their general aspect. The meditative way in which they engage with the world. Sometimes they'll contemplate a single rock for minutes on end, turning it over carefully in their hands. [align center] [["What sort of art did you make?"]] [[nod and leave well enough alone]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 -- They smile. "I painted, mostly. That and small sculptures. Not from life. Imagined landscapes and figures. I've been interested in the possibilities of perception. Light and color. No wonder, right? Since I have visions. I tried to represent them, actually, but I don't think the meaning can be conveyed the way I'd like it to be." "It wasn't... sustainable for me, after a time. Perhaps the seeing is my stronger skill. I'd like to return to art, though. Someday." [if day < 12] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]]. [if day > 13 && day < 25] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

You spend the rest of the day on your own, cataloguing observations and putting your notes in order. [if day < 12] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]]. [if day > 13 && day < 25] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

This machine, too, is experimental. The latest innovation from Hearth's engineers. A great metal beast, you think. Quadrupedal, with claws to hook into uneven ground. Wheels wouldn't be of use in the salt wrack. The legs support a rectangular chamber with seats and room for cargo, [if rations === 180; append] stacked neatly with various supplies, open to the air but shielded in front. Despite the facelessness of the mechanism, it's undeniably designed like an animal; the impression is only heightened when you set off, and it begins to walk with [[a steady prowling stride]]. [if rations === 240; append] piled with various supplies, open to the air but shielded in front. Despite the facelessness of the mechanism, it's undeniably designed like an animal; the impression is only heightened when you set off, and it begins to walk with [[a steady prowling stride]]. [if rations === 300; append] heaped with various supplies, open to the air but shielded in front. Despite the facelessness of the mechanism, it's undeniably designed like an animal; the impression is only heightened when you set off, and it begins to walk with [[a steady prowling stride]].

rations: 240 fuel: 2 fairgame: false -- {embed passage: 'preparations'}

rations: 300 fairgame: true fuel: 3 -- {embed passage: 'preparations'}

usedvehiclethought: true -- In the years after the salt snow, there were no such machines. Saltwalkers, and those they accompanied, travelled on foot. Mechanics from the city of Noble were the first to create a vessel that could carry passengers over the wrack. But there's a reason why saltwalkers are still walkers. The wrack does strange things to machinery: altered circuits, inexplicable failures, simple chemical corrosion. Engineers are never entirely dissuaded by this, and every year brings news of some attempt to solve the problem of travel once and for all. The vehicle that carries you is as experimental as your entire goal. Further north, on the great glacial ice sheet, you'll truly prove whether or not this model of machine can handle all the variable conditions of this wasteland. At least one mountain range stretches between you and the objective. In the worst case, you can make part of the journey on foot, the traditional way. Your expedition is supplied with far more fuel than you'll actually use. That, at least, will not be a point of failure. {back link, label: 'But why even think about failing?'}

It is summer, and a few living things cling to the ground between patches of rime. Low tundra plants with ghostlike buds. Lichen-stains on crags and boulders. All known and catalogued; you are in search of deeper secrets. Your colleagues don't talk much at first. [if oracle === 'S'; append] The oracle sits beside you, watching the bleak landscape. They barely seem to notice you. [if oracle === 'V'; append] The oracle sits hunched beside you, fidgeting occasionally with their glasses or a spare pencil. [if walker === 'T'; append] The saltwalker holds onto your maps and compasses, for now. Her experience will be useful for at least a few hundred miles north. Beyond that, few travel, even walkers. There's no reason to go so far beyond civilization. Besides expensive, fatal curiosity. She seems more willing to chat. You didn't exactly get to know your colleagues before you were sent out here. You could ask her... [if walker === 'A'; append] The saltwalker holds onto your maps and compasses, for now. His experience will be useful for at least a few hundred miles north. Beyond that, few travel, even walkers. There's no reason to go so far beyond civilization. Besides expensive, fatal curiosity. He seems more willing to chat. You didn't exactly get to know your colleagues before you were sent out here. You could ask him... [if walker === 'T'; align center] [["Which city are you from?"]] [["What's it like for you—driving a machine instead of walking?"]] [["How far have you travelled?"]] [[don't bother her with questions->noconversation]] [if walker === 'A'; align center] [["You're from Hearth, aren't you?"]] [["What's it like for you—driving a machine instead of walking?"]] [["How far have you travelled?"]] [[don't bother him with questions->noconversation]]

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 rations: rations - crew -- She's unprofessional and irreverent; perhaps younger than you, but delights in ordering you around. A careless, unsophisticated bully. Her personal habits are irritating. And that visor. You can't avoid the subject: it makes her face inhuman, unreadable. At times, she frightens you. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationwalker: relationwalker + 1 rations: rations - crew -- You don't know much about saltwalker culture. From what you've heard, her behavior doesn't stray too far from expectations. Her ceaseless energy is a boon; she'll pick up any task you foist off on her. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationwalker: relationwalker + 3 rations: rations - crew -- You have a tendency to get lost in your thoughts, but it's hard to be melancholy when she's around. Her relentless attitude is infectious; her strength, optimism, and courage uplift you. You realize you're genuinely fond of the walker, grateful for her presence in your crew. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 rations: rations - crew -- The walker is overly cautious, dismal, and unimaginative. He seems to disapprove of you in some vague way, either out of superstition or distaste for communalism. Most in Hearth still associate you with it, after all. He's a stuffy old man who ought to have retired years ago. He gets in your way as often as he helps out. But you'll make do with what you have. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationwalker: relationwalker + 3 rations: rations - crew -- He has a paternal air about him, though you're certain he has no children. He's a veteran both at traversing the salt wrack and at the subtler art of lending support to a group. You trust him innately. You realize you're genuinely fond of the walker, grateful for his presence. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 rations: rations - crew -- You doubt that your colleague has the experience they need to be useful. They seem unfamiliar with the wrack. They keep talking about their flights of fancy, and get lost in thought too easily. It makes you worry that they're detached from immediate reality. You need your crew to be aware and alert. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationoracle: relationoracle + 1 rations: rations - crew -- You're not sure how much faith to put in the alleged touchsight and prophetic dreams of an oracle, but your colleague hasn't led you astray yet. And they're not one for arguing; in fact, they try hard to keep the atmosphere peaceful and optimistic. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 rations: rations - crew -- Their visions and dreams have been less useful, so far, than their atmosphere of meditative calm and optimism. They're sort of an anchor to your little group. Some people with extrasensory abilities and foresight can be shy, neurotic, or panicky; your colleague is none of these things. And more than that, they're kind. Compassionate. They seem to innately understand whenever you're not feeling right. You realize that you're genuinely fond of the oracle, grateful for their presence. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

relationwalker: relationwalker + 1 rations: rations - crew -- He's an undeniably trustworthy guide, given his decades of experience. He seems about the standard for saltwalkers: an old sel with a head full of improbable, hair-raising stories. He's keen, cautious, and professional. {embed passage: 'cold snap'}

dread: dread + 6 -- They're naked, lodged in a crook of one of the spires. The oracle, your oracle, is alive. Breathing. Looking at you. There's a little reef of the spire pinning out of the side of their head; it seems fused to their skull. A long barb pierces through their phallus, deep into their right thigh. Their back is a mess. The tree, for you find yourself thinking of it that way, seems to have grown around them. Where it contacts the spikes, their flesh is darkened as though necrosed; the holes look wet, their shredded edges pulled away from the smooth black spines. You know that there can be no undoing this. You have to [[leave->you have to leave]]. But you could [[try->but you could try]]—

You don't see it until it's almost upon you. At first it's just a smudge in the blue dusk, and a sound. Rolling patch of indistinct whiteness, murmuring against the white ice. Then you see it against the sky. An amorphous animal, rearing: an ill-shapen waxy tower. It moans like the wind over the wrack. Hollow, huge, hungry. You have seen nothing else like it. It is like nothing else. You remember your training. The flares! You rummage for one. This thing seems intent on getting into your camp, but maybe you can drive it away from your most vital supplies. You aim the flare so as to protect... [align center] [[the tents]] [[the rations]]

You reflect on the reason you're all here. Your proposal for an expedition was beyond bold. Audacious, or foolhardy. Many interpreters before you have braved the salt wrack for specimens, maps, or other revelations of the landscape. But you, and your colleagues at the Observational Society, seek the center of the cataclysm that undid the world. To that end, you will travel north for hundreds of miles, through the desolate cold. What you are attempting has never been done. You will be legendary in science and history, if somehow you succeed. [[When you wake,->day two]] you don't recall any dreams. You almost never have them.

It's well below freezing, yet a thick mist hangs in the air. The little droplets of icy water adhere to your clothes and hair, forming patches of rime. [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle is alert, turning their head to follow something you can't see. [unless oracle === 'X'; align center] [[consult the oracle->lights in the fog]] [continue; align center] [[stick to the route indicated by your map and compass]]

"I see... lights in the fog. Swelling and shrinking. They have little rings around them, and sometimes they double. It's not something you would be able to see, I could tell from the first." "It would be best to avoid them. I think. It might take more time—I don't know. It doesn't feel like something we should get too close to, but I'm not certain it's harmful." [align center] [[navigate around the unseen lights]] [[stick to the route indicated by your map and compass]]

dread: dread + 2 -- When you wake, the land is shrouded in mist. It only thickens as time passes. There is no sun, nothing more than a couple meters around you. Only a soft wall of grey-white. [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle seems on edge, and doubtful. They keep second-guessing themself. At one point they flinch and mutter something: "I was wrong—I was wrong, it's not what I thought it was." [continue] A motion catches your eye: the needle of the compass, swinging wildly. And then an impossible bulk slides through the mist beside you, a dark greyish slab like a passing monolith. Distance is too blurred; you can't tell how close it is. It must be a mirage, some optical illusion—but you feel the displaced air of its motion. Here, like the flank of a building, and then gone. [if oracle === 'V' && oracletent] {embed passage: '1o nightmare'} [else] {embed passage: 'mind'}

mi (omen < 31): mi - 3 -- You pass through a landscape of short, gritty cliffs. Rectangular segments of rock lie littered in the snow beneath them. Lichens splotch the stone in unexpected colors: brilliant orange, soft green, scabby red. Dark rivulets mark where water trickles from the cliffs. In some places little waterfalls have spurted out and frozen in long icicles. Then you come to a larger one, still flowing, that pools in a wide unfrozen spring. The water is flat and undisturbed. Only the smallest of ripples move in it. [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker paces back and forth along a stretch of shoreline. She's looking for something. You stand beside the vehicle. An almost living heat pervades the metal of it, particularly in front, where the engine is housed. Eventually she comes over to you again, spreading her hands wide. [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker circles the shore, slowly and methodically. He's looking for something. You stand beside the vehicle. An almost living heat pervades the metal of it, particularly in front, where the engine is housed Eventually he comes over to you again, and nods. [continue] [if omen > 82; append] "Others have passed by this way before. There's a sign: goodwater. It's safe. No contaminants. Let's fill our water supply here; you never know when you'll need it." [if omen > 30 && omen < 83; append] "There's no salt-sign here. We'll purify the water; it should be safe to use. It'll save us the trouble of melting ice, at least." [if omen < 31] "There's a sign. Others have passed by this way before. Sick land; something here is contaminated. I'm not sure what. It's best to leave places like this alone." You backtrack a little to find a suitable place to make camp.

dread: dread + 1 -- You dream of being back at the Observational Society. You are speaking with another interpreter—the one who stormed out of your first meeting—in a room which does not exist. Despite this, the dark, musty space is deeply familiar; some of the specimens in this dream-room collection are ones you've catalogued in life. The other interpreter is frustrated with you. He's trying to convey something important, or something he thinks is important. He's drawn a chart so large it covers a table and sprawls onto the walls. He pulls out a small mirror and sets it upright on his chart. You feel something that's not quite fear. A prickling of distant unease. You've never been able to see yourself in dreams. You press closer to the mirror, but it shows you no reflection. Your colleague's gaze alights behind you, at the window. "Look," he says. The glass is gone. Any lingering unease from the night [[quickly dissipates->science day]], but something about the image stays with you.

rations: rations - 3 -- As the ash-white land darkens in the dusk, the sky stays a clear pale blue for an hour or so. You work beneath it. It is wearying: to hammer stakes into the frozen ground, to pitch your thermal tent, running through the yet-unfamiliar checklist of your new routine. The saltwalker volunteers to cook dinner; this consists of boiling some sort of dumplings over a tiny stove. All your trash has to be discarded half a mile from the campsite. The saltwalker decrees this. [if walker === 'T'; append] She says it could attract things to the camp, otherwise. It's only a precaution, this close to a city, but you've seen the specimens and heard the stories. You don't disobey. [if walker === 'A'; append] He says it could attract things to the camp, otherwise. It's only a precaution, this close to a city, but you've seen the specimens and heard the stories. You don't disobey. [continue] By the time it is well and truly night, the bleak strangeness of your situation is setting in. You feel empty, exposed, and very small for a short while. But your bed—well, the layers of coalsilk and oilfoam fluff which serve as one—is warm and soft. You cover your lamp with the overshirt you wore today, and close your eyes. What do you think about in the dark? [align center] [[the city of Hearth]] [[your purpose]] [[your misgivings]]

Hearth is the home of scientific acclaim, and provides lavish support for its interpreters. It's why you chose to move there. The city-state is rich with resources, and maintains a polished, venerable air of respectability. A great oak tree grows outside Hearth's university, sheltered by a thin shining polymer structure that makes the campus temperate. The tree is around a hundred and fifty years old, if you recall correctly. The institution predates it. But you can't help thinking of another city, the one you abandoned. As you fall into sleep, you wander its remembered streets. The high narrow canyons of steel and cement, cut into the overarching mountain; the trolleys, the blocks of apartments and workplaces. Massive bulks looming over shadowed gaps. Silhouettes loitering in loading bays and balconies. [[When you wake,->day two]] you don't recall any dreams. You almost never have them.

day: day + 1 mi: mi - 10 north: north - 10 mi (!onfoot): mi - 28 north (!onfoot): north - 28 rations: rations - 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Across miles of land, even when the spires recede in the distance, the sight won't leave you. The sight will never leave you. {embed passage: 'oracle dead summation'} You are [[all alone]].

dread: dread + 3 -- You reach for their arm, to try to lift their hand away from the spire. It's caught, of course. Their fingers twitch as you pull harder; clear fluid smears over their skin. A stinging fragment comes away in your palm, puncturing your glove. You pluck it out and rub at your hand. This is a bad idea. You'll hurt yourself—and will the oracle even survive, freed from this living system? It has to be keeping them alive. They'd be dead of hypothermia already, otherwise. The terrible weight of realization sinks in: [[you can do nothing]] for them. But the look in their eyes still haunts you. That vast serenity.

"The world bends to me as it bends to one in a dream. I see through the ground; its strata peel away down to the veins of the earth. The caverns of the sky are laid bare. I see what is, and what could be. Saltwalkers make a habit of seeing the world too, but it is quite solid to them; they press against the edges of a space, to find themselves and shape themselves around it, as though it were to them a labyrinth. I suppose it is. {address}—you are between dream and waking. You, perhaps, see more than either of us. That's my conjecture." [align center] [["I think you're right. I'm not sure what I am anymore."]] [["Are you sure you're not a poet?"]]

dread: dread + 1 -- Where did the Observational Society find your colleagues? You think of the brief meeting. Such a strange, formal ritual. It's almost as though you were prevented from talking to the others. Is there some secret purpose at work? Are you being set up for failure? You're sure that the Society wouldn't go that far, to the point of making an example of you. But maybe you and your colleagues are... disposable. You don't know either of them. You're entrusting your life to them. Anyone who would willingly go out into the salt wrack has a certain disregard for safety, perhaps for sanity. That includes you, too. [[When you wake,->day two]] you don't recall any dreams. You almost never have them.

The lamp's design is utilitarian: made mostly of dull unpainted metal, with a handle set at the top. It casts a bright white light from a cylindrical glass chamber, surrounded by sturdy rods to prevent breakage. The chamber also gives off warmth, slowly and steadily. Every evening, you feed it a little puck of compressed chemical matter, pushing the battery into a slot within the base of the lamp. It accepts it and the slot clicks shut. It acts like some type of battery; you're not a chemist, so you can't name the series of reactions which turn battery and water into brilliance. Every morning, after the light has died out along with the need for light, you pull out a sort of drawer on the other side of the base of the lamp. At that point, it is filled with a dark yellowish fluid, which you dump out onto the ice. It reminds you of metabolic waste; that's probably apt, whatever reaction is happening inside the lamp, and anyways the comparison is obvious. Sometimes the lamp needs water to be poured into a third chamber, if it starts flickering. [unless walker === 'X'; append] The saltwalker, more familiar with the device, does this. {back link, label: 'What were you thinking of, again?'}

You see the buried old city for the first time. Immediately you know that you should not be here. It is built mostly of black stone, or something that looks similar. Its shapes are monolithic, sleek, and angular, like no architecture you've ever seen. A few metal towers, those not crumpled by the movements of ice, protrude skeletal from the massive structures around them. This place was clearly laid out in an ordered pattern, though the ice sheet now partially covers it. Slabs of dark mirror-slick rock clutter the ruins, broken off. Tops of buildings are flayed open to the sky. Shafts sink down below like boreholes into time. You tread carefully, not knowing what hazards lie here. It is dead silent beyond the sweep of wind. The mountains form a bowl, sheltering the city, stifling it. You feel like you're walking on a grave. The sky is no color. Your vision pulses, faintly, to a different rhythm than your heart. Detached bulks float in the air, absolutely still, like meteors frozen in their descent. Most are the same black stone; some are metallic, or maybe vast hunks of oilshell polymer. The wind moans around them. Their purpose is long gone, but whatever force suspends them hasn't deteriorated. They cast stark blue shadows on the glacial ground. You avoid them; they make you nervous. [align center] [[onward]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi + 45 north: north + 45 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You pile into the striding machine. Its load grows ever lighter as you use up your supplies, discarding empty containers on the ice. You cannot afford to carry out trash, though leaving such a visible mark on this place feels wrong. Feels like desecration. The wind whips up a squall of ice particles, like a blisteringly cold fog. It stings your face, though you've grown used to the sensation by now. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle peers ahead through it, as bits of snow flick against their glasses. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle pulls up their hood against the force of the gale. [if mi > 1000 && oracle !== 'X'; append] "I think we're coming closer to something. It's far away yet, but—it has to be the objective. I can feel it. [[Like a great weight on the horizon->late glacier generic 1]]." [else] It might be a good day to [[capture airborne particles->particulate matter 3]], in case you want to study them later. Or you could focus on [[moving forward->late glacier generic 1]].

It is lumbering, low to the ground, and many-legged. Its fur or hide is white, rusted with mineral stains and something like barnacles. Glistening beads—no, you realize, eyes, vestigial eyes—boil up from its head, its feet, its flanks. Its skull is long, flattened at the front. It swings its head and snuffles. You feel the impact of its motion in the ground. [if walker === 'T'] You hear the walker shout. The creature turns, faster than you would have thought possible. There is scuffling. And then the saltwalker screams. It is a ragged howling sound, and it goes on for a long time. After that there is nothing but the low hollow wail of the wind. You [[look->2walker beast death]] out of the tent. [if walker === 'A'] The walker hisses something. Slowly the light changes. Something greater moves outside: a flock, a swarm. Ragged scraps of something insubstantial, like cut-paper shadows. He turns inward, presses close and raises a hand to block your sight. His voice is on you, murmuring low and rapid. "Don't look. Don't look." [if walker === 'A'; align center] [["What was that?"]]

The saltwalker springs up. "No! What are you thinking? You'll get yourself killed." She rounds on you. "Stay here—guard them, and neither of you move. Damned foolish..." She draws her longest knife and is out through the tent flap, leaving a rustle of cold air in her wake. The oracle kneels, cocking their head. [if relationoracle >= 30; append] You note that they seem dismayed, but there's no fear in their demeanor. Is there ever? Their calm presence bolsters your own courage. [continue] The two of you watch through the half-open flap, as the heat filters out of the tent. You have an impression of something large moving outside, an instant before it comes [[into view.->creature of the wrack]]

Today is dark, and threatening to become worse. The constant wind blasts a scatter of snow sideways. You and your companions crouch together in a tent, trying to decide your path. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle's eyes narrow as they glance at the dot that marks your campsite on the map. They rest a finger on the contour lines of the nearby ridge, within a mile to the west, and fix their sight in that direction. You have the impression that they're looking past the fabric of the tent. What little color was left in their face drains away. "There's something here—alive, dangerous, it's been tracking us by scent—it's *coming for us*—" They make a panicked motion as if to stand, and instead waver for a moment before collapsing in a dead faint. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle's eyes narrow as they glance at the dot that marks your campsite on the map. They rest a finger on the contour lines of the nearby ridge, within a mile to the west, and fix their sight in that direction. You have the impression that they're looking past the fabric of the tent. "Something is coming. It's been tracking us by scent—it must be hungry." They don't seem alarmed, merely curious. "I'm going to try to speak with it." [if walker === 'T' && oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'beast w2 o1'} [if walker === 'T' && oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: 'beast w2 o2'} [if walker === 'A' && oracle === 'S'] The saltwalker looks them over, then nods warily. "Do what you think best. [[Stay here, {address}.->creature1o2s1]] I'll handle it if anything goes wrong." [if walker === 'A' && oracle === 'V'] The saltwalker looks purposeful, rather than apprehensive. "Stay here, {address}. We're going to wait and see it. Then I'll try something." {embed passage: 'beast w1 o1'}

Whatever just happened outside, you realize, was silent. The walker runs a hand over his chin, considering his words. "I... called in a favor. It's gone now." You're not sure if he means the blur of shapes, or the beast. There's no sign of the creature. The ground looks different. Does it? You're not sure. You look in vain for any sign of that lumbering thing. No tracks. "We should [[get going->glacierendbit]]," he adds. There is urgency in his voice.

rations: rations - 10 -- Your oracle scrambles out of the tent and over to your supplies. The thing's head moves to track them. Calmly they begin piling up containers of rations onto the ice. They stop once a small heap is amassed, and hold out their hands as though beckoning. The creature lowers itself, opens the front of its body—what could be called a jaw, yawning boneless. It crunches through plastic and metal containers, until all that is left is an oily stain on the ice. It deliberates for a moment; you see streaks of food dribbling down from its mouth, if that can be called a mouth. Then it turns and walks off, silent on its big flat feet, into the storm. "It was the food or us," the oracle says softly. "I know that wasn't ideal. I had to give it something to persuade it to go away. It tracked us by scent. I won't be able to hide us if we stay here for much longer—once it gets hungry again it'll come after us. We have to [[leave->glacierendbit]] now." The saltwalker is clearly displeased. "You never feed anything that lives in the wrack. This is your first time outside a city, isn't it, sen?" His tone is blunt and dismissive, but they nod in agreement. "I did what I had to. We're alive now."

"It would have been... mm, twelve years ago now. There were two of us, both saltwalkers, of course. On foot. On our way to Noble." You know a little of that city-state, though you've never been there. It is a profiteers' society, containing the most staggeringly well-off and abjectly dispossessed people in the known world. A resident of Noble would not consider it fit to share their meal with someone starving on the street, or so you have heard. "It was summer, like it is now. A bright hot day, enough that we took off our coats. Unusual, you know, especially for the wrack. But it always has its surprises." "My companion began to feel ill. Maybe from the weather, or the exertion, or something we had eaten. I don't know. We set up camp where we were, high up in a mountain pass, to rest for the day." He looks away from you for a moment. "We didn't have much water." "[[I didn't realize yet what kind of a situation we were in.]]"

The walker continues. "I stood there on the path—it was narrow, and rocky, and steep. I waited, and the traveller came up to meet me. And I spoke to them. "What brings you here?" I said. "And who are you?" They had no pack, no gear. Only that ragged death-coat with all the charms. "Only a wanderer", said they. "I'm glad to see someone out here. I could use the company." Now I'd met scavengers, I'd met the people of the wrack before, and I might be inclined to write this fellow off as some horrible kind of one. But I couldn't see their _face_. Bright day, but the shadows clung to them. I had a feeling, but I dared not even think the words. Instead I asked what sort of company they wanted. "We could play a game, as friends," they said. Well, I didn't think we were friends, and I nearly said as much. But I wanted that game. Not for myself, not for the water. My companion had been getting worse, before I left. Feverish. Like I said—I had a feeling. [[And so I offered to play dice with the traveller.]]"

relationwalker: relationwalker + 4 dread: dread - 3 -- He scratches his beard and smiles. "Well, fortune favored me enough. We played by Hearth rules, though that wanderer wasn't from Hearth. They knew how to play just as well as I did. After we declared the game in my favor, they nodded and stood up and said they'd be seeing me. And they walked off, into the wrack. I didn't bother to watch after them. I left as fast as I could." The saltwalker sighs. "I may sound superstitious to you, I don't know. Some old saltburned fool jumping at a glint on the snow. But if you'd seen all the things I have, you'd have been as afraid as I was then. That wanderer wasn't any kind of person. The world out here isn't like your kind of world, {address}. When I came back to the tent, I saw my companion just returning. She'd scouted a bit down the mountain, and found a stream of meltwater. She said her fever had broken, all of a sudden." The saltwalker unzips his coat a little way and rummages inside. He pulls something out and shows it to you, cupped in his creased palm. A die, off-white and worn smooth by years of handling. Probably made of bone. The sixth side is marked with a salt-symbol. Two wavy lines, like the mathematical sign of roughly-equal-to. It takes you a moment to recall its name: _goodwater_, the emblem of a desirable place, a safe place. "Here's the very same die that gave me that winning roll." After telling the story, the saltwalker snores beside you: lightly, but with such complexity that you wake up a few times thinking that he's talking to you. [[You sleep easily.->science day]]

The walker stays outside for a little while, allowing you the privacy to undress and scrub yourself with a sanitizing wipe. It's the only thing that passes for personal hygiene, out here, but you're accustomed enough to the smell of your skin and hair at this point. Any traveler in the salt has other concerns to worry about. [unless useddice] When he enters, he seems to be in a talkative mood. "I remember... something that happened, years ago, out in the wrack. Would you like to hear about it?" [unless useddice; align center] [[yes->the saltwalker's story]] [["We ought to get some sleep."]] [else] Sharing the tent isn't an issue; the night is mostly [[peaceful->science day]]. The walker snores lightly, but with such complexity that you wake up a few times thinking that he's talking to you.

relationoracle: relationoracle + 4 -- "I am to be a messenger." Their voice is distant, recalling some awe or terror—yes, even now, you can see the shadow of something like fear on their face. "A vessel. That's why I wanted to go north. My research could only take me so far. I had to see where it had happened, how it had happened... you understand, don't you?" And you do. "I have theories—perhaps I could show you. I think I should, since we're working together—I'll explain. Thank you, Interpreter." Unexpectedly, and all at once, they seem hungry for your approval. Maybe even just for friendship. They've proven themself to be isolated, proud and solitary. But you and your colleagues need a bond of trust, in order to withstand the brutal conditions out here. Later, they show you some devices you've never seen before: antique, maybe, and almost sculptural. Lenses in delicate configuration. "I don't know yet how to use these. But I think I might learn, at the objective. Maybe then we can finally understand." By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

relationoracle: relationoracle - 1 -- By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

You feel it. [if crew === 3; append] All three of you feel it; you see your companions flinch. [if crew === 2; append] Both of you feel it; you see your companion flinch. [continue; append] The space around you bristles and clings. All the fine hairs on your body stand on end. [unless walker === 'X'; append] The walker is the first one to react, as your initial staggered confusion turns to alarm. [if walker === 'T'] "Down!", she shouts. "Don't move!" She drops, lying flat and pressing her face to the jagged icy surface of the wrack. [if walker === 'A'] "Get on the ground. Now!" He drops to lie flat, pressing his face against the jagged icy surface of the wrack. "Don't move until I say so." [continue] You fling yourself to the ground. The pressure crackles closer above you; the air lowers, tenses, releases. Like a muscle. Like it's searching. You feel impossible warmth on the back of your neck. Abruptly it lessens, pulses, and is [[gone->blizzard 2 glacier return]] altogether.

[if onfoot] {embed passage: 'something wrong with the air'} [else] {embed passage: 'roadside stop while drivin'}

seeneyes: true -- She's still for a moment, before her smile broadens to a toothy grin. You watch her thumb at some sort of latches half-hidden by her hair. There's a dull click, and she lifts the black glass visor away. At first it's shocking because you've never seen this half of her face. Then it's shocking because of how plain, how perfectly human, she looks without the helm. You can see no scar or deformity, no gouged sockets. Her eyes are fierce, falconish, and dark brown, under fluffy thick brows. There are pink indents on her skin where the edges of the visor sat. "Well?" She rocks a little on her side, curling closer to you. She looks self-satisfied—almost as though this hidden lack of any secret was a joke at your expense. [align center] [["What purpose does it serve, then?"]] [["What, no glass eye? No missing skin?"]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 4 -- She barks a laugh and grabs you around the shoulders. "Good! I knew you were good! You know, {address}, I thought at first you'd be some useless snob. But you're really all right, when it comes down to it." She yawns hugely and burrows into her sleeping bag, satisfied. It is not exactly a peaceful night. The saltwalker sleeps like a landslide. She grunts, growls, turns over and then lies strewn across the tent. You half-wake at one point to find her knee jammed into your side. Still, something about her presence makes you feel protected. Maybe just the nearness of another person. It's been a long time since you slept so close to anyone else. In the morning, you realize that [[something has been bothering you]].

You step through the flap, kneel to zip it back up, and expertly avoid knocking over the chemical lamp in the center of the tent. You set down yours, unlit, in the far corner beside your "bed". The saltwalker has already stripped down to her undershirt, and is sprawled half-under the thermal bedclothes. You can smell her sweat, and the oils of her hair: sweet like something beginning to rot. Her helm glows with reflected light from the lamp. In it, you can see the warped image of your own self. [align center] [[ask her to take it off]] [[just go to bed]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 -- She hums tunelessly, glancing across the ceiling of the tent. "It's quite the statement, for one thing. Wouldn't you agree? Even though I can't see a thing through it, of course, that's a worthwhile sacrifice..." Her smirk fades. She meets your gaze again. "Sunblindness. The wrack is terribly bright. I've seen saltwalkers lose their vision in a single afternoon. Goggles and mirrored lenses aren't always enough to protect your eyes, out here. You and the oracle should be more careful, maybe, but who am I to say?" It is not exactly a peaceful night. The saltwalker sleeps like a landslide. She grunts, growls, turns over and then lies strewn across the tent. You half-wake at one point to find her knee jammed into your side. Still, something about her presence makes you feel protected. Maybe that's just the nearness of another person. It's been a long time since you slept so close to anyone else. In the morning, you realize that [[something has been bothering you]].

The saltwalker taps you on the shoulder. "I'm leaving. Out into the wilds. You're close enough, {address}; you can make your own way back now. I'm a creature of the salt wrack, not of the cities. It's been an honor to travel with you. I don't imagine I'll see you again, but I'll keep this all in mind." [if oracle === 'V'] To the oracle, she adds: "Take care of yourself, too. I didn't know what to expect, meeting you. But you've done well." [if oracle === 'S'] She pauses for a moment, considering the oracle, and says, "You could come with, if you like." They shake their head. "No. Thank you, but I'd rather see this through to the end." "As you please." She turns away and strides off, swaying like a dancer. Before she has gone far, she bursts out singing: a string of nonsense syllables that rises and falls like the flight of a small bird. [else] She turns away and strides off across the salt field, swaying like a dancer. Before she has gone far, she bursts out singing: a string of nonsense syllables that rises and falls like the flight of a small bird. [continue] No, not just syllables. You feel almost lightheaded at the realization. A different language; a scavenger-language born of the wrack. There is still so much you don't know. [if oracle === 'X'; align center] [[on to Hearth, alone->on to Hearth]] [else; align center] [[on to Hearth]]

They are already asleep when you enter. Some impulse compels you to watch them for a close still moment. The chemical lamp's white glare makes their features translucent, highlights the sickly grey hollows under their eyes, the veins in their eyelids. You could break their hand—that hand, lying stray from the covers—so easily, you think. And the thought jars you; you stifle it before repulsion can intrude. You lie down and cover the lamp. You can barely hear the oracle's breathing beyond your own. {embed passage: 'magnetic dream'} In the morning you wake, slowly, unused to the quiet motions of someone else so nearby. The oracle turns away from you to put on an undershirt. The knobs of their spine are picked out in filtered daylight. You hadn't noticed any blemishes or scars on their skin earlier, but now you see one that you overlooked. A long white-pink line, an atrophic furrow, ripples up the inside of their bare forearm. Are those fainter marks near it? [[You know better than to ask.->science day]]

The oracle turns to you sharply. "_No._ This place—it's alive, it's all alive and feeling. It senses us—it tolerates us—or I hope it will, I hope... but if you tear anything away, even take a sample from the soil, I do not think it will be forgiving." Quieter, as though not meant for your ears: "I can't observe without interfering. I know. I'll lead us through." You follow. The oracle moves halting and mothlike through the landscape, though always with purpose. The two of you come to a cluster of tubes, like organic pipes—an artery laid in the ground. Water trickles from it, darkening the matted soil nearby. The oracle kneels, puts two fingers into it. "Safe. There's no pathogens. No salt, either." [align center] [["Why can we take the water, but not any other samples?"]]

You rummage through the structure; it seems like it used to be a waystation. It's almost entirely empty, rimed by salt stains and frost. There are a few canisters lying around, and rugged furniture. [if walker === 'A'] The walker rubs his chin. "No perishables, obviously. Not much for the taking. There's wood here. And an old-fashioned sort of fuel—our engine doesn't run on it, but it's highly combustible. We could have a real fire." [if walker === 'T'] The walker shrugs. "No food, obviously. Not much for the taking. There's wood here. And some old-fashioned fuel—our engine doesn't run on it, but it'll set things up to burn. We could have a real fire." [continue; align center] [[make a campfire]]

A shape runs from the fog, silent and purposeful. It is like a bear, or a seal given legs. Grey-white fur the same noncolor as the glacier and the ice mists. A long mouth that splits the heavy head. Its paws are stumpy and uncertain. Its eyes are dark, glass-shiny, hungry. [if walker !== 'X'] It folds the saltwalker into itself. Gore spatters the snow. [continue] The oracle turns, tries to run. Hopeless, with the sledge and harness encumbering them. They fumble with the straps, as the great beast barrels into them and bites down. Something sparks in the air like a vicious current: the oracle's power, channeled through defensive terror. For an instant, they are crowned with an eerie radiance of white fire. An immense pain rails through your head. You fall to your knees, subdued, unable even to scream. Through your blurred and reeling vision you see that the eyes of the creature are gone. Dingy fluid spatters the seething fur around the sockets. It stands still, halted, with its jaw hooked into the oracle's shoulder. Then the white beast's bulk lists to the side, and it crashes down, unmistakably dead. It drags the oracle along with it, crumples them sideways sprawled over the massive misshapen head. You envision torn flesh, splintered bone. You stand, staggering a little, and make your way cautiously over to the beast. Your colleague is limp, facedown, in its jaws. But alive—yes, breathing. Their eyes are half-open without movement, streaming blood. [align center] [[carefully]]

dread: dread + 4 -- The wrack beast wears its skin like fabric draped over an ill-fitting body. It smells hot, sick, and fermented. You pry its mouth open. The teeth within are not teeth. Translucent slips with a white core, pulpy somehow but hard and sharp as glass. It puts you in mind of a sea jelly, or a seedpod. The oracle's blood is freezing stiff on their coat. You get your arms under them and carry them back to the tent. It's not difficult; the labor of pulling weight has strengthened you, and your companion is all too light. Your vision is still blurred and watery as you dig through the medical kit. Scissors. Disinfectant. A roll of bandages. You've had to do something like this before, years ago, but then your impromptu patient got to a clinic. {mi} miles. You are so very alone. You strip off their coat and cut away the left sleeve of their undershirt, now pierced with a dozen or more holes. The black fabric is sodden with blood. Their shoulder is... torn. [[There's something in the wound.]]

usedwick: true -- The oracle adjusts their spectacles. "Ah. No. I grew up in Wick." Oh. That makes some sort of sense. Wick is a tiny city-state to the north of Firmament, founded by restive self-imposed exiles from the cooperative kamis state. Those who prioritized their individuality over the collective good, hundreds of years ago. Profiteers, or those who wished to be. Today, Wick is ideologically and economically unimposing. It gets dark, so you've heard, in winters. [align center] [["What was it like there?"]]

The oracle's expressions are often hard to read. As they begin, their voice is soft and almost monotone. "There were sparse conifer forests, in the reclaimed soil. Public gardens of a sort. Never so grand as the oaks and sycamores in Hearth. But I—I liked that, when I was young. It was quiet there." They are lost in thought for a moment. The set of their jaw sharpens, just a bit. "You're from Firmament, you said?" You almost mistake the purpose in their tone for hostility, before you realize they're hovering on the precipice of telling you something. You nod. They continue. "In Wick, there's... disparity. It's a small place, without many resources. My family was fortunate... we weren't laborers. We had more than what we needed. But it wasn't—it's not—a functioning system. Not really. It breaks down." "There was an antibiotic shortage, for a year or two. I don't know whether the issue was manufacturing or distribution... I was eleven years old. My little brother was three." They blink hard. "He developed bacterial meningitis. He died." The oracle looks up into your eyes for just a moment. "That. That wouldn't have happened in Firmament, would it?" [align center] [["No. Never. I'm—I'm sorry."]] [["Not that. But I've seen children die in other ways."]]

They nod tersely, wringing their hands. "I'm sure. I'm sure it has... failings. Every city must. I wish..." But they don't finish the thought. You wait for them to speak again. They've become distracted, gone to some inner place. "Forgive me. I wonder, sometimes, what will happen to us all. There were machines in the times before the saltfall, ones which could perform impossibly complex calculations... so many technologies lost to us. I used to think we were doing nothing meaningful, in our age. No science like the old sciences." They're not looking at you anymore. There's a spark of fanaticism in their face. "I know better now." You politely excuse yourself, and spend the rest of the day cataloguing observations and putting your notes in order. [if day < 12] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]]. [if day > 13 && day < 25] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

"Mmh. It was a long time ago. But I couldn't stay in Wick. And..." They tilt their head to the side. "You went to Hearth too. I won't speculate. Hearth is abundant in resources, especially for academics... I was a research assistant, for a long time. I liked it. At any rate, Hearth wouldn't be nearly so grand without the materials mined by Clay. It makes me feel strange, living off someone else's labor. I've never seen Firmament, but I think I'd like to someday." At least you know a bit more about your colleague now. The two of you spend some time quietly working together; you catalogue your observations, while the oracle writes their own notes into the journal they carry. [if day < 12] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]]. [if day > 13 && day < 25] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

Your colleague is reclusive, somewhat of a mystery. It might help if you could get to know them better. There's a question you've been meaning to ask. Of little consequence, really, out here. Still. Still you want to know. [align center] [["Are you from Firmament too?"]]

"Firmament. Just outside the boundaries. Not half an hour west and we'll be there." You are surprised by your own voice. By the ragged relief in it. "I've been here before so many times—on short expeditions, scouting, measuring the wrack... I know the way home. I think I could carry you." Your oracle looks up. You can read the impossibility, the awe and joy, in their face. Already fever-sweat is drying cold on their skin, freezing into smudges of ice. "You don't need to. I can walk." And they do: stumbling, leaning on you, the two of you newly pierced by the cold after that impossible interlude. You have nothing but your thermal clothing, no specimens, no proof. Were you delivered, you wonder, back to this city by your own longing? How will you explain anything you've experienced? But that's a matter for later, when you're not at risk of frostbite, when your companion is coherent. You can introduce them to Firmament, to its indifferent architecture, its politics and customs. You have been homesick for so long. There is a raw prickling in your fingers, the confusion of flesh as it adjusts to subfreezing temperatures again. It seems impossible that you won't have to do this anymore, after {day} days. It will be like an ache, when you leave this infinite expanse of ice. The sky. You'll miss the sky most of all. Your breath comes swirling like a spirit out into the air. Far off, in the black bulk of the mountain, there are lights. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

config.header.left: "" config.header.center: "" config.header.right: "" -- It's truly dark now. The sky, the real sky, yawns above you, shot fiercely full of stars. The ground is thin and bare and desolate beneath a light coating of snow. The horizon is usurped by dim close shapes that blot out the night. Foothills. You're on the salt wrack again. Your oracle kneels beside you, shivering hard. You get to your feet. You feel light, emptied. Untethered. It's terrifying to be without your supplies. But— [align center] [["I know where we are."]]

dread: dread - 2 rations: rations - crew -- The water is blue and lucid. It swells up onto waxy white rocks, polished slick by mineral deposits. When you look closer, there are things living between the rocks, in tiny tidepools. Star-shaped forms, ruffled clusters of membrane. Iridescent little animals, or perhaps not even animals, something less known. "No salt. The spring is pure." The oracle kneels to take the water in their hands, and drinks it deeply. [if walker === 'T'] The walker stands back, large and silent. You imagine she's furrowing her brow under the helm. You hazard a glance in her direction. She shrugs. "You first." [if walker === 'A'] The walker has been pacing around the perimeter. To you, quietly, he says: "There's no sigil. No goodwater. We may be the only ones to have found this place." He stands still behind you, watching the oracle, and eventually unscrews the cap of his flask. [continue] The water is just barely colder than your hands. It feels slick in your mouth. Later, when you have set up camp for the night, the spring looks clouded in the dark. It is motionless as glass. You imagine it as [[a refuge->isopods]] from the brutal conditions of the wrack.

Lately, your oracle has been prone to what seem like delusions. They tell you about vivid images you can't see, or something talking to them unintelligibly. Now they grip your arm, looking stricken. "I need you to cut open my head." [align center] [["I... no. What? Why?"]] [["Tell me what to do."]]

usedoccipit: true -- Somehow the topic of exile comes up in your conversation; maybe the bitter cold, maybe the absence of human structures, brings up the idea. Exile is effectively a death sentence, used by city-states in lieu of executing their precious populations. Firmament, controversially, was the last to adopt it over actual capital punishment. But the result is the same: a person sent out alone beyond the bounds of a city, without shelter, usually claimed within a day by lethal temperatures. "I knew a man who was exiled," the oracle says. "I had worked with him before then. They exiled him because they said he brought someone back to life." [align center] [["What?"->occipit story]]

The oracle settles, with a languid motion, to sit more comfortably. "For a time I lived in an apartment in central Rye. I was an artist. I think I've told you that? I'm not certain. Sometimes I modelled for other people, too. Rye center is old and beautiful, but it's so busy. So loud. And I had had a conflict with the owner of the building I was living in. I had to get away for some time." To own a building. To rent it out to someone else. The concept is foreign to you, but you do know of these things. Neither Hearth nor Firmament would permit such a system. "So I went to work at a farm, on one of the outskirts. I tended things like strawberries and spinach and even citrus trees—I'd never seen one before in my life. I loved the work. I loved the way the greenhouses smelled, the texture of the air. There was a young man I met there. He talked with a lot of energy, and got angry easily. I don't think he wanted to be there. I found out from him that he had been an interpreter. Not a fully qualified one, I mean. In training. He sort of befriended me over time, though he wasn't very kind. I think he was lonely. He told me that the work he used to do was about the human body, a kind of medical science... I didn't know he was still practicing it. I thought he might be a doctor, or just wanted to be one. But then he came to work one day seeming frightened, like he was trying to hide. The next day he was gone. I heard from someone else that he had taken a body—not his family, or even anyone he knew—and brought the person to life somehow. I don't understand it. I don't know why he would be punished for that. I wish he hadn't been killed." They look up at you, then away. "You know, the other interpreter—the one back at the Observational Society? He reminded me of that young man." [align center] [["That's... a strange story."]] [["Nothing can bring back the dead. How superstitious are the people of Rye?"]]

Firmament has no central governing body. No law guaranteed you the right to undertake expeditions in pursuit of your work. After years of shared research, the interpreters' collective denied you the chance to travel to the origin of the cataclysm. They termed it a waste of the city's resources, and of your life besides. Your work was criticized harshly for its lack of material relevance, its idealistic indulgence. It did not contribute to the state's survival or improve its conditions. It was misguided, or so the idea went, and you would do better to drop it. But you were in contact with interpreters from other cities, and your work excited them. Someone in the Observational Society pulled strings to sponsor you. And so Hearth accepted you, welcomed you. Hearth wanted you, when Firmament was indifferent. You were conflicted; you could hardly have been otherwise. To leave your city was to leave behind your home, your loyalty, everyone you knew. The journey to Hearth was long and difficult, and the city seemed at first unimpressive, even shabby. You couldn't stop seeing the contrast between university grounds, or the ornate buildings of the Council, and common housing. But then the chair of the Observational Society, eager to make your acquaintance, invited you to a formal lunch. That meal is still linked in your mind with the first sights of Hearth, with Hearth as a whole, actually. Crisp bread, soft colorless melon. Some sort of warm savory beverage. Your new city seemed temperate, expansive, for a time.

Your chemical lamp picks out the contours of a vast space, your reflection in a floor made of some dim slick material unknown to you. Sourceless light from above filters down onto jagged joints of metal, shapes rusting from purpose into powder. For a moment, you miss Firmament with such intensity it's almost a physical pain. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle points towards a little open place on the other side of the room, a darker blot. Unusually, they seem hesitant, trailing behind you as you approach it. And when you get closer to the doorway, they stop, tense and staring into the still-dark room. "No." You hear a whisper of fear in their voice. "No—I'm not going in there. I won't." Louder now, firmer. "You can, {address}, but I'm staying out. I'm sorry. I can feel it from here." They turn their worried eyes on you, and it seems as though they're going to ask you something else, or offer a word of caution. But they only stand back, holding up their lamp for you. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle is at your side, their lamp casting ghostly shadows on their face. They move ahead of you, and though you watch as they pass through the narrow doorway, you can't see them once they're in the space, as though they've turned some corner where the light doesn't follow. [continue] To pass through that narrow threshold, you have to duck your head a little. The air is motionless. You step forward into the [[vanishing point]].

You approach them in the evening to ask about the sedatives. "Yes. I needed to take something, or I would—" The oracle looks up at you. There is a bleak emptiness in their face. "I couldn't... when I slept, the dreams. I couldn't. I can't." [align center] [["That's alright. I'd rather you use the sedatives, if you need them. Better than carrying around medicine we won't use."]] [if walker !== 'X'; align center] [["That supply is supposed to be for all of us. If you use them up, we won't have any in an emergency. And you didn't tell me or the walker."->cruelty]] [if walker === 'X'; align center] [["That supply is supposed to be for both of us. If you use them up, we won't have any in an emergency. And you didn't tell me."->cruelty]]

Every living thing out here survives in immense restriction, dealing with the conditions of the salt wrack. Sponges with an incredibly slow metabolism, highly pigmented photosynthetic shrubs, flying animals that sail with very little effort on the northern winds, filter-feeders that catch particles, barnacle-encrustations that take up the minerals in the ice to form shells, black plates of lichen that store sunlight in a chemical battery below the surface of the land. So much evolution, so much change, in so little time. You saw, at the objective point but not before then, how all this could exist. How there in that place they bent the world, how the pattern folded over and intersected with itself, and they saw and were seen far too much. The life of the wrack is almost familiar. Maybe it came somehow from lightless saline pools at the frigid floor of an ocean. Or maybe it was requisitioned from some truly alien world.

You use a fine filter to trap the airborne stuff, then deposit it onto a glass slide for examination. Most of it is merely jagged-edged dust, crystals of salt and other chemicals, bits of stone. High in silica, though you're no geologist. But you can see, in a scattered few particles, a pattern like a lacy lattice. It looks eroded and broken, no doubt by years spent tumbling around in the wind. What created these microscopic structures? Surely they're not just some coincidence of iceborne minerals; they almost resemble coral. The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

You look into the microscope. The airborne grit is as you expected. Flecks of mica, dark lumps of basalt... and a tiny spiral shell. More and more beautiful, precise shapes, as you adjust the slide. Like diatoms. Marine diatoms, with their intricate shells of silica. But no such thing could exist here, could it? Phytoplankton killed off in the saltfall, then desiccated when the sea levels fell. Blown across the wrack, left to lie here. Perhaps. There's still far too much left to speculation. It makes you uneasy, to think about the vast lightless depths of the wrack's mechanisms. Its seasonal patterns, its topography. Its life. You take another look, scanning over the sample. And as you reposition the slide again, you see straggling movement. A polyp, contracting and flexing, translucent beside a clear mineral speck. You note down your observations. It seems like the biodiversity is only increasing as you [[travel further north->keep to the planned path]].

You use a fine filter to trap the airborne stuff, then deposit it onto a glass slide for examination. You look into the microscope, blink in surprise, adjust the lens, and look again. It's moving—it's all moving. Tiny translucent animals, coiling on the slide. Floral and fractal nodes, so alive. Too alive. How far are you from the objective point? Not long, now. Not long. You stare down at all those squirming forms, and you feel a deep, wrenching fear. You think of gradients. Of sources. The conditions which permit life. What will you find, in the hollowed city? You allow yourself, finally, to think it. Something is still emanating from that point, and the wrack lives on it. There are more terrible conclusions, which you cast aside for now. But nothing in this barren, desolate atmosphere should be feeding such an abundance of life. You [[dutifully catalogue->late glacier generic 1]] everything you can see on the slide; none of it is like anything you've seen or read about.

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 -- He smiles wryly. "Of course, {address}. I'll leave you to your rest." Sharing the tent isn't an issue; the night is mostly [[peaceful->science day]]. The walker snores lightly, but with such complexity that you wake up a few times thinking that he's talking to you.

You brought along a trinket. A small thing, easily concealed in your layers of thermal clothing. You unzip your inner coat and reach into your pocket. What is it? [align center] [[a seashell, polished smooth by your fingertips]] [[an animal modelled in oilshell]] [[a little chain of scrap wire]]

The shell of a small whelk, a neat creamy spiralled horn. Its surface is worn and glossy. You've felt guilt, sometimes, about keeping it with you rather than in an archive. After all, artifacts of the ocean are rare. Many shell-producing animals died out in the saltfall. The world's seas are vast, bitterly saline, and nearly lifeless. Beneath the ice sheets and bergs, there must be unknown millions of objects like these, buried in sediment, never to be recovered. Should this little shell belong to science as a whole, rather than to you? At the moment, you have other things to worry about. You turn it over again in your hand. Some predator bored a hole through it, to extract the soft body of the mollusc that made it. Your fingertip circles that narrow space. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

A sleeping mammal, curled in a circle; it might be a fox, a cat, or a pointy-eared dog. The curves of its body are rendered in hard black polymer, flecked with mica dust, so that it glimmers as you turn it. It's light in your hand, warm and smooth. This was given to you by someone you cared very much about, a long time ago. The memory is unfaded. Even now, it brings you joy; it brings you hope. Maybe someday you'll see that person again. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

The saltwalker stops to wait for you atop a crag of dark rock, watching warily as you get closer. She holds up a hand. "I didn't do it! You won't believe me, damn you, but I didn't kill them." Who or what did, then? You ask her. She yells in inarticulate fury. And fear, you realize. "Go on, go south if you know what's good for you! I belong out here. Leave me, unless you want to end up like the oracle." She starts walking, looking back pointedly to ensure that you aren't following her. She's heading east. It seems that you've been [[abandoned->head whatever]].

The saltwalker sets you to chiselling lumps of ice from the ground and running them through the purifier. You watch as they dissolve in the thermal module, leaving traces of sediment behind in the filter. Clean water trickles into the collecting jar.

"I think it can't feel it because the water doesn't... contain itself. Like blood. No reproductive cells." You fill the water flask. It's lukewarm, only a little colder than your skin. It smells vaguely like mold, or minerals, but tastes clean. The terrain is full of hills and divots. Pits full of fringy organic stuff. Friable shapes like coral or volcanic glass that crunch under your boots. Unlike the wrack, it's warm and close and impossibly alien. Like the wrack, it wants you eaten. As time passes, you start worrying about the oracle. They're still sick, and it seems that their fever is worsening. Even so, you can't navigate this place with the same agility, and you lag a little behind. At one point they head down and disappear from your sight; you follow them to where they last were. They're gone. You search, too exhausted to panic. A little distance away, you see their slight figure lying still, as though flung against the ground. Pale translucent tendrils encoil them, seeping from the sand to curl around their throat and pin down their limbs. The oracle is motionless, like a paralyzed prey animal. You scramble down to pry away the snares. Your colleague looks forlorn. You see, in an instant, the great weary pain that they've been concealing. This place itself is eating at them in some metaphysical way. Did they allow it to grab hold of them? What organism extruded these clean and eyeless roots? The oracle sits up, leaning against you, but struggles to stand. You fear that you'll lose them again, if you let them go on ahead. And you might not be fast enough to pry them out the next time they fall. [align center] [[carry them]]

The air feels populated. [unless oracle === 'X'; append] Your oracle is on edge, directing you around patches of ice that look otherwise innocuous. [else; append] The land is somehow slippery, uncertain. [continue] It becomes clear that this is as far as you will get. The walker points out a suitable patch of unbroken ice, large and flat enough to set up camp on. You dismount and begin the work of pitching tents. A sullen wind blows flecks of shapeless snow into your face. [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle calls out, "Come see this." You find them standing over a [else] In the process, you find a nearby [continue; append] hole in the ice about the size of your head. Its edges are crusted with dull grey crystals. You can't tell how far it goes down. [unless walker === 'X'] The saltwalker kicks a clump of packed snow into the hole; the depth swallows it. "Just a crevasse. You see these sorts of things all the time, on icefields." [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle lingers over it, frowning. "I don't know, it feels... alive." [align center] [[decide to stay by the hole]] [[press further as dusk falls]]

parasite: true -- As you refuel the vehicle, you notice something that makes you pause. A tangle, like veins or hair, extending into the depths of the engine. You pry off a casing panel and expose the vehicle's strange mechanical heart. It is strung with clotty tissues in odd off-grey colors. Something organic, something living, is parasitizing the engine. You don't feel nearly confident enough to remove it; it would be like performing vascular surgery. Its tendrils have insinuated themselves too deeply into the tubes and mechanisms of the machine. [unless walker === 'X'] The saltwalker peers over your shoulder. "I've never seen anything like that. You going to try to remove it?" [unless walker === 'X'; align center] [["I can't. I think I'd break the engine entirely. Unless you want to try?"]] [else; align center] [[rip the parasite out]] [[keep travelling with an infested engine]]

You're out of fuel. The parasite attached to the engine has grown thick, a network of living cables and delicate pulsing sacs. It's been drinking the engine's power. Maybe, if this is a living creature now—a biomechanical conglomeration—you could [[try feeding something else to the engine]].

[if walker === 'A'] "Mmm. I don't dare try—you're right about it. And the machine's been running alright so far. It might not be damaging the engine. Not that I like the idea of leaving it in there." [if walker === 'T'] She hisses softly through her teeth. "I don't think so. You're right. And I'm not exactly confident with machines like this. Rather trust my own body to carry me." [continue] You continue, But over the next days you notice that you need to refuel the vehicle more frequently. You're not certain how long your fuel reserves will last. What if you run out before reaching Hearth? [align center] [[rip the parasite out]] [[keep travelling with an infested engine]]

You hear something, that night. A wail of human pain, or only the wind. On impulse you go outside to investigate. In the light of your lamp you see the saltwalker. She's kneeling over something; seeing you, she stands. She's naked, except for her black visor. The lower half of her face is drenched in blood fresh enough that it hasn't yet frozen; it makes a vivid red trail down her chest like a dribbled ribbon. Smears on her arms. Spatters on her belly and in the dark mat of hair below. Her breath comes in thick plumes of vapor. Behind her is the body of the oracle, stripped to the waist and split open. You see the gleam of blood-mucked ribs, and deeper viscera within. The walker holds a knife in one hand, and something else in the other. A dripping chunk of meat. She holds it out to you: a wordless offering. [align center] [["What have you done?"]] [[run->2sslaughter]]

day: day + 1 oracle: 'X' crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew dread: dread + 6 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You don't have to search for long. The body of the oracle lies crumpled on the ice, surrounded by a deep red stain. One of your scalpels glints beside their limp hand. They're not wearing a coat, and their sleeves are rolled up. The underside of each forearm is slit open nearly down to the elbow. Worse: the carved ruin of their eye sockets. The blood that welled there is frozen to red ice. Their hair is tied back neatly, but some of the long strands that frame their face have stuck over the gouged flesh. It must have been cold. It must have been painful. [if walker === 'A'] You hear the walker's heavy footsteps behind you; he pauses at your side. His face looks twisted and tense. He kneels beside the oracle, just far enough away that he isn't touching their body. [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker stands close behind your shoulder. You hadn't noticed her approaching. "Scared, weren't they? Scared of what, I wonder. The wrack? Or us?" [if walker !== 'X'; align center] [["What do we do? We... leave them here?"]] [if walker === 'A' && rations < 28; align center] [[point out that there's plenty of meat on a body->fauxpas]] [if walker === 'T' && rations < 28; align center] [[point out that there's plenty of meat on a body->okfauxpas]] [if walker === 'X'; append] Now they're gone from you, too. You are absolutely alone. You'll have to [[keep going]], somehow. [if walker === 'X' && rations < 10] But a horrible premonition crawls in the back of your mind. You'll still starve. Unless you [[butcher the body]].

relationwalker: relationwalker - 10 dread: dread + 3 mi: mi - 6 north: north - 6 mi (!onfoot): mi - 33 north (!onfoot): north - 33 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- The walker stares at you. He's furious, you realize. "I'll assume that was a very, very poorly chosen joke. And I'll ask you not to repeat it, or anything like it, as our colleague here is *fucking dead*. You sick, blasted excuse for an interpreter." He watches you with deep suspicion throughout the following day. At first you're tense with shame. But doubts begin to settle on you. Would he betray you? Perhaps he wants you dead, too. When you unpack to set up camp that night, you find the oracle's [[journal->read that thing]], the one they always carried.

mi: mi - 6 north: north - 6 mi (!onfoot): mi - 33 north (!onfoot): north - 33 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- "Not much else we can do." [if walker === 'T'; append] She [if walker === 'A'; append] He [continue; append] faces you, unmoving, for a silent moment. [if onfoot; append] "Not as though we can drag their body back to Hearth. [else; append] "Not as though we're going to carry their body with us, hm? No. [continue; append] Out here, you leave your dead behind. Don't want them clinging to your back." [if walker === 'T'] As far as you know, she and the oracle didn't enjoy each other's company. But before it's time to leave, you see her carving the death-sign into a stone placed behind their head. Last rites, according to saltwalker tradition. [if walker === 'A'] Before it's time to leave, he places something atop their chest: a little piece of wire twisted roughly into the death-sign. Last rites, according to saltwalker tradition. [continue] When you unpack to set up camp that night, you find the oracle's [[journal->read that thing]], the one they always carried.

config.header.left: "" config.header.center: "" config.header.right: "" -- Pain releases its hold. Sensation vanishes. Your mind withdraws to no sight, no thought. The wrack eats the heat of your body. It will eat the rest of you soon enough, all the tiny cooling furnaces of your cells, the unraveling coordinations of chemical and shape. You will spill like water into this terrible nowhere and linger, pressed below the season's ice, salt-stung and charred by frost. The land has a sense of its own. It breathes, in a slow searing howl. It finds anything unlike itself and dissipates it, envelops it in shape and extremity, gathers it in and buries it deep. Invisible life seethes under the wrack, over it, strung through its atmosphere. You join it, through small dissolutions. In years to come, there will be nothing here apart from mounds of fresh snow, stale rime, sparse outcropping rock; and everything that was you will go unseen in the endless field of grim grey-white. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

That night, you wake. Your chemical lamp glows dim and blue; all else is dark. The oracle is asleep beside you—but then you hear them gasp, sob, as though in pain. Yes, they're sleeping still, face tensed in the unknown agony of a dream. [align center] [[wake them up]] [[keep listening]]

dread: dread + 2 -- You shake their shoulder gently. Their eyes snap open; their hands go to their throat, their mouth. "I—I was... You were... I saw you. I saw you die." They roll over to fully face you, eyes huge and luminous. [align center] [["We have to sleep. We need our strength."]] [["It's alright. It was just a dream."]]

dread: dread + 4 -- "Kill me..." Their voice is soft, blurry with sleep. They draw in a whining breath. "Please..." [align center] [[let them sleep]] [[wake them up]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 1 -- They nod. The confused terror in their face subsides; they pull the sleeping bag tight around their shoulders. Eventually both of you sink back into sleep. When you wake [[the next morning->tasty day]], the oracle's eyes are shadowed by dark circles. You suspect your own are too. Neither of you mentions the events of the night.

dread: dread + 1 relationoracle: relationoracle - 1 -- You think at first that they've started crying—before you realize that those unvoiced, shuddering breaths are laughter. The oracle turns away from you, wrapping the sleeping bag tight around their shoulders. When you wake [[the next morning->tasty day]], your colleague's eyes are shadowed by dark circles. You suspect your own are too. Neither of you mentions the events of the night.

They mewl; their shoulder twitches, once, violently. And then they go still. Their faint breathing steadies. Eventually, you too subside back into sleep. When you wake [[the next morning->tasty day]], the oracle's eyes are shadowed by dark circles. You suspect your own are too. Neither of you mentions the events of the night.

Something flips. Wrong. At first only a placeless terror. Your lamp is bright and yet there is no light, no emanation. And then as in a dream, where awareness flows to you, you know that experiments in physics were conducted here, that the city at large was renowned for technological advancement. That this point is where it all went terribly wrong. But you know it from the other side, from a patchwork recollection of long-dead minds. This is not what they saw. This is only a trace of it, only a tethered and slumbering remnant. It is all around you. Already you are losing yourself. [if oracle === 'V'] Dimly you see the oracle walking forth into it—deeper into the terrible unravelling. Then it [else] It [continue; append] grasps you, and you are claimed and burrowed through. Without sight, a vision: a perfect echo of yourself, down to the molecular level. The cells and pathways and flickerings. A tiny point grows next to it, next to you, like a darkly shining sphere. It swells and vastens. The sphere becomes like a planet, steadily and monstrously increasing, while you are reduced to a dwindling speck. You are frozen with terror, feeling it push up against some threshold, certain that either it will rupture or—worse—simply keep growing, and you will be utterly lost beside it. And all at once you [[understand]]

You dream of a field of dark flecks, spinning and darting. Somehow their motion makes you nauseous.

relationoracle: relationoracle + 2 dread: dread - 2 -- Their shoulders slump in relief. "Thank you. I... I don't know what I would do, otherwise. It helps a little. I'm trying not to overdo it." {embed passage: 'redirects'}

relationoracle: relationoracle - 5 -- Words they knew and expected to hear. Probably words they had been telling themself. Their posture draws in, small and spidery, head bowed too low to meet your eyes. They wring their hands together. "You're right. I'm sorry." It is terrible to see. Later they hand you the bottle of pills, much lighter than when it was packed in the Observational Society's warehouse. Without a word you take it to hide deep in the remaining supplies, though it doesn't seem like they'll try to find it again. You know already that the oracle is inclined towards silence in the face of pain, stubborn to the point of masochism. It troubles you, a little, that they found it necessary to blot out their terror with drugs. But you saw the objective too—the thing within that impossible folded-up space. You're holding on. Not easily. Slipping a bit more, each day. {embed passage: 'be nice or else'}

day: day + 3 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You do not die, though at several points you want to. For days you suffer delirium, shaking and sweating in a nervous fever, plagued by unspeakable and relentless visions. Later you remember only fragments. A great warped space made of your own entrails—the constant sensation of falling—unable to communicate, to understand, gnawed at from under your skin, dislodged from the world, an awful music that never stopped. Monstrous faces in everything you saw. Worse when you closed your eyes. Once it's over, you are almost too weak to stand. Eyelike patterns linger in your vision. [if crew === 3; append] Your companions' [else ; append] Your companion's [continue; append] relief is guarded, wary. There's no time to wait; your mistake has delayed the expedition. Fortunately, the walker is familiar with tomorrow's route, which promises to be [[an easy enough voyage.->hot spring yay]]

They nod. "At the objective, something happened. It opened you up. Sometimes in my sleep I see you. If we could part the veil between us, maybe then we could speak..." [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

They tilt their head as though confused by the question. "I'm not. Just a wanderer. I'm looking for nothing in particular. Or I was; I think I've found a purpose of sorts, out here..." [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

While you start to set up camp, the walker is the first to spot the glyph, carved white into the side of a boulder. A horizontal line with a wavering vertical squiggle through the center of it. "That's the contamination sign." [if walker === 'T'; append] She shakes her head, hunches her shoulders. "Something here is poisoned. That's what it says, {address}. Could be you next, if you're bent on staying here. Maybe the ground's no good, maybe the ice. Sick water. Even if you distill it, might not clean it out." She gives a slow, tense grin. "But I reckon I'll be all right no matter what. I've stayed in all sorts of wrong places." [if walker === 'A'; append] He squints doubtfully, looking around as if to spot signs of disease. "It's likely to be something in the ground. The soil. Before the saltfall, certain parts of the land were full of chemicals or worse. Even now, you stay away if you know where they are. It can seep up in the ice. Groundwater moves contamination." He sighs. "Then again, it's hard to tell. We shouldn't put any ice here into the still, but if you want to make camp for a night, I think we'll have enough water anyways. I try not to be paranoid, but you always follow a saltsign if it's in your power." [align center] [[make camp under the sickwater sign]] [[travel by night]]

dread: dread + 6 crew: crew - 1 oracle: 'X' -- The oracle lies in a heap of coalsilk blankets. They move weakly, shuddering and turning their head, spurred by some uncertain impulse. Their eyes are glassy and unfocused; you recall the walker's explanation about sedatives. Even so, you glimpse a dim terror there, and wonder what they can see now that you cannot. They prop themself up to retch over the floor of the tent. Frothy blood flows from their mouth, and a handful of black spiky fragments. The oracle falls onto their side, convulsing, twitching over and over, as blood rattles in their throat. Less now. Their movements weaken and slow. A final shiver. You see their eyes change, the icy irises eclipsed by pupils that slide wide and empty. [if walker === 'T'] The walker presses her fingers to their wrist for a moment and nods confirmation of the death. [if walker === 'A'] The walker presses his fingers to their wrist for a moment and nods confirmation of the death. [continue] Throughout it all, you sat still: immobilized by horror, by your own regret and misery. You had no words of comfort to offer. There was nothing more you could have done. Now, at least, it is over. You reach for one of the black barbs, to pick it up and examine it. The walker grabs your hand. "Don't touch those." [align center] [[observe the saltwalker funerary rites]] [[ask to perform an autopsy]]

[if walker === 'T'] The walker leaves for a time, and comes back holding a stone with a symbol scratched into it. A circle tangent to a horizontal line on one side, with a vertical line protruding from the other. The salt-sign of death; a traditional grave marker, out here. She places it at the oracle's head. All her usual energy is absent; she just looks defeated. She says nothing. Later, she places a hand on your shoulder. "You're not going to stop, are you? Good. They wanted you to get to your objective. I... I don't care, myself, but I'll do my best to bring you there [[safely->journal navigation]]." [if walker === 'A'] The walker leaves and comes back with a little piece of wire, twisted into a symbol. A circle tangent to a horizontal line on one side, with a vertical line protruding from the other. The salt-sign of death: a traditional grave marker, out here. He places it in the oracle's hand and pulls the covers back up around their body, as though leaving them to sleep. You hear him murmur: "You deserved better than this." Afterwards, he meets you outside. "{address}, I think we should turn back." [if walker === 'A'; align center] [[hear the walker out]] [[refuse to consider it]]

relationwalker: relationwalker - 5 dread: dread + 3 -- [if walker === 'T'] Her lip curls. "Truly? You have to be doing this? You've seen what you've seen. Isn't that enough? You're not going to find out anything else, _Interpreter_. If you want to, I won't stop you, but I won't help to disturb the dead either." [if walker === 'A'] He looks at you with a grave expression. With suspicion, you realize. "Isn't that... disrespectful? I wouldn't treat your body that way, if you died, forbid the thought. Prying someone open. I don't know what kind of mourning you're used to, but I don't like that. Do it, if you must. If you think it'll help somehow." [continue] The tent wouldn't have been used again anyway; you decide to operate inside it, rather than in the freezing cold. There is a small saw provided with your dissection supplies. It proves difficult to use on bone. But you manage. When you pry open the oracle's ribcage, you're not prepared for the sight within. The lung tissue is torn to shreds, clotted with that same thorny black growth. Little spiky clusters have spread throughout their thoracic cavity, adhering to diaphragm and intercostal muscles, punching into the esophagus. It is not entirely like any organism you have seen before. The ecology of the wrack is full of brutal surprises. But you know this: it grew in their lungs first and foremost. It spread through the air. The poisoned air, in that place where you chose to stay. This is your fault. Afterwards, the saltwalker comes to cover up the body. [if walker === 'A'; append] He brings something with him: a scrap of wire, twisted into a symbol. A circle tangent to a horizontal line on one side, with a vertical line protruding from the other. The salt-sign of death; a traditional grave marker, out here. He places it in their hand, with a resentful glance at you. [if walker === 'T'; append] She brings something with her: a stone with a symbol scratched into it. A circle tangent to a horizontal line on one side, with a vertical line protruding from the other. The salt-sign of death; a traditional grave marker, out here. She places it beside their head, with a resentful glance at you. [continue] You thought you took every precaution; you are certain that you did not come into contact with the sharp growths. But the oracle's blood gets under your gloves. Under your fingernails. Your hands stink of [[iron->journal navigation]] for days after.

config.header.left: "" config.header.center: "" config.header.right: "" -- It takes a little while for news to travel, after you make your way in through the half-inhabited outskirts of the city, past the warehouses and outposts. Wanderers coming in from the wrack are rare enough; you are greeted, first with polite admiration, then shock and awe when you tell them of the expedition. And, soon enough, you are back in the Society's meeting room, with [if crew > 1; append] hot savory beverages in hand. [else; append] a hot savory beverage in hand. [continue] The light inside is too dim for your vision, still burning green from the icelit sun. The air is too still. It feels like a dream. {embed passage: 'obs society end'}

You explain diligently how you crossed the glacier, what a swelling of life you found as you travelled further north. Biology can be parsed and explained; terrain can, with difficulty, be mapped. But your words fail when you try to describe what happened to you at the objective. The magnetic vortex, the opening of the world's seams. Even now there is a transparent quality to life, as though you could rip it open. Something terrible waits behind, beyond, the real. This was the purpose of your journey, and you have fulfilled it. Perhaps more interpreters will be sent out into that white and silent plain after you. Perhaps they will die. But for now, you can rest. Against all the odds, [[you have returned home.->return tell]]

It is a betrayal of everything you once valued. It is a betrayal of the core of your mission, the purpose of scientific endeavor. Everything you have shaped your life around, for years, has fallen apart. But you may be keeping humanity safe. You cannot be sure—you cannot ever be sure. It is not easy to deflect the questioning, to hold your silence. The Observational Society is outraged. The president of its council labels you a traitor, untrustworthy. In the future, you may be pushed to return to Firmament. Your position in Hearth, you now understand, was dependent on that scientific obligation. But you don't have to feign the traumatized wariness, the implication that you have seen things best left untouched, making yourself an example of curiosity gone too far. That comes all too easily. Even now there is a transparent quality to life, as though you could rip it open. Something terrible waits behind, beyond, the real. For now, you try to rest. Against all the odds, [[you have returned home.->return untell]]

The saltwalker stops to wait for you atop a crag of dark rock, watching impassively as you get closer. Then she realizes what's tied to your pack. Horror washes over her features; she nearly flinches. It is the only time you've seen her truly afraid. She takes off, leaping over the uneven ground, avoiding loose boulders and drifts of snow. You can't keep up, and though you pursue her for perhaps a quarter of an hour, she vanishes into the distance. It seems unlikely that you'll ever cross paths again. And what of it, then? [[You have all the company you need.]]

You strip off a few layers, wash yourself with the nightly sanitizing wipe that suffices for personal hygiene, and burrow into your sleeping bag. Throughout it all, you feel the walker's attention on you: not trespassing, not ogling, simply watching and waiting for you to make a move. It's probably safer, you think, not to play. You hear her moving, and a little click like the unlatching of some mechanism. But you do not look to see what's under her helm. It is not exactly a peaceful night. The saltwalker sleeps like a landslide. She grunts, growls, turns over and then lies strewn across the tent. You half-wake at one point to find her knee jammed into your side. Still, something about her presence makes you feel protected. Maybe just the nearness of another person. It's been a long time since you slept so close to anyone else. In the morning, you realize that [[something has been bothering you]].

Their fingers graze your throat, cold as any other part of the wrack. Numbness spreads from that point and washes over your body. The oracle's corpse presses their hand to your forehead. A burning heat grows in your chest, your abdomen. You do not think clearly throughout what happens next; unnameable sensations grip you, and you move in the throes of them, without language. Clad only in your underclothes, you stumble out of the tent. You need air. You're so dizzy. You fall to your hands and knees, claw your way up, and keep walking. Behind you, as in a dream, you see the oracle: in the same position you were in, lying against the side of the tent, cradling their severed head in their lap. But you never look back. The night is flecked with innumerable brilliant stars, surrounding you in the vast darkness. You stare into that glittering field, and [[lie down->default death text]] somewhere.

The bulk of his body rises in the shadow of his lamp. You stab forward, but too late. Too weak. He catches your wrist in both hands, stares intently at your stricken face. "I sleep lightly in times like these." He presses down. You feel the snap of bone, and a flood of unbelievable pain. [align center] [[scream->die of failed s1 kill]]

He drags you outside into the night, though you strain aimlessly. There is no hatred in his grip. Just necessity. "I truly am sorry, {address}." He flings you down, slamming your head against the jagged ground. Again. And again. And he leaves you. Half your vision is eclipsed by wobbling rings of light. The other side is fuzzed over, dissolving into an aimless pattern, barely more legible. Waves of nauseous terror sweep over you. You can't tell where the boundaries of your body end. Something vital is leaking away. [unless oracle === 'X'] You hear the oracle's voice somewhere nearby, sharp and hysterical, accusing the saltwalker of killing you. You hear his reply: "You can read that sort of thing, can't you? Go see for yourself." They come to kneel over you, carrying their lamp. Their long hair hangs, tangled, in strands over their face. They study you. Whatever they see makes their eyes widen, as though you had raised the scalpel against them instead. The oracle stands up in a hurry, taking the light with them. [continue] You slip from waking, lose time to the mire of a dreamless sleep. Fractured and oozing. You try to roll your head to the side, and meet stiff resistance where the back of your skull is frozen to the ground. The vehicle's low hum starts, not far away; its headlights sweep across the ground. Its crunching tread recedes. And you are left alone in the dark. Shreds of cloud cross the bitter star-brilliant sky above. [[You're cold.->default death text]]

They are too light, a delicate jointed doll animated by the shuddery motion of inhale-exhale. Febrile sweat dampens their skin. The fabric over their injured shoulder is wet with fluid; you are careful of this area, mindful not to tilt it against your own body as you pick the oracle up. They cling to you so hard that the joints of their fingers turn chalky white, and you hear them murmur something imperceptible. Perhaps conscious of that failure of communication, they swallow hard and lapse into silence for a moment. You leave the oracle's pack where they fell. If the two of you don't make it out of here the right way, there will be no more need for supplies anyways. But you keep your own, for now. Water flasks, a few more bars of compressed protein and sugar, enough room to store your thermal clothing as you wade through this temperate atmosphere. You set off tentatively in the same direction you had been heading. Your colleague's voice is dull and labored. "Keep left. For a while. Past... you'll come to a place full of holes. Don't step in any. The narrow ways might crumble—like the glacier—no, that's a bad analogy. There's... I think a place with groundcover growing. Like a carpet of life. That's safer. I don't know if it'll take notice of us walking..." After a while, you feel flickers of a stirring apprehension. As though you can predict what they're about to say. As though you can feel the contours of this land, pressing into the edges of your mind. If you tried reaching out, sending a message— [align center] [["Is this place changing me?"]] [["I can feel your thoughts. Are you sensing mine?"]]

At first you think there's a crust of ice attached to the underside, or another of the strange lichens. You turn over the rock fragment in your hand to get a better look at what's clinging to it: a flat symmetrical thing, with platy features. As you watch, it starts to slowly move. It's alive. An animal. It looks a little like a mite—one the size of your palm, greyish-yellow and wrinkled-looking. Eight lobes protrude from it, bristling with thin hairs. As it shuffles around, a tendril retracts from what must be its head, and you see that it was scraping at a mineral vein in the rock. It doesn't seem to have any eyes. [align center] [[preserve it to bring back]] [[leave it where you found it]]

specimens: specimens + 1 rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You put it in a jar of preservative. Unexpectedly, it folds up like a piece of thick cloth, crumpling into a pile at the bottom of the jar. It takes you a little while to navigate out of the rockfall, but your vehicle handles the rough terrain admirably. You sleep lightly that night; at one point you wake, thinking that you felt [[the glacier->glacier crunchin daytext]] move beneath you.

usedsunset: true rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You leave the creature to eat its fallen rocks, and focus on navigating out of the rough terrain. {embed passage: 'glacier sunset'} You sleep lightly that night; at one point you wake, thinking that you felt [[the glacier->glacier crunchin daytext]] move beneath you.

"There is a spring. An unfrozen pool. We could be there well before nightfall, and we would not need to use the waterstill." In appeal, they turn to you. "It might be nice?" [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker shakes his head. "If you want to get no further today." [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker shakes her head. "Such things are few. If you want to trust that the water's safe, it's your choice." [continue] Such a path would take you out of the way, and you wouldn't get much closer to the objective. [align center] [[follow the oracle's direction]]

mi: mi + 69 north: north + 69 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'}

rations (!halfrations): rations - 16 rations (halfrations): rations - 6 crew: crew - 1 walker: 'X' rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" dread: dread + 4 -- You come out this morning to find your walker shoving rations into a pack. You have a sense of what's happening, before you even ask. "You're mad! Don't you see that?" His voice cracks with fear. "You won't survive this way!" [if oracle === 'X'; append] He continues: "I am sorry to do this to you. I truly am. But you're already gone—you'll never make it back, and I can't help you. I can't." [unless oracle === 'X'] He glances at the oracle, pointedly. It's a question. [if oracle === 'V'] "I'm not leaving." Their voice is brittle, grimly resolute. "If I have to die out here, I will. I wish you the best of luck." [if oracle === 'S'] "My place is out here." They sound almost confused "I thought yours was, too. You're abandoning us, but I can't imagine that you'll do much better alone." [continue] He says no more, and with a regretful last look behind him, your saltwalker shoulders his pack and trudges [[away->walker mutiny]] into the empty expanse of ice.

Ever since you gazed into that vanishing point at the objective, something has changed in you. There are little flickers of insight, like light seen from the corner of one's eye. Sensations as of half-remembered dream. Is this, you wonder, what it is to be an oracle? No. Or not yet. But now that you've thought it, the certainty won't leave you. You know that oracles only appeared after the first saltfall, their abilities a curse-blessing of no possible origin. Could it be that the thing inside the objective, which split open possibility, was responsible? That the same invisible influence which imbues the wrack with life did the same to human minds? And what does that make you, then, wrack-touched, your spirit scored and blinded by that annihilating vision? What will become of you? Sleep does not come for many hours. When it does, you dream of narrow sharp places: a grey half-dark, and a mirror seen in it, and the terrible thing that remains of your face. You jolt awake whining in terror. [[Dawn is almost here.->tasty day]]

rations: rations - 6 badair: true -- You are careful. You use only the water you have in reserve canisters, more than enough to supply the three of you for a night. You try not to make contact with the ground. [unless oracle === 'V'] In the middle of the night, you wake up coughing. It feels like you've inhaled smoke. But the feeling clears soon, and you sleep again. [continue] The morning sun is glassy, glaring through wisps of cloud that smudge into brilliant rainbows. A sun halo arcs across half of the sky. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle looks a little peaky, as though they haven't slept well. But it's hard to tell with them sometimes. Truth be told, they usually look like that. [continue] You head out [[into the brightness->day 4]] of day.

dread: dread + 2 mi: mi + 11 north: north + 6 lateral: lateral + 5 rations: rations - 6 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The murky dusk deepens. A light snowfall starts to dance in the air, blowing sideways with the wind. Exhaustion makes you all achingly cold. Perhaps ten miles away from the site, your walker tells you it's safe to make camp. You eat a quick meal of packaged nutrition bars. In the morning, your body feels stiff and slow to respond, still clinging to sleep. The sun glares down, splintering and smudging through your goggles, making the saltwrack glitter. A sun halo arcs across half of the sky, fringed by three points to the top and sides. [continue] You head out [[into the brightness->day 4]] of day.

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 6 north: north + 6 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The sun rises. Extraordinary prisms of rime glint on the ground. The antibiotics have done nothing for your oracle. Their breathing is labored, shuddery. But their face is grimly set as they board the vehicle, insisting they'll be fine. In the cold air, their condition worsens rapidly, though they try to hide it. They gaze out at the wrack and occasionally flinch, startled, at something you can't see. At one of these points they gasp and slump forward, wrenched by a violent spasm. The sleeve of their coat is spattered with vibrant blood. It's dripping from their mouth. They turn to you, eyes wide with true fear. You stop immediately. When the three of you [[dismount]] from the vehicle, the saltwalker has to carry the oracle down.

[if oracle === 'S'] "Oh. You saw us?" They smile and blink slowly, like a cat. "I... I miss them. Vic- but I shouldn't say names out here. It's the saltwalker tradition, right? I don't think it's just paranoia. It's not exactly as though the wrack is listening, but you never know what might..." The oracle breaks off their tangent: "But you asked—well, they used to be an interpreter. They still think like one. Analytical and quick. Prying into things. I hope they're doing all right. I know they wanted to be here, out here, but... they didn't have much care for their own safety, and I worried they would do something incautious, and get hurt. Or get someone else hurt." "Did you—was there anyone in Hearth you left behind? I don't mean to pry, so you don't have to tell me anything, but I only wondered..." [if oracle === 'S'; align center] [["Nobody in Hearth."]] [["I had friends. We'll be back soon, though, and I'll see them again."]] [if oracle === 'V'] "Oh, you mean..." Unexpectedly, a quick wavering smile crosses their face. "We had—we were—I like them. Very much. Sun- but I shouldn't say names here, not even someone back in Hearth." They give a wry half-shrug. "That's the saltwalker superstition, at least. I'll try to behave. At any rate, they're from Rye. They were an artist. I know they wanted to be out here, but they didn't have much experience with the wrack. I was worried, even though they're very talented. They're kind, and thoughtful..." "They're lovely." The oracle's voice is soft, plaintive. "I miss them." By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

They nod in sympathy. "Hearth is different—I mean the way people act. Towards one another. It's good, but it's not what I'm used to." [align center] [["I know what you mean. I feel the same way."]] [["I think you're generalizing a bit. People are people."]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 2 dread: dread + 2 -- They pause, long enough to make a peculiar dread rise in you. "I... I'm not sure about that, {address}." Their voice is quiet and devoid of fear. "I'm not sure that we will be back." By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

When you first plucked it from the wrack, the oracle's face held an echo of lifeless agony. Now it's settled somehow: almost meditative. Eyes calm and absent of sight. The mouth a little open, dull dried blood staining the windburnt lips. The flesh has not putrefied, and this seems to you strange. How long has it been? How long has it been. Days or weeks or years. [align center] [[pet it]] [[bite it]] [[kiss it]]

You consider the oracle's face, blank with the emptiness of death. Then you lower your head, and raise theirs, to bite down delicately at the place where their throat was cut. You taste stale blood, with a sweet richness beneath the overpowering metal. Brine, rotting flowers, something like ice or chemical smoke. You lap at a shred of ragged flesh that flips and ribbons against your tongue. It's repulsive. But you're salivating. Your body craves iron. How long has it been since you ate real meat? You lick the wound clean, tongue slipping into the clotted hole that was their throat. Your teeth close around their jawbone, leaving dents in the bloodless skin, like a predator crushing a smaller animal's windpipe. An exploration of anatomy, of texture. Something in you wants to tear away and swallow the cold raw flesh. But there's enough left of your mind, still. You resist. Somehow time feels slippery. Or memory. Have you been here before? No; you haven't encountered yourself yet. Still you feel like you're being [[followed.->head end]]

You stroke their odd greyish hair out of the way to expose the oracle's face, blank with the emptiness of death. You rub your thumb over their forehead, cradle their jaw in the palm of your hand. Put forth the tip of your finger into the mouth, cold and dry where your nail rests against their teeth. And where the head was severed: feel the knobs of bone exposed by carving, the intersection of knife and spinal column. Dried blood smears onto your fingers in dark flecks. Absentmindedly you comb their hair smooth. The thought occurs to you that perhaps some of their extrasensory knowledge is trapped in this skull, still. If you could commune with it, if you could pluck out the remnants of prophecy, you would be able to read your own fate. But you are no oracle, and the head will not speak. Somehow time feels slippery. Or memory. Have you been here before? No; you haven't encountered yourself yet. Still you feel like you're being [[followed.->head end]]

"I have to let it in. Let the visions in, I need to see more clearly, I'm lost without it. We'll be lost without it, and we'll never get to where we should, and I—I can't hear it—" They swallow hard. A sobbing hitch in their voice. "I need. Please. Please, please." [align center] [["I'm not going to kill my only colleague."]] [["If you... really think it's necessary."->"Tell me what to do."]]

trepanthem: true relationoracle: relationoracle + 5 -- You have a small hand drill, for taking samples of rock and ice. It is operated by a simple crank motion. You help the oracle shave away a patch of their long hair, then sever a flap on their scalp. They wince as you pull back the skin. Blood runs down over their forehead. They sit very still. The drill bit clicks against bone. You feel the oracle's uneven breathing, the resistance under your hands, and then a release as the drill breaks through their skull. A spurt of blood runs down their face. You stop short and carefully lift the bit away. The core of the drill is packed with bloodied bone fragments. You help your oracle bandage the wound. They step out of the tent for a moment, and raise their face to the sky, exulting. For a moment they seem crowned with diffuse radiance, like a smolder of white smoke. Your vision is bleary from days of staring at snow. Is it only an artifact of the subarctic sun, or—? [align center] [[prepare to keep heading south->redirects]] [["Do it to me, too."]]

You pull away your glove. Last you checked, that little fragment of spire left specks like black sand under your skin. You tried to scratch them out, with your fingernails, but it stopped seeming important somehow. Felt fine. Feels fine, now, the black veiny ridges beside your bones. Little wetness oozing up beside the ruptured skin. You pick at it, absentmindedly. Your hand is stiff. Something dark is swelling under the fingernails. {embed passage: 'magnetic dream'} How close are you to returning, now? You can't be much farther. You must be [[close->spirehand mid]]. To something.

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- Your glove won't fit over the shape of your hand. Jagged spikes erupt from your palm, fusing your fingers into immobile claws. Your nails have been lifted away from the nailbeds by the black growths, warped sideways and pried. But your bare flesh doesn't feel cold. Doesn't hurt. Feels good, exposed to the air. You shake your head, try to blink away the speckled interference in your vision, but it just won't clear. Something in your eye, maybe. You need to go south. South. Why? The field pulls you north. You can almost see it now. Ley lines, atmospheric arcs. The ground moves to a secret pulse. You [[move with it]].

day: day + 5 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.right: "" config.header.center: "" -- Your arm has become like a club that drags by your side, swelled and stiffened with material that resembles charcoal. The spire murmurs through your body. You stagger forward across the wrack, compelled by a magnetic sense entirely unlike that of your compass. You lose portions of time, unaware of why you're walking, unconcerned. You become a passenger in yourself. There are bleary, grained-over images, isolated from context: the sun, low in the sky, haloed by a ring of light. Three blazing points above it and to the sides. A feverish radiance in your head. Dull red-brown spatters on the snow. Prying something from you. Warmth and slipping feeling. Less and less sight, now. Your eyes feel compromised. Something is inside them. The cold blasts your unfeeling body; the spire can only protect you from it for so long. The ends of you are discolored, ashy black and blistered. What you lose, [[the spire takes]].

config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- The core of you is almost buried in spire growth. Your silhouette becomes less human and more like a coral reef, or an undersea vent. A black smoker. The spire wanders, and as it does, it disperses particles of itself. Plumes of fatal dust are ejected from a pillar fused into what was your head. Spire particles stain the ice where you pass. This eventual towering stack is too large to be mobile. It sheds pieces, gnarled fragments that cleave from its bulk like a calving glacier. Something keeps moving. It isn't you. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

The cold stings your face, your hands. She runs after you easily; you hear her footsteps behind you, crunching in the stiff snow. Your boots are heavy, your legs reluctant. You nearly trip, scramble up, keep going. Your breathing is ragged. Wild panting like a deranged animal. And just as you have become conscious of that, and at the same time realized that you have nowhere to run to, she catches you by the shoulder and jabs a blade into your back—over and over, stinging as you crumple to the ground. Without ceremony she kneels over you, positions your head, and slams her knife down through the base of your skull. [align center] [[no more after that->eaten death]]

day: day + 1 rations: rations - 9 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- The next morning the saltwalker stops to talk to you. You fear, for a second, [if walker === 'T'; append] that she's going to tell you the oracle is dead. Not yet, though. "I've given them a sedative. For the pain." She lowers her head. You imagine she's looking into your eyes, behind that strange half-helm. "Seems like they're going to die today. Can't be sure, but I can't imagine they'll last much longer." [if walker === 'A'; append] that he's going to tell you the oracle is dead. Not yet, though. "I've given them a sedative. For the pain." He looks askance, the creases around his eyes deepening as his brow furrows. "Seems like they're going to die today. Can't be sure, but I can't imagine they'll last much longer." [continue] You wait around camp. You could be writing up your findings, or examining samples, but you can't focus on work right now. Twice you go into the oracle's tent to check on them, but they're either asleep or too far gone to respond to you. After sunset, you leave them alone, so as not to let in the brutally cold night air. You haven't managed to sleep yet when the saltwalker retrieves you. [if walker === 'A'; append] His face is an eerie statue in the chemical lamp's white light. He [if walker === 'T'; append] Her face is an eerie statue in the chemical lamp's white light. She [continue; append] takes your arm and [[leads you->sorry vic]] to your dying companion.

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi + 88 north: north + 88 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" glacierdeath (walker !== 'X'): false -- Sun, snow, islands of rock. The sensation of unfelt depth beneath you. Of buried time. You encounter more crevasses: cracks in the skin of the glacier, down and down into shockingly blue ice. They can be hard to spot from the vehicle; there's a blind spot in front and beneath. [unless walker === 'X'] The saltwalker insists on going ahead on foot in order to point out the chasms. [else] After the vehicle's foot lodges in one of these chasms, you decide to scout ahead on foot. [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'X'; append] The oracle's keen extrasensory touchsight helps you here; they can sense the openings before you can see them. [continue; append] Your pace slows, but your [[progress->blizzard day]] is safer.

In the dusk there is a moving shadow, a black line. You lift your lamp, alarmed. Something—a serpentine thing, long as your arm, glistening with mucus. It writhes on the ice, indistinct and slick, like an eel or a boneless salamander. You see another one, hidden in the shadow of a ridge of ice. Another coiling next to it. [align center] [[leave them be]] [[collect them as specimens]] [if rations < 51; align center] [[collect them as meat]]

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 mi: mi - 12 lateral: lateral - 12 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" dread: dread + 1 -- [if walker === 'T' && oracle !== 'X'] The saltwalker scoffs. "Whatever they say, then." She stalks back towards the vehicle. [if walker === 'T' && oracle === 'X'] The saltwalker scoffs. "Whatever you say." She stalks back towards the vehicle. [if walker === 'T'] Has she become more irritable lately? The stress is taking a toll on all of you. [if walker === 'A' && oracle !== 'X'] "Mmm. That might be more of a danger. Visibility will be worse soon." He shrugs. "But it seems the two of you have made that decision." [if walker === 'A' && oracle === 'X'] "Mmm. That might be more of a danger. Visibility will be worse soon." He shrugs. "But if you don't like the look of it, we won't take chances." [if walker === 'A'] Has he become more disheartened lately? The stress is taking a toll on all of you. [continue] The terrain is uncertain in the blue waning light, and although the sun sets late during this season, it is nearly two more hours of peering forward into the dark before you settle again and make camp. There's no time to deal with the portable stove; [if crew === 3; append] you are all [if crew === 2; append] you are both [if crew === 1; append] you are [continue; append] hungry and becoming short-tempered. You eat a cold meal and go to sleep [[exhausted->car check 1]], your muscles cramping.

Against the moon's smudgy light in the night clouds, you see a stream of thin smoke. The saltwalker perches on the sloped and boxy hood of the vehicle, legs dangling. She's smoking a little cigarette of some sort. It's an unusual sight, at least in your experience. Skyless Firmament, with its precious public air, considered smoking to be a dirty and selfish habit, and outlawed it accordingly. And you haven't seen much of the custom in Hearth, either. [align center] [["Where did you get that from?"]] [["Can I have a hit?"]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 3 dread: dread - 2 -- She grins and jumps off the vehicle to offer the cigarette to you. It's hand-rolled from flimsy paper, filled with some unknown blend of herbs. It smells almost like incense. The smoke is dry and savory in your throat. It takes you a while to get to sleep that night, but the walker's approval makes up for it. And [[the next morning->glacierdaytext2]], you feel fairly clear-headed.

[if crew === 3] Only three of you. [if crew === 2] Only the two of you. [if crew === 1] Only you. [append] Only the one vehicle. Other expeditions have failed before, failed hugely and spectacularly. You are only a mote amidst the dozens—hundreds—of explorers crushed by this infinity of ice. [if crew > 1] You are expendable fools who were doomed long before you left Hearth. [if crew === 1] You are an expendable fool who was doomed long before you left Hearth.

[if rationdescrip === 'Low'] {embed passage: 'bleak'} [if rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'starvation'}

halfrations: true dread: dread + 4 day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew mi: mi - 10 north: north - 10 mi (!onfoot): mi - 35 north (!onfoot): north - 35 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- After a day, it becomes apparent how desperate your situation is. Simply enduring the conditions of the wrack takes a great amount of energy from your body. And now you can't maintain it. You are constantly cold despite your thermal clothing, weak and shivery. Your thoughts are less clear. You [if crew === 3; append] and your companions are irritable; you snap at one another and sulk. [if crew === 2; append] and your companion are irritable; you snap at one another and sulk. [continue; append] are irritable, and prone to despair. There is nothing you can do but [[keep going.->halfrations pathway]]

After some time you realize that the city—unlike the teeming wrack around it—is absent of life. There is a missing ecology here, and that disturbs you. You keep thinking of words like "epicenter" and "exclusion zone". It takes a few hours to locate your entry into the objective point. The compass leads you unwavering to a massive submerged building, a set of odd squared-off shapes just under the ice. At first you're afraid that there's no way down, that you'll have to dig through meters of glacier or abandon your objective. But as you circle around the point, you find a wide concrete stairwell where the flow of ice abates, sheltered by an overhang. Above you, the clouds churn like a slow ragged whirlpool. The sky looks torn open. There's a flicker of some large dark shape, moving behind the crumbling pillars of the city. A trick of your eye. The geometry of the stairway seems laden with silent menace, terribly old and unknown. This is what you've been waiting for. [align center] [[go down]] [[don't go down]]

In many things, you have a choice. Or, at least, you can think of choosing differently, under different circumstances. Not this. Not here. It's not up to you. You [[go down]].

config.header.center: "" -- You feel sick as the darkness swallows you, vaguely fearing some invisible presence, the way you're afraid in dreams. You never used to dream like you do now, not before coming to the wrack. Amorphous, vivid atmospheres that cling to you like oil to your skin. You feel certain somehow that those dreams are mere shadows of this. The objective. It is not easier to navigate underground. There are hours of hallways, tiled floors, metal doorways reluctant to open. Long-extinct lights set in clear oilshell sockets, the material now degraded into opacity. [if crew > 1; append] Your chemical lamps are the only things that illuminate the space. [else; append] Your chemical lamp is the only thing that illuminates the space. [continue] But the magnetic sense grips you, too, now. Something ahead glows darkly in your mind like an absent star. Rouses a base instinct. Where doors and walls are shut against you, you find ways of slipping around and through. Nothing will deter you from the long-promised prize: infiltrating this tomb and prying out its innermost secret. You cross a narrow walkway over a deep open cellar. Below you are several immense drumlike metal tanks, like a chemical refinery. A layer of chalky dust particles has settled on the walkway. Your footfalls disturb it; it swirls up into the air behind you. You enter a chamber. Above you hangs a frame of some kind, huge, like a cage or some skeletal misshapen hand. A raised platform on the floor; banks of control panels. [unless walker === 'X'] The saltwalker halts. "I'm going to stay back here. Keep watch. I don't trust this place. You don't want to be ambushed from behind." You resist the urge to ask what could possibly be alive in here other than yourselves. This facility, whatever purpose it served, has been abandoned for 239 years. It doesn't bear thinking about. [continue] The [[source room]] is ahead. You can feel it under your skin.

day: day + 3 rations: rations - 18 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- You set up camp as fast as possible, in as wind-sheltered a place as can be managed. And for several days you wait, as your oracle wastes away. You and the saltwalker check on them constantly, but all your curative efforts come to nothing. The disease runs its swift and inevitable course. Your companion remains lucid; every time you see them, they're methodically making notes in the journal they carry. Finally you come to their tent just to ask what they're working on. They struggle to sit up, strands of unkempt hair hanging in their face. You smell the close sick scent of their sweat. "I had wanted so badly to see the objective. You have no idea how much... But, Interpreter, we both know I'm not going to make it much longer." Their face is gaunt and anemic, skull-hollows visible under their skin. They tap the notebook lying next to their hand. "I'm writing out everything I can see ahead. Hazards, strange parts of the land... even dreams. I don't know, I'm trying to be rigorous about it, I'd hate to lead you astray, but—" They break off for a moment, struggling to breathe. "I need to contribute as much as I can. I was meant to be here. I'd rather die here than live anywhere else." They run a hand fretfully through their hair. "Please. If you can, even without me... do your best to get there. Someone ought to know." [align center] [["We'll see. Without an oracle, that may be impossible."]] [["I promise we'll try."]] [["I promise we'll try, Interpreter."]]

"I know... I wish you would try. You've made it possible for us to be here. For me to..." You watch them realize, belatedly, what they've said. "I mean—no, I wasn't blaming you, I mean that I'd rather be here, no matter what. I hope I can still be of service to your expedition." Another coughing fit catches them. They curl over, torn by air that grates and rasps in their chest, clutching their notebook as though the weight of their work steadies them. You find it almost impossible to think of creating a rigid science from oracular sense: methodical analysis of dreams and touchsight portents, rendered into instruction, legible and rational. It seems like a contradiction. But they're managing it. Or at least so you hope. [[You have to hope.->rip lol]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 2 -- "Thank you, Interpreter." Their hand wanders over to grip your wrist lightly, absently. "I wish—oh, but there's no use in that now." They give a wry fleeting smile that wavers and disappears as they're caught by another coughing fit. They curl over, torn by air that grates and rasps in their chest, clutching their notebook as though the weight of their work steadies them. You find it almost impossible to think of creating a rigid science from oracular sense: methodical analysis of dreams and touchsight portents, rendered into instruction, legible and rational. It seems like a contradiction. But they're managing it. Or at least so you hope. [[You have to hope.->rip lol]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 4 -- The oracle's eyes go wide and their mouth opens a little—silent, stricken, almost pathetic in their gratitude before they regain some composure, wincing back tears. "Thank you. Thank you..." Their hand wanders over to grip your wrist lightly, absently. "I wish—oh, but there's no use in that now." They give a wry fleeting smile that wavers and disappears as they're caught by another coughing fit. They curl over, torn by air that grates and rasps in their chest, and clutch their notebook as though the weight of their work steadies them. You find it almost impossible to think of creating a rigid science from oracular sense: methodical analysis of dreams and touchsight portents, rendered into instruction, legible and rational. It seems like a contradiction. But they're managing it. Or at least so you hope. [[You have to hope.->rip lol]]

config.header.center: "Miles travelled:" config.header.right: "Rations: you" -- you are standing in a space that It's almost warm. You don't register that warmth at first. Only the absence of cold, like the sudden absence of a long illness. It's dark. You sense the oracle standing beside you, and turn to them. They hold a little light in their hands, casting a glow that slicks the hollows of their face. As you watch, it dwindles away into nothing. The sky is null. There is no sky. There is a terrible gray stretch above, too close, without features. You are standing on something spongy. You look around. This is where the life of the wrack comes from. You are suddenly certain. And then you revise the hypothesis. No; this is where the life of the wrack came from. You have no way of knowing whether it's cut off now, whether it seeps somehow to the surface of your scoured earth, trickles through little passageways and arteries. But the wrack harbors extremophiles, forms derived enough to survive the bitter cold and chemical harshness. This is not the wrack; this is a garden, a soot-colored garden of lush and subtle organs. You see flaps of soft mossy black stuff, thick ghostly plumes in the distance, frills and tenuous discs and delicate trailing sprigs. A biosphere. An alien biosphere. Naked hunger in the eyes of the oracle. This was their purpose. This is everything to them. You understand. [align center] [["What is this?"->anterquestion]] [["Where are we?"->anterquestion]]

config.footer.center: "" -- "The... I..." They hesitate. "I don't know what to call it. I don't think anyone's been here before us; at least not since before the saltfalls began. So it has no name. What it _is_..." "It's one enormous body, like the wrack itself. It's the other side. The space that was made at the objective, all that time ago. It's where the salt came from..." They look around, alert and wary. "We have to be fast. It should only take a few hours. Distance feels different in here. We can get back—use it as a shortcut. Stab through at another point. I _think_ I can navigate." They stand still, breathing hard enough that you can see the rapid rise and fall of their chest. "I can read it. Like a language." There is enough light to see by, a colorless twilight murk from the motionless non-sky. Your companion leads the way, and the two of you set out across this otherside. You can't help but think that it and the oracle are suited to each other. Grey secret things. You have questions that you don't dare even ask. The life here bears vague similarities to some of the things you've seen farther north. This will revolutionize the work of interpreters, someday. You have to [[take samples->virgil]].

glacierdeath (walker !== 'T'): true -- [if walker !== 'X'; append] The saltwalker leads you on foot, where visibility is easier. [continue] It feels haphazard. The ice creaks occasionally, grunting and splitting off, and once there is a great booming crash from somewhere many miles north. Even before the steepest section, there is a massive canyon across the glacial spill: jagged, vivid blue at its core. Its sides are glassy sharp, formed into knives by the slow action of meltwater. [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker steps cautiously along the edge of the chasm. And as he moves, his weight destabilizes a mass of ice. It cracks beneath his foot, tilting and fracturing. He pitches forward in the tumult, shouts, screams, and is gone into the abyss. You rush to the edge, hoping to see him. And you do. Ten meters down, maybe. A jag of blue-grey ice, wet and dark with blood, has speared him through the torso. He's facedown, unmoving. [if walker === 'A' && oracle !== 'X'] The oracle stands behind you frozen in horror, clutching your sleeve, as though to keep you from following him down. There is nothing more, really, that either of you can do. [if walker === 'A' && oracle !== 'X'] [[You won't risk it now.]] [if walker === 'T'] "No. No, no, we're not doing this." The saltwalker practically bristles. She ushers you away from the edge. "We have to find another way. The ice is unstable." [[You turn back.->no chance]] [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'S'] The oracle steps cautiously along the edge of the chasm. And as they move, their weight destabilizes a mass of ice. It cracks beneath their foot, tilting and fracturing. They cry out and claw at the air, and then they are gone into the abyss. You rush to the edge, hoping to see them. And you do. Ten meters down, maybe. A jag of blue-grey ice, wet and dark with blood, has speared them through the torso. They hang facedown, unmoving. This can't be right, you think. [[This can't be.->sun glacier death]] [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'S'] You follow it for a couple of cautious miles. Visibility is easier on foot. You develop a system of scouting ahead, not too close to the edge, to make sure that the path is clear. You can do this. It's narrowing; the end must be in sight. And then the mass of ice cracks beneath you, and you [[slip]].

rations: rations - 3 rations (halfrations): rations + 1 day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You wake slowly, and then startle yourself remembering what happened. Your supplies are still outside in disarray; what if another beast had been lured to your campsite? You risk a glance out of the tent, partially unzipping the flap. No, there's still that slumped bulk, grey and indistinct in the dusk. There's still the sledges and the piles. Nothing has changed. Beside you, the oracle sleeps, pale and still, washed out in the light of the chemical lamp. They look no closer to waking and no further from death. By the next day they are feverish. You stay by their side, and dig through the medical kit for anything of use. Antibiotics, antipyretics. Your colleague refuses to eat, and seems too dazed to talk. They mutter things that you don't understand, circling some idea that has hooked their thoughts. But they know, just as well as you do, that the two of you cannot survive like this for long. In the evening they sit up to talk to you, grim-faced and dishevelled. They're frightfully pale, and the ribbon that usually ties their hair back is missing somewhere. But there is a purposeful glint in their eyes now. "Interpreter. [[I have a plan.]]"

mi: mi - 6 north: north - 6 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- The glacier's cracks have widened with the season. The oracle walks ahead of you, hand held over the ice as though dowsing. They probe it for weaknesses with their mind's touchsight. It is an uncertain safety, but better than nothing. But the two of you are exhausted. You grow impatient, and careless. And then you see the oracle fall. The weight of the sledge drags behind you; you cannot run, but you try anyways, chest and legs burning. Your companion hasn't disappeared entirely. Their makeshift sledge is lodged at a diagonal into the crevasse. Some supplies have spilled away into that blue abyss, but there's enough weight to counterbalance them, keep them suspended. Spinning, tangled, like an insect half-snared in spiderwebs. The strap caught around their throat. They reach out, contorting over and over again in mindless convulsive motions. No ledge to grasp, just a slick verticality of ice that their boot shudders against. If there are sounds, you can't hear them over the wind and the heartbeat in your ears. [align center] [[try to save them]] [[watch]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 4 rations (!halfrations): rations - 24 rations (halfrations): rations - 12 dread: dread + 2 mi: mi - 6 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- In your scrambling, you knock some more supplies into the crevasse. But you manage to pull your companion up, grabbing onto their shoulder, their forearm, the strap. The oracle kneels on the solid ground beside you, gasping for breath, and has a violent coughing fit. You stand by, unsure what more you can do for them. They hunch over on the ice, staring into nowhere. Their eyes are bloodshot. A string of saliva has frozen against their lip. "Thank you. I—I thought—" Their voice hitches; they nearly sob. "Thank you." It was too close a call. The two of you walk side by side for a while, both agitated and unable to make much progress. [[There is nowhere safe.->onfoot glacier]]

dread: dread + 6 oracle: 'X' crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - 18 murderer: true -- It takes a long time. They never look up at you. Probably they can't. You stare down into the chasm at little details: the way their hood is pushed askew, letting their long braid swing and eddy against their chest. No more movement now. The body slumps, dangles, twirls slowly in the limited arc that the harness allows. [if knives] [[cut them loose]] [continue] [[keep walking]]

dread: dread - 3 mi: mi - 4 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" rations (rations > 1): rations + 6 rations (rations < 1): 4 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You saw through the strap that suspends them. It's not easy; the reinforced coalsilk fiber is thick, and even the saltwalker's serrated knife makes grating work of it until you are through the last strands. The body drops away, tilts sideways, and vanishes into dark depth. It eases your mind, somehow. No trace left. Afterwards, you rummage through the supplies they were carrying; there are a few precious things, though you don't have room for much more weight on your sledge. Small specimens, more energy-dense foods. The water purifier. You don't go much further today, too apprehensive and agitated, continually second-guessing your steps. If the oracle, with their keen extrasensory touchsight, didn't notice the crevasse, how can you possibly be safe [[alone->you fucker]]?

[if oracletent] When you go into your tent tonight you find the flap open, the interior unlit, and your colleague crouched on their hands and knees, facing away from you. Your presence is obvious: the sound of your entrance, the cold wind at their back. But the oracle does not acknowledge you. [else] You pass by the oracle's tent, heading to your own at night. The flap is open, the interior unlit. And your colleague is inside, crouched on their hands and knees, facing away from you. [continue] They sob, more of a motion than a sound. It wracks their whole body. Slowly, finally, they turn towards you. Their eyes are glassy with tears, their spectacles clutched in one fist. They aren't looking at you, but past you, into nowhere. [align center] [[back away silently]] [if relationoracle > 22; align center] [[go in to comfort them]]

config.footer.center: "" relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 -- She smirks. "Which city? Why don't you guess?" It's hard to say. Skin as pale as hers is uncommon in Hearth and Rye, but none of the city-states were ever composed of only one ethnicity. Without cultural tells, you can't hazard a guess. And she seems pleased to have stumped you. Not long afterwards, she eases the vehicle to a stop. The sun is slanting low, and you'll need time to set up camp. The first day of travel is over. You're not sure quite what to expect from [[the first night]].

config.footer.center: "" relationwalker: relationwalker + 1 -- [if walker === 'T'] She considers it for a moment. "New. Odd. But I'm not against it. It feels powerful. I'm used to relying on my own body for everything. It's a little warmer in here, though. Can you feel that?" [if walker === 'A'] "I don't hate it. It feels powerful. We're crossing ground much faster than I'm used to, and it'll spare our legs and backs the soreness. But I think it's easier to bear the cold when you're moving." [continue] It's true; the vehicle's engine-metabolism heats its metal body, and the cavity where you three sit is warm now, but the air comes in brittle wafts around the windshield. You know from experience, though, that adjusting to the cold will take a few days. Not long afterwards, your saltwalker eases the vehicle to a stop. The sun is slanting low, and you'll need time to set up camp. The first day of travel is over. You're not sure quite what to expect from [[the first night]].

relationwalker: relationwalker + 1 config.footer.center: "" used1wtravelques: true -- [if walker === 'A'] "Mm. A little past Wick—that's near four hundred miles north of here, and further east than we'll be going, unless the Society was wrong about where the objective is. Didn't you do those triangulations, {address}?" His voice is gruff, but there's the hint of a smile on his bearded face. "You'd best not be leading us astray. At any rate, I've gone further south than north. Down past Rye. You can still see where forests used to be, they're not all gone under the ice... but the salt is worse. More of it in the soil." He tells you about the remnants of those trees: gray boughs like driftwood on land, petrified by minerals and the lack of decay. Not long afterwards, he eases the vehicle to a stop. [if walker === 'T'] "Far east—all the way to Rye, but no further south. And a fair way north. I spend most of my time outside the cities; I like it better out here." She gives a quick smile. Not long afterwards, she eases the vehicle to a stop. [continue; append] The sun is slanting low, and you'll need time to set up camp. The first day of travel is over. You're not sure quite what to expect from [[the first night]].

config.footer.center: "" relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 -- You don't speak with your companions, and they don't try to make conversation with you. Instead, you watch the barren glitter of the wrack as the sun shifts, until the saltwalker eases the vehicle to a stop. The sun is slanting low, and you'll need time to set up camp. The first day of travel is over. You're not sure quite what to expect from [[the first night]].

relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 config.footer.center: "" used1wcityques: true -- He nods, his face crinkling into a smile. "My whole family; I can trace it back four generations. My grandfather's sibling was a high-ranking councillor. None of them were ever saltwalkers, before me. Bit of a break with tradition. I love the city well enough, but I couldn't imagine being confined to it my whole life. Or to any city at all." He talks of the crispness of the salt wrack, the way its empty landscape makes him feel alive. Not long afterwards, he eases the vehicle to a stop. The sun is slanting low, and you'll need time to set up camp. The first day of travel is over. You're not sure quite what to expect from [[the first night]].

dread: dread + 1 -- It can't be to protect her eyes from sunblindness—or not just that. Because you remember her wearing it in the Observational Society, only a little way from the city of Hearth itself. Is it for intimidation? Or is there some sight in the wrack that smoked glass will guard against? No answer comes to your mind. You feel uneasy, faced with a lack of knowledge. [unless oracle === 'X'; append] How well do you really know your companions? How far can you trust them? [if oracle === 'X'; append] How well do you really know your guide? How far can you trust her? [continue] You let the matter drop for now, to [[focus on your observations->science day]].

specimens: specimens + 2 -- You take a few to dispatch and dissect. The internal anatomy of these creatures is bizarre. They are cartilaginous, molluscoid. They contain stringy fibrous organs, surrounded by thin spikes or studs that might act like a ribcage. Their skin is mucus-slick despite the subfreezing temperatures. [[In the morning->car check 1]], nothing is left around the hole but a thick dark stain. [if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'hypothesis failure'}

rations: rations + 7 -- You use your scalpel to dispatch them. The internal anatomy of these creatures is bizarre. They are cartilaginous, molluscoid. They contain stringy fibrous organs, surrounded by thin spikes or studs that might act like a ribcage. Their skin is mucus-slick despite the subfreezing temperatures. They seem edible enough, once you [if crew === 3; append] and your colleagues [if crew === 2; append] and your colleague [continue; append] strip them down into piles of meat. You cook it thoroughly; its taste is chemical and oily, but it's the freshest thing you've had in a while. [[In the morning->car check 1]], nothing is left around the hole but a thick dark stain. [if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'hypothesis failure'}

mi: mi + 57 north: north + 57 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" usedspireforest: true dread: dread + 1 -- Your course takes you on a high ridge overlooking valleys flooded with brine, half-frozen saline sludge mirroring the cirrus-streaked sky. You see something in the distance like an optical illusion. A series of bristling black towers, looking as though they burst upwards from the land. A conifer forest frozen in one stiff windless moment, or an abstract sculpture. Something about the forms is gnawing at your mind. Those thorny shapes, like pained coral. [if badair] You remember, suddenly, how the oracle died. [unless badair; align center] [[demand to stop here, to study the growths]] [continue; align center] [[stay clear of them]]

rations (rations > 1 && dread < 34): rations + 6 rations (rations < 1 && dread < 34): 4 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 4 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if dread > 33] You do not think to rummage through the supplies they were carrying; your mind is full of the scene of their death, burnt into your vision as though you had been staring at the sun. You realize only later that they had the water purifier, but by then it is miles behind you. To turn back at any point now would be death; you understand that much. To [[go on->doomed fucker]], also, is death. [else] You stop to rummage through the supplies they were carrying; there are a few precious things, though you don't have room for much more weight on your sledge. Small specimens, more energy-dense foods. The water purifier. You don't go much further today, too apprehensive and agitated, continually second-guessing your steps. If the oracle, with their keen extrasensory touchsight, didn't notice the crevasse, how can you possibly be safe [[alone->you fucker]]?

day: day + 3 rations: rations - 6 rations (halfrations): rations + 3 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 24 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- Without the water purifier, you chisel lumps of ice from the barren, glacial landscape and melt them down to drink. It tastes brackish, mineral. You are always thirsty. Eventually you set up a makeshift distillation system, but it takes a long time to produce clean water. You're afraid to use up too much of the stove's fuel in this pursuit, afraid to lose your only source of heat besides the chemical lamp. You don't suffer from the salinity of your drinking water at first. Pulling the sledge is hard physical labor; you lose enough electrolytes that your body can take up the extra minerals. Perhaps there are other things in the water, though. You never think to test it. It's hard to be a rational animal. You are exhausted, run ragged by extremity, and utterly alone. Your mind is scattered, consumed by physical desperation. [[Your body->dehydration]] is too.

day: day + 5 rations: rations - 10 rations (halfrations): rations + 5 mi: mi - 18 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- Your condition worsens as the days pass. Pain comes in horrific nauseating waves through your abdomen, through your head. Your vision feels blotted and burned. You're not digesting the food you eat. There is only so far you can go. Eventually you are able to walk only a few miles a day. Then comes a point when you cannot put your pack on. Your hands are skeletally thin, the skin bruise-colored and slack over bone. You are down to one bottle of fuel for the stove; you burn through some of it, extravagantly, by brewing a hot drink. It comes as a powder in a packet. Ginger root and beet sugar and vitamins. The ginger, a rarity, must have been grown in Rye. A distant world. An irrelevant world. You lift your face to the sun and sip the drink. There are painful sores inside your mouth; the heat makes them throb. You ignore them. It tastes wonderful. There is nothing for you beyond the salt wrack. You are only ever here, a fragment tossed by wind and glittering ice. And you see your place in the entirety of it, subject to its totality: not empty, but perfectly complete in its austere selfness. It is the clearest and most brilliant beauty. The sun is bright, the air almost above freezing. You drag yourself on hands and knees back to the tent. A blue glow comes through the coalsilk. You leave the flap open, so you can watch the sky. [align center] [[sleep again->default death text]]

dread: dread - 4 relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 relationoracle: relationoracle + 2 rations: rations - crew -- You help to strip chunks of salt-bleached wood from the frame of the structure. The saltwalker douses it in fuel and flicks a match to it, and you watch the hungry light kindle, reflected in the ice around it as it grows. It brings you together, animates you. Someone makes a joke, or a terrible comment, it doesn't matter a moment later, but you're all laughing, and you feel a sudden fondness for your companions. The fire is wonderful, living, roving like an animal over the planks, a shade of orange you're not sure you've ever seen before. It [[stays->day 6]] in your mind through the whole night.

config.header.left: "" config.header.center: "" config.header.right: "" -- You are picked up by a small patrol a few miles outside the perimeter of Hearth. They bring you to the city's medical center. For weeks, you remain there. It takes time to heal the ravages of starvation, frostbite, and desperate overexertion. You wake up thinking of the wrack. It never seems to leave you. The white light in your eyes, the infinite blankness, the things that crawled just beneath the surface of eternal ice. It fills your whole being. You fixate on it, because to stop thinking about the salt wrack is to start thinking about what you saw at the objective itself. And whenever you do, a chill seems to pass over you, a cloud of fever and horror combined. The dreams don't go away. You don't think they ever will. [if trepanyou; append] The little hole in your skull remains, buried under skin and hair. Nothing ever entered through it, in the end. Or so you dearly hope. [if oracle === 'S' && relationoracle > 25] The oracle makes a faster recovery than you. While you're still confined to the hospital, they come to visit, spending patient hours in conversation with you. They never say as much, but their devotion speaks for itself: they will be by your side. You two are colleagues, comrades. You will not be abandoned. [if oracle === 'V' && relationoracle > 25] You make a faster recovery than the oracle. They are confined to the hospital for a while, sick with pneumonia and a nervous disorder. In some ways they are a shadow of the person they used to be, before they witnessed the objective. You can tell that the revelation weighs heavily on their spirit. You do your best to encourage them, and your compassion is returned with quiet gratitude. [if oracle !== 'X' && relationoracle > 25] {embed passage: 'oracle cuteness'} [continue] Your strained muscles recover; your withered frame fills out again. Your skin heals into flat shiny scars where it was brutalized by temperature and wind. Eventually you are cleared to leave the clinic. Medicine can do no more for you. You will have to [[present the results of your expedition->obs society end]] to the Observational Society.

rations: rations - 20 dread: dread + 3 -- You fire the flare and hear some mechanism grate together as it lights. A little burning package hurls out of the tube, a red flashing piece that hisses and sputters; brilliant white at its center, too terrible to look at. It falls, skids against the ground, comes to rest. The snow is washed pink where it lies seething. Sparks from the flare hurtle into the wrack-thing's mass, and it flinches back from the light, the sound, the heat. It wails and roils half-into your vehicle, wobbling the upper part of its shapeless body over the storage chamber, and emerges smeared with bits of packaged food. It has eaten what was yours. Abruptly it spills down, flattens across the ground, and rears away as another flare lands near it. This seems to finally drive the creature away; it lopes off, flowing over itself, howling like a monstrous flute. The flares have died. The ice below them is melted, stained ashy grey-black from chemical soot. There is an acrid volatile smell in the air, a haze permeating the night. [unless walker === 'X'] "It was attracted to our camp by the smell of food left out," the saltwalker says, eyes lingering on you like a judgement. "Someone got forgetful." [continue] Your mind has been scattered lately, sometimes too nervous to think straight. Did you neglect to put something away properly? Is this your fault? You have no answers. The creature was like no life-form you've ever seen. But that's the nature of this place. It hides its biota away and warps it unrecognizable. You can only hope that the thing won't return. You'll travel quickly tomorrow, and [[sleep uneasily tonight->science day]].

twotents: true dread: dread + 3 -- You fire the flare and hear some mechanism grate together as it lights. A little burning piece hurls out of the tube, a red flashing thing that hisses and sputters; brilliant white at its center, too terrible to look at. It falls, skids against the ground, comes to rest. The snow is washed pink where it lies seething. Sparks from the flare hurtle into the wrack-thing's mass, and it flinches back from the light, the sound, the heat. It wails and roils onto one of the tents. You see strands of coalsilk tear and snap as it pulls the fabric into itself. It has eaten what was yours. Abruptly it spills down, flattens across the ground, and rears away as another flare lands near it. This seems to finally drive the creature away; it lopes off, flowing over itself, howling like a monstrous flute. The flares have died. The ice below them is melted, stained ashy grey-black from chemical soot. There is an acrid volatile smell in the air, a haze permeating the night. [unless walker === 'X'] "It was attracted to our camp by the smell of food left out," the saltwalker says, eyes lingering on you like a judgement. "Someone got forgetful." [continue] Your mind has been scattered lately, sometimes too nervous to think straight. Did you neglect to put something away properly? Is this your fault? You have no answers. The creature was like no life-form you've ever seen. But that's the nature of this place. It hides its life away and warps it unrecognizable. You can only hope that the thing won't return. {embed passage: '2tent negotiation'}

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 -- [if walker === 'A'] "Hah. I'm sure you would like to know." He smiles, not unkindly. "I know you've been on shorter expeditions. Outside your city. It's not the same. There's a reason for all these old traditions; sometimes the reason itself is lost, but its value holds. The wrack takes things out of you, human things, and it fills you up with the cold air and the horizon and all that saline ice." He shakes his head. "Saltwalkers die nameless." [if walker === 'T'] Her lip twitches up. There's no mirth in that half-smile: more like the bared fangs of an animal, grimacing defensively. "You're not getting me with that one, {address}. Could've looked into it before we left, if you cared to know that badly. I don't have any name. Haven't for years. I don't need one, out here in the wrack. This is the only place that matters. And very little matters besides this place itself. You should know well enough we don't have any names out here. Remember it." [continue] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

[if relationoracle < 26] "Hm. I don't think I need a name. I don't properly have one... and I may not believe in the superstition like walkers do, but I'd rather not risk it anyways." They smile briefly. But you've gotten no closer to understanding them. [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land. [if relationoracle > 25] "I think I'd like to tell you, yes." They place a hand lightly on your shoulder as they lean in close, long hair brushing against your forehead. You are expecting a name. Instead you hear them whisper the words "_Sunder Eye_". [if relationoracle > 25; align center] [["What? That's not a name."]] [["Huh. I like that. It's poetic."]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 5 -- You feel them withdraw immediately. Cold air moves in to fill the space between you and the oracle. They stare, then finally say: "I didn't want to tell you." They shrug, in a motion like flinching. You leave them alone. [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 -- They smile and blink slowly, like a contented cat. "It's poetry. '_Sun and sunder eye from limb / where wakes the world it crept within_...' perhaps it only means something to me. I don't know if you've ever heard it. I think it came from another time, and place, entirely." [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

day: 2 mi: mi + 17 north: north + 17 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rations: rations - 3 -- The wind is stronger today, and your companions have a minor argument over the route you've mapped. Whether you're in the right place. "I know this valley," the saltwalker says, gesturing freely. "Sometimes the weather troubles it. There's a shortcut; we usually make better time going this way." You check. No such route is marked on the map. [align center] [[follow the walker's suggestion]] [[stay on the mapped route]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 relationoracle: relationoracle + 2 rations: rations - 3 -- You earn grateful smiles from your colleagues. The work is exhausting, in a satisfying way. It warms you to the core, and you find yourself sweating under your thermal coat. When you get into your tent for the night, you have no trouble falling asleep, and no time to lie awake in thought. This [[routine->day 3]], it seems, is good for you.

dread: dread - 2 rations: rations - 3 usedbackstory: true -- It's a relief to be able to rely on your crew members. But once you're alone in your tent, you are unable to fall asleep easily. You lie awake as the tent ripples in the wind, and think about [[your home city->backstory thinking 1]], for the first time in a long while.

They lower their head, hunched in the same posture, tense as a prey animal expecting a death-blow. Maybe it's better to leave them to themself. [if oracletent] You stay out of the way for an hour or so, putting some of your equipment in order. When you return they're not in the tent anymore, and by then you're too cold and tired to care where your companion is. [[In the morning they're gone.]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 4 dread: dread - 2 day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- The oracle doesn't move as you get into [unless oracletent; append] their tent [else; append] the tent with them, [continue; append] and close the flap. They just watch without saying a word, eyes too bright, bordering on anxious madness. Some impulse gives you the confidence to hold them. They lean in to your embrace, shaking like a little animal felled by shock. You lie curled around them in the dull half-warmth until they stop flinching awake. It's probably been all too long since they had a restful night's sleep. The next day, you untangle yourself from them; they cling to you for a moment. Both of you smell like fear-sweat still. But they are calmer, and so are you. In the night you had a dim flicker of something terrible averted. You're not sure it came from your own mind. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

oracle: 'X' crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- They left no note or tracks. They took no food, no tent. Do they intend to return? Do they intend to survive? [unless walker === 'X'] The walker is grimly matter-of-fact. "Seen this before. The saltwrack makes them crazed. Running off into it alone—you won't get your oracle back, not alive at any rate." [align center] [[search for them]] [[continue on your course]]

[if onfoot] You spend over an hour looking. Far in the distance, against the grey-white mounded swath of hill and glacier, you see what might be a figure moving. Like a tiny winged insect drowning in a spill of water. [else] There are no signs of their path. You spend half the day looking, and get nowhere. [continue; append] You'll never catch up to them at this rate. And pursuing them would mean deviating from your planned course. It's so easy to be deceived in this nowhere-place. You would be lost, and they would be just as dead. Unless. Unless they have some way of surviving out here, some arcane knowledge that will guide them home. And if that's the case, maybe you're the one who's lost. But you have to keep going south, now, and trust your map and compass. [[There is nothing else for you.]]

You'll never catch up to them at this rate. And pursuing them would mean deviating from your planned course. It's so easy to be deceived in this nowhere-place. You would be lost, and they would be just as dead. Unless. Unless they have some way of surviving out here, some arcane knowledge that will guide them home. And if that's the case, maybe you're the one who's lost. But you have to keep going south, now, and trust your map and compass. [[There is nothing else for you.]]

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi + 51 north: north + 51 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" mi (omen < 31): mi - 13 north (omen < 31): north - 13 -- [if lateral > 21] {embed passage: 'waterfall spring'} [else] {embed passage: 'wrackplain fly day'} [continue] [if fairgame] {embed passage: "black mold"} [else] This is [[mapped terrain->hot spring yay]]. One day soon, you'll be going where nobody else yet has, at least since the saltfall. But any given mile of the wrack has its surprises.

mi: mi - 6 north: north - 6 mi (!onfoot): mi - 33 north (!onfoot): north - 33 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- There is a sign that marks death, out here. Saltwalkers use it. You can't remember what it is. There will be no memorial for your colleague. When you unpack to set up camp that night, you find the oracle's [[journal->read that thing]], the one they always carried.

dread: dread + 2 mi: mi - 6 north: north - 6 mi (!onfoot): mi - 33 north (!onfoot): north - 33 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- There's a moment of crawling, awful silence. And then the saltwalker breaks into wheezing laughter, shaking her head. "No, {address}. No. Not this one, I think. Bit too scrawny." There's hysteria in her mirth. She looks you over. "They teach you that in Firmament?" The saltwalker puts one hand on your shoulder and leads you away from the body. As you are packing up for the day she explains: "S'bad luck. To disturb a suicide." She sniffs thoughtfully. "Worse luck to eat your dead." As far as you know, she and the oracle didn't enjoy each other's company. Yet, before it's time to leave, you see her carving the death-sign into a stone placed behind their head. Last rites, according to saltwalker tradition. You hadn't known her moral code was so strong. When you unpack to set up camp that night, you find the oracle's [[journal->read that thing]], the one they always carried.

Some of your time is taken up by organizing supplies, some by being warned. You've taken part in a few short expeditions, years ago: but not far from the edges of the city you lived in then, and none longer than a week. This is different. Some have tried, and failed, to reach the heart of the salt wrack. There is a very real chance that you too will never return. You have no doubt your companions are preparing in whatever ways they see fit. You pore over maps and revisit the Observational Society's collections, examining microscope slides and desiccated specimens of saltgrown oddities. Even after so much study, you can't know what to expect from the unknown species and phenomena you'll witness so far north. When at last you three meet again, it is in a high-raftered warehouse whose vast doors open northward. The walls are stained with salt and stranger compounds. You clamber into your [[vehicle]], accompanied by your companions.

rations: rations - 1 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- The night is difficult. When you eat, the food catches in your throat. You imagine the crevasse, again, the strap again, your own neck in the loop. They would have pulled you back up, if it had been you. Almost certainly. Wouldn't they? You feel as though you've stolen something. A sense of guilt comes and goes and refuses to land fully on you, like a cautious fly. It is a deeper betrayal. You were raised to think of yourself as one member of a precious living body: everyone you met, everyone you worked with, exactly as vital as you. Obligation to others knit you into the fabric of community; but by holding yourself apart, you hardly have a thread to bind you to Hearth or Firmament, besides the tatters of your own ambition. You have chewed away everything good that was in yourself, and you feel none of it now. You know that... [align center] [[...you'll make it back alive]] [[...you'll die alone out here]]

dread: dread - 1 -- Yes. Yes, even alone, you'll survive. You know the wrack, and you are still well-prepared. You're cunning. You can rely on your mind. There is nothing to confirm this optimism. Only you and the wind. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

dread: dread + 1 -- It seems obvious by now. You are filled with a sense of helpless peace. What else can you do? Even so, you push back against the idea of just letting it happen. This is still your expedition. Your fate to bear. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

day: day + 15 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "" config.header.right: "" -- Your oracle is confident, capable, and uniquely attuned to the wrack. To its possibilities. They lead you. You eat algal growths, and crustaceans, and warped blossoms, and quivering strands of tissue pulled from glacial crevices. Strange salt-flavors piquant with alien chemistry. The oracle tells you what is edible, and where it's found; they no longer look quite at you, but through you. Through the earth, through the ice. You think sometimes that their mind has been set alongside the great slow mind of the wrack itself, and that the land blooms at their desire, nourishes the two of you like an animal caring for its young. This is summer-thinking, and it cannot last, but you don't need it to last much longer. You walk under it, day after day after day. Maybe the cells you eat will entwine with your own, and your body's machinery will become something suited to life in the wrack. Maybe the changes are happening already, to you, to your companion. You are dazzled, sun-blinded, but utterly free. No thought of taking samples crosses your mind; the dissection kit is abandoned, somewhere. [if mi > 100] Your companion brings you to a jagged broken landscape. They seek the caverns in a cliffside. The two of you find shelter there, out of the wind. And then you delve [[deeper]]. [if mi < 101] Eventually, shockingly, you [[approach the perimeter of Hearth->generic approaching hearth text]]. And you remember yourself.

And now you are in a different landscape, a more rarefied part of the wrack. No wind. The clouds are a mild milky grey, tinged with blue. Around you, the glacier swells like a frozen ocean. You cross it like seafarers once did, in a less tortured world. You make camp for the night on an outcropping of dark stone, scratched by the passage of ice. In its ruts of gravel you find tiny iridescent worms: tubes of colorless muscle, squeezing between crevices. [if crew === 1; align center] [[continue your journey north alone->glacier cut day]] [else] {embed passage: 'full moon 1'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: '2w ciggy'} [if walker !== 'T' && crew > 1] The moonlight passes through even the thick coalsilk of your tent, casting a ghostly glow [[when your chemical lamp dies down->glacierdaytext2]].

day: day + 1 glacierdeath: true rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- Your progress is back-and-forth, first in switchbacks up the slope and then in the zigzagging avoidance of crevasses. You track them to their narrow points. [if walker !== 'X'; append] The saltwalker leads you on foot, where visibility is easier. [continue] It feels haphazard. The ice creaks occasionally, grunting and splitting off, and once there is a great booming crash from somewhere many miles north. You come to a massive rift in the glacier, where meltwater has carved a channel down into it and refrozen in slick glassy knives below. It looks, at first, impossible to traverse. [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker steps cautiously along the edge of the chasm. And as he moves, his weight destabilizes a mass of ice. It cracks beneath his foot, tilting and fracturing. He pitches forward in the tumult, shouts, screams, and is gone into the abyss. You rush to the edge, hoping to see him. And you do. Ten meters down, maybe. A jag of blue-grey ice, wet and dark with blood, has speared him through the torso. He's facedown, unmoving. [if walker === 'A' && oracle !== 'X'] The oracle stands behind you frozen in horror, clutching your sleeve, as though to keep you from following him down. There is nothing more, really, that either of you can do. [if walker === 'A' && oracle !== 'S'] [[There's no chance that you'll risk it now.]] [if walker === 'A' && oracle === 'S'] [[There's no chance that you'll risk it now.->sun doubt]] [if walker === 'T'] "No. No, no, we're not doing this." The saltwalker practically bristles. She ushers you away from the edge. "We have to find another way. The ice is unstable." [if walker === 'T'; align center] [[head east instead]] [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'S'] The oracle steps cautiously along the edge of the chasm. And as they move, their weight destabilizes a mass of ice. It cracks beneath their foot, tilting and fracturing. They cry out and claw at the air, and then they are gone into the abyss. You rush to the edge, hoping to see them. And you do. Ten meters down, maybe. A jag of blue-grey ice, wet and dark with blood, has speared them through the torso. They hang facedown, unmoving. This can't be right, you think. [[This can't be.]] [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'S'] You follow it for a couple of cautious miles. Visibility is easier on foot. You develop a system of scouting ahead, not too close to the edge, to make sure that the path is clear. You can do this. It's narrowing; the end must be in sight. And then the mass of ice cracks beneath you, and you [[slip]].

trepanyou: true relationoracle: relationoracle + 2 -- Their hands are gentle and precise, a juxtaposition with the brutality of the drill grinding through your skull. Shuddering deeper and deeper through bone, the ultimate migraine. There is a sudden release as it pierces through; the pain is its own novelty, a keen pulsing like a third eye. But you feel nothing extraordinary. Nothing is revealed to you. Blood pours down your forehead. You taste it as it flows over your lips. Your colleague bandages your head. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

Fine snow begins to fall, muting out the world in blank soft white. There is nothing but the light prickling sound of snowflakes landing on your coat. [unless onfoot; append] Even the vehicle's heavy tread is almost silenced.

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 14 north: north - 14 mi (!onfoot): mi - 60 north (!onfoot): north - 60 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 10 -- Not a blizzard, this time, just a windstorm. The snow finds the edges of your thermal clothing and swirls between them to whisper against your skin. [if omen < 60 && !onfoot && !splodecar] {embed passage: 'a vehicular breakdown'} [if splodecar && !onfoot && walker !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'vehicle explosion life'} [if splodecar && !onfoot && walker === 'X'] {embed passage: 'vehicle explosion death'} [if omen > 59 || onfoot] {embed passage: 'sn embed'}

dread: dread + 10 -- Visions overtake you in a torrent. You see the nature of the world. It is flensed like your mind, naked and raw, and you know now what clings to the side of it. A parasite-space born from a cleft within a cleft. A tick buried in the skin of reality. You witness impossible mathematics. You witness history. Many lifetimes ago, human beings did this: split off the real from itself and conceived something. A grown nightmare, an organic gnarl, physics' nameless teratoma. It ate from the atmosphere and spewed out its own waste over it, all the toxins that would damage its ecology. An excess, in particular, of salt. There is a thing beyond the vanishing point, and it is living still—while your earth silently decays. Maybe it is not to blame. A cannibal, yes, but it was spawned in extremity. All things are made terrible by hunger. [unless walker === 'X'] You feel hands under your shoulders, pulling you away. The terrible presence recedes as the saltwalker drags you further out of it, but it's not gone. It's everywhere around you, aware of your intrusion, awake. You feel like the back of your head is open and something is looking in, shining a light into your nervous system. You realize you've been screaming for some time already. Your face is slick with tears and mucus. [if oracle === 'V' && walker !== 'X'] You lose some amount of time. The saltwalker returns, carrying the oracle, and sets them down. They're clutching something metallic in one hand. Their voice is thin and broken. You catch their words only vaguely: "I can speak with it", "let me in", "it has a language". You stumble over to the oracle as they lie twitching on the floor. Their eyes are wide, unseeing, the pupils massively dilated and the whites blotted with broken blood vessels. One of their spectacle lenses has shattered. The walker pulls them up to stand; together you carry the oracle between you, their arms slung over your shoulders. [if oracle === 'V' && walker === 'X'] The terrible magnetic attention grows less, diverted elsewhere. Shakily you try to recall yourself. The oracle. You need to find them, or both of you will die here. You will yourself further into this nothing-space, around its skewed angles. Reality grows spongy under your feet. Dust lifts from the blank floor and hangs in the light of your lamp. Distances are sick, here. You see the oracle, or their body, as from half a mile away—lean in—and you are right beneath them. They lie slack in the air, suspended by some force as though caught in an invisible web. Blood trickles from their face, siphoned out and away. They twitch and spasm as the ravenous dimension unpicks them. You reach out and take them by the wrist; something metallic is clasped tight in their hand, but you note it only vaguely. You run, pulling them away from this terrible core back to where the atmosphere lightens, and don't dare stop until you are dragging them by the shoulders out onto the real solid floor of the chamber. They are limp against you, so that you fear you've retrieved only their corpse, but they start breathing: agonal at first, shuddering and terrible. Their eyes open, blotted with broken blood vessels, and close again. One of their spectacle lenses has shattered. You pull your companion up to stand, and sling their arm over your shoulder. [if oracle === 'S' && walker === 'X'] You feel hands under your shoulders, pulling you away. The terrible presence recedes as the oracle drags you further out of it, but it's not gone. It's everywhere around you, aware of your intrusion, awake. You feel like the back of your head is open and something is looking in, shining a light into your nervous system. You realize you've been screaming for some time already. Your throat is raw. Your companion is saying something, tugging at your sleeve; you manage to stand. Their eyes are closed. Were their eyes closed the whole time? You wonder, vaguely, how they managed to navigate. [if oracle === 'S' && walker !== 'X'] The oracle beckons you away from this source room, wavers, then ventures in. They take you by the wrist and pull you urgently away. Only then do you realize that their eyes are closed, and wonder vaguely how they're navigating. [if walker !== 'X' || oracle !== 'X'] You have to get out. Your surroundings are still silent, but you know beyond doubt that you are [[pursued]]. [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'X'] [[There is nobody to save you now.]]

config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- The revelation is too much to be borne. It irradiates you, burns out your mind. It unpicks you. You are as a cell devoured by a larger cell, lysed and made one with the vanishing point's distortion, not quite annihilated but subsumed into it. You perceive it, vaguely, with senses other than those that were yours. Here, at the locus of your devotion, something of you will remain. A sacrifice to scientific endeavor. You made it to the objective point alone, only to feed the portal that lurks there. Hundreds and hundreds of miles of cold earth shield the cities from your fate. Most of your body lies alone in this crypt of a long-dead mistake. The blood that poured from your eyes is, even now, drying on the floor. The air is silent again. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

You almost miss a strange patch in the snow: what you think at first are little spikes of ice. Most of them are only as long as your fingers. There's a soft, fleshy quality to them. They remind you of some plant or fungus. Lichen, ghost pipes. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle uproots one and, to your horror, chews on it. You ask if it's safe. They nod. "It doesn't taste like anything. It's alright. You could try it, if you want?" [if oracle === 'S'; align center] [[take some to add to your rations]] [continue; align center] [[take some to study]] [[leave the tubes alone]]

You wake, alarmed, remembering where you are. The oracle is sitting up. Facing away, still as a sculpture. A thought comes to you: if this landscape had altered them somehow, changed them, would you know? Or. Or if they had been replaced. Some mimicking form... no. It's only the strangeness of your surroundings that makes you think of this. That unparseable not-sky, the forests rising to meet it with branching forms like black veins. You feel as though the two of you are inside a body. The oracle catches that last idea; you feel their mind against yours. "Immune system," they say softly. "Yes. We'll have to hurry. It's not far from here, though, I think. The point where we can come through again." You leave your pack behind and carry them, and they carry something—a spark, a knife, a lens, a thought, only in their mind now. The instrument for piercing through. In their fevered ability they can bring the two of you back. A powder rises in the air. Where it settles, it crawls slowly. Tiny living things. It is not soon, and not long, before the oracle puts up a hand. "Here." Or is that just in your mind? "Let's sit down. I need to focus." They crack their neck. A trickle of blood runs from one nostril. Their fingers twitch, spidery and tremoring. And suddenly an absence of light, a fierce cold, takes you—you gasp, and cling to the oracle, and are pushed tearing [[through]] the membrane that should not be

dread: dread - 1 -- You sketch the animals, note their characteristics, but refrain from touching them. Throughout the night, more and more of them pile up from the hole in the ice. But [[in the morning->car check 1]], nothing is left but a thick dark stain. [if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'hypothesis failure'}

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 mi: mi + 33 north: north + 33 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rations: rations - crew -- [if walker === 'A'] The walker nods, though he doesn't seem happy about it. He glances back to the desolate building until it's lost in the distance. [if walker === 'T'] The walker sighs. "Right. I don't like to pass up a chance to rummage around. But it's your mission." [continue] Before long, you are [[far->day 6]] from any signs of habitation, left once again to the empty white expanse.

It's not marked on your map, but in the distance you see the bulk of some building, tilted above the ice field. It looks lonely, half-buried, like a cinderblock dropped and embedded into the land. "Might be something to scavenge in there," the walker points out. "The structure looks stable." [align center] [["Let's see if there's anything of use."]] [["We should keep moving."]]

day: day + 1 mi: mi + 20 north: north + 20 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The instruments on your dashboard start, abruptly, to give nonsensical readings. Or none at all. The compass needle judders, spins in a frenzy. [unless oracle === 'X'] Your oracle shivers and looks up, alert. "Magnetic storm. Something from beyond the atmosphere." [else] You know what this is: a magnetic storm. A current from beyond the atmosphere. [align center] [[keep travelling despite the difficulty]] [[wait it out; you don't want to get lost]]

[unless oracle === 'X'] You realize that the compass is aligning, more and more, with the oracle's uncanny sense of the objective point. By the end of the day, if they close their eyes and point to the objective, the compass' needle will follow their fingertip. You know that their abilities are inexplicable; that's one thing. But whatever magnetism resides at that point is now strong enough to affect your instruments. This influence is something you can clearly see. And you still don't know what's responsible for it. [if oracle === 'X'] You realize that the compass is veering from magnetic north. By the end of the day, it wavers toward a fixed point: whatever resides there is now strong enough to affect your instruments. This influence is something you can clearly see. And you still don't know what's responsible for it. [continue] This far north, the wind is fierce enough to almost knock you over, at its strongest. It sweeps down over the plateau in blinding whirls of powder, sheared from the ground. The land is indistinct. Flat, scoured. You feel like you're descending into a pit. A range of scraped-up mountains rises stark like a saw blade against the horizon. The sight fills you with dread. Will you have to scale those peaks, find sheer and treacherous pathways through them? You wouldn't be able to use the vehicle. You're not prepared for this. [if lateral > 164 && lateral < 186] You spend the day ranging along the foothills. And you make a discovery: A wide swath is carved between the mountains. It is steep, littered with fallen stones, and partially buried by the ice sheet. But it is still, unmistakably, a road. You wonder what infrastructure might be submerged deeper down. Your vehicle crawls up it like a stoic insect, metal claws indenting the ice. Its motor churns, the only sound in this high empty air. You make camp for the night in the middle of the ruined road. [if lateral > 164 && lateral < 186 && crew > 1; append] A wind churns through it continually, blustering against your tents. [if lateral > 164 && lateral < 186 && crew === 1; append] A wind churns through it continually, blustering against your tent. [if lateral > 164 && lateral < 186; append] A pressure settles in your head and won't leave. Early the next day you cross the pass, [[down->the approach]] into the northern valley. [if lateral > 185] You're close to the objective point, but it seems you've overshot it laterally. You'll need to travel [[west->obj lateral minus]]. [if lateral < 165] You're close to the objective point, but it seems you haven't travelled far enough [[east->obj lateral plus]].

"Saved you." She grins. There are scraps of meat in her teeth. "I told you I'd sort it out. It told me how, that thing under the city up north. This is how we live." Her hand is gloved in the oracle's blood. Wet, dark red, still steaming in the cold. Your companion. Your crew. Suddenly you have no more power here. "I can make you part of it. We can survive. Together." [align center] [[accept the meat]] [[run->2sslaughter]]

rations: rations + 50 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- It's warm, and stinks of slaughter. You retch several times. The saltwalker watches you, while towelling the blood off of herself with the oracle's coat. For a moment you think it's impossible; you cannot force yourself to eat human flesh. But your body is so hungry, after the effort of travel. You've been starving. [[You need this.->cannibal path]]

You are not where you should be. The topography of the map doesn't align with the landscape you find yourself in. [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker indicates your surroundings, with unease in his voice. "Passed through here dozens of times. You see that boulder, like a monolith? Only thing is—it's about four hundred miles south of here, and much further east. I've heard of this happening, but never seen it myself 'til now. I'd say we just keep heading north until it sorts itself out." [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker waves away your concerns. "It's not your calculations that're wrong. You've got us a few hundred miles away from we are. Seen this sort of thing before. The terrain gets—misplaced." She snorts resolutely. "We just keep heading north, it'll level out. Don't worry, {address}." [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle shakes their head. "It feels like... hm." They gesture loosely, hands twitching in the air as they try to map out some invisible shape. "If we go north from here, I can't promise it'll resolve like it should. We'll have to double back a bit. I can almost see where it ends." [align center] [[double back to get out of it]] [[head north regardless]]

It's becoming harder to think rationally. You haven't been sleeping well. All you can focus on is the stuttery rhythm of your heart, and the feeling that something is close behind your back. Under your skin. Are you infected? Infested? This place is doing something to you, you're certain.

rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew day: day + 3 mi: mi - 32 north: north - 32 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" config.header.left: "Day: {day}" -- The first day is hard. The next days are harder. Hiking through this blinding cold takes far more energy than traversing it in a partly-insulated vehicle. At times you feel the good strength of your body, and exult in it, but later there always comes a bitter despairing struggle when you tire and can only think of the difficult miles that lie ahead. You get used to the weight, the harness' drag, the ache in your muscles, in the pit of your abdomen. But it's not easy to bear. You are hungrier than before, but your food supplies are even more precious. The cold tenses your muscles, makes your mind grim. But then sometimes the exertion is enough that you are soaked in sweat. Your face gets singed by the dry icy wind. Thin mucus leaks from your nose almost constantly; your lips crack and bleed. Adjusting to saltwalking is a trial. A good day now means more than ten miles, when before it would have been nearly exponentially greater. Your pace feels like a crawl, haplessly dependent on the energy you are able to muster. But your perspective changes. You see the glint in each fractured chunk of ice, the waving feelers on tiny icehopping insects, as you walk. Your body is bared intimately to the conditions of ground and air. [if !glaciereturned; append] [[You are your own engine->onfoot glacier]]. [if glaciereturned] {embed passage: 'redirects'}

The walker has questions for you, it seems. "I've been wondering—you're from Firmament, I hear. But you were living and working in Hearth. Some story there, hm? What's that like for you—have you left Firmament behind entirely? [align center] [["There's a lot about it that I miss."]] [[I'm loyal only to Hearth."]] [["I'd... rather not say."]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 3 -- The oracle frowns and does not respond. A moment passes. You know by now that they're a fantastically lenient person. It's something of a shock to finally encounter their outright disapproval. "Hm. Well, I told you what I know. It's true, though. They really did exile him for that. I don't know what happened to him. He must have died out there." They turn their attention away from you. There is a tension that slowly disperses during the course of the afternoon. [if day < 12] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]]. [if day > 13 && day < 25] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

They nod, though they seem lost in thought. "Isn't it? I don't know anything more, like what happened to the person. I don't know. I think he really did do it." [if day < 12] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]]. [if day > 13 && day < 25] By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 mi: mi + 30 north: north + 30 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker sighs, raising his eyebrows. He doesn't seem surprised, merely disappointed. "So you don't trust an old man's experience? Tell me again why I'm on this mission." [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker snorts. She doesn't seem surprised, merely disappointed. "Right. Don't bother saving yourself the trouble. We do it your way, {address}." [continue] You make fine progress, though not as much as you would have liked. [align center] [[volunteer to set up camp]] [[relax and let someone else do the work]]

mi: mi + 42 north: north + 24 lateral: lateral + 18 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The course takes you northeast, not strictly north, through a low-lying passage that might once have been a wide riverbed. But you do make good progress. [align center] [[volunteer to set up camp]] [[relax and let someone else do the work]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 1 -- He nods slowly, evidently pleased with your answer. "Not that I've anything against it, but I wouldn't choose to live in a kamis state either. Good on you for making your way out of that nest of ideologues." [if address === 'Ammar'; append] He scoffs as a thought occurs. "But still 'Ammar', hm? You really do address each other that way—as though you're all siblings. Well, I'm your comrade for this expedition, at least. I'll do my best to humor you." [continue] His words are intended as a friendly jibe, as far as you can tell. But the conversation dwindles after that, and you spend the rest of the day alone, cataloguing observations and putting your notes in order. The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- Pain releases its hold. Sensation vanishes. Your mind withdraws to no sight, no thought. The wrack eats the heat of your body. The rest of you will be eaten soon enough. And when your corpse has no more nutrients to provide, when your muscle and marrow and fat have been stripped away, the remnants—a mere jumble of bone—will be discarded on the unforgiving ice. This land has a sense of its own. It breathes, in a slow searing howl. It finds anything unlike itself and dissipates it, envelops it in shape and extremity, gathers it in and buries it deep. Invisible life seethes under the wrack, over it, strung through its atmosphere, waiting to complete your end. In years to come, there will be nothing here apart from mounds of fresh snow, stale rime, sparse outcropping rock; and your bleached bones will go unseen in the endless field of grim grey-white. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- You claw at the air as your boot skids off the ledge. Your leg torques with a shooting pain. You fall, tilting head-down. The walls of the crevasse blur past. You understand what's going to happen to you, and then it does. Your upper back contacts the sloping side of the chasm. A fraction of a second later, your head smashes against the ice too. Your spine breaks, cleanly and brutally. A long red stain trawls down the crevasse from that point of impact, marking your descent into ultimate darkness. It is a fast death. You don't have time to feel it. Needless to say, no one will retrieve your corpse. But the glacier will fold you into itself, protect your crumpled body in its groaning bulk, take you down through the mountains over years and years. Maybe you will be ground against its bottom, in a slow river of boulders, and worn away. Maybe it will leave you on a high place and recede, tombing you in frosted soil. You become geology. You do not decay. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 5 -- They stare mutinously at you. "You don't understand. You can't understand." Their eyes burn with something barely contained. The next morning, [[they're gone.->2oabandonment]]

Something is heaped up in the distance, standing out against the stark white field. Once you get close enough, you see that it's a mechanical carcass: the wreck of an aeromobile, a rare relic from Firmament's experimentation. Its metal shell is warped and buckled from the weight and movement of ice; it might have been downed decades ago. As far as you're aware, engineers have largely given up on the possibility of powered flight. Odd scratches are raked into its body by the doors and windows. The saltwalker eyes them with suspicion as you pass by.

You don't need much of an advantage. They are smaller than you, weaker. You creep up to them, wielding [if knives; append] the saltwalker's long knife [else; append] your largest scalpel [continue; append] —but they hear you, and they turn. Your vision flares white with an impossible headache. You grasp for their throat, behind the fluff of their hood, and angle your blade into it. The pain abates. They collapse against you, and you see their face: piteous, agonized. Betrayed. You step back. They reach out as they fall, and spit blood onto the ice. They won't stop convulsing, making little sounds. It takes too long. You feel a flare of anxiety; heat rushes to your face. What you're doing is terrible, and you need to make it stop, so you kneel down. Their throat is in rags, their eyes glassy and dazed. Your hands shake. You keep cutting. When it's done, your fingers are numb with cold, and slick, and sticky. Dark rings of blood under the nails, clinging like ink in the crevices of your skin. [if halfrations] Even now, alone, you might not have enough food left to make it back to Hearth. Unless... [align center] [[leave them behind]] [if halfrations; align center] [[butcher the body]]

day: day + 4 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- You are terribly ill already; perhaps it is fortunate that, in your delirium, you can make little sense of things. The flow of one event to another is staccato, interrupted, seen only in warped moments. Something deeper hums within you now, drawing you away. You finally understand—either in the diseased mire of your mind, or in overheard pieces of your colleagues' conversations. You must have inhaled an infectious thing, in that place where you stayed. Some sort of particles, a microbe, a parasite. But by now you are awash in hallucinations, and your companions can do nothing for you. It bores out through the soft parts of your head, insistent as a fungus. It jags up and out through your left eye. Even then you do not die, not yet. You are too good a host. It is the saltwalker who finally insists on leaving you. By then you are unrecognizable. You lie alone in a tent, bristling with fervent growths like black coral. It consumes you and grows strong and tall and ripe. It prepares to release spores. Eventually the cold claims you. With so little of you left, it's not much of a mercy. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

[if oracle === 'S'] The oracle is alert, looking nervously from side to side. You feel a slight electrical discharge, like a static shock, and they sit bolt upright. Their eyes are wide, the pupils huge and slick. "Something's wrong. It's as though the air—no, a sort of magnetism. I think. I think we need to stop. Now." [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle holds up their hand and pulls off their glove, letting their fingers twitch and skim through the air. You see them wince as the cold grips them. They cast a sidelong glance at you and the walker. "It feels like we've entered a kind of field. There's something wrong, I don't know quite—it's like it's clinging somehow." A moment later, voice gone icy with fear, they add, "We should stop. Now." [unless walker === 'X'] The walker pulls back hard on the steering, [else] You pull back hard on the steering, [continue; append] and the vehicle lurches to a stop. You get out of it as fast as you can—and then it begins. [unless walker === 'X'] "Down!" the walker shouts. "Lie as flat as possible. Don't move—" [continue] An impossible pressurized heat hovers over you, like a malevolent sun. You don't dare look up. You crush your face into the ground, feeling the sting of icy particles under your scarf, and hold very still. Abruptly it lessens, pulses, and is [[gone->blizzard 2 glacier return]] altogether.

It's just you and the land. The land, you know now, is so terribly alive. It recognizes you, seeks you. It wants to touch you in any way it can. Some think that the salt wrack is uncaring, indifferent. You know better. It would change you; it would incorporate you into itself. If you let it. [if !returning && mi < 600] You will not turn back, even now. It's unthinkable. [[You can make it->walker dead navigation pass/fail]] to the objective. [if !returning && mi > 599] You will not turn back, even now. It's unthinkable. You can make it to the objective. {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'} [if returning && !glaciereturned] You have to keep going south before the wrack claims you too. {embed passage: 'redirects'} [if returning && glaciereturned] {embed passage: 'alone south struggling'} {embed passage: 'redirects'}

relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 rations: rations - 7 dread: dread + 3 -- [unless walker === 'X'] Against the saltwalker's judgement, you approach the forest of negative-space towers. [else] You approach the forest of negative-space towers. [continue; append] They are made of flat hard stuff, carbon-black; you can fracture it with difficulty. No geometry, no pattern, is immediately evident in the branching forms, just an anarchy of shape. You've gone far enough for today, and there's little time left. You make camp in an area well away from any of the bristling spires. That night, the wind makes eerie fluting sounds as it rushes through the thorny maze. The spires are as deep black voids cut out against the brilliant star-filled sky. You have no dreams, but you wake with a sense of unplaceable fear. For perhaps half a minute you are afraid to open your eyes. When you leave the tent, you see the spires in the morning light with an awful lurch. They seem too immediate, too concrete; they defy the salt wrack's desolate flat glaciality. There is something violent about them. Some rations were ruined overnight. The packaging is split open. There are growths, perfect miniature versions of the spires, budding out. Without touching them, you toss the affected foods onto the ground. When [if walker !== 'X' && oracle !== 'X'; append] you all [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'X'; append] you and the oracle [if oracle === 'X' && walker !== 'X'; append] you and the walker [if oracle === 'X' && walker === 'X'; append] you [continue; append] leave, it is with the sense of escaping a trap. It's a relief when the forest is [[no longer visible->walker dead navigation pass/fail]] in the distance.

dread: dread - 1 rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 45 north: north + 34 lateral: lateral + 11 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- It is disappointing to pass up a research opportunity, but this is almost certainly for the better. [unless badair; append] You recall scattered mentions of some infectious black material, nightmare-tales of splinters that grew on their own. [if badair; append] You have learned too much about this spire-material already. [continue] You make good progress [[for the rest of the day->easy day]].

"Why? Need something to calm your nerves, {address}?" She smirks at you. "Don't mind me. Things turn up in all sorts of places. I'm good at finding them, is all. Habit of mine, just like this. I brought along my supply." [align center] [["Mind if I take a hit?"->"Can I have a hit?"]] [["You shouldn't be using substances. We have to stay alert."]]

relationwalker: relationwalker - 3 dread: dread + 1 -- "Oh, you're telling me what to do." Slowly she dismounts from the hood of the vehicle. "Remind me again, {address}, which one of us has lived for years out here? I know, I know, this expedition is yours. But this place is mine. Don't forget it." She gives you an evaluating stare of cold disapproval. Then she throws down the cigarette stub, grinds it into a black smear beneath her boot heel, and heads for her tent. [[You go to your own,->glacierdaytext2]] though you don't manage to sleep for a while.

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 -- [if address === 'Ammar'] "Oh, I'm sure, *Ammar*. He nods, with knowing condescension. "Well, I won't push it. You're better off in Hearth, though. Better for a person to have a sense of individuality. [else] "You probably think Hearth lacks some things. Maybe it's still strange to you after coming from such an ideological society... I think it's better to have a sense of individuality, though. [continue; append] And it seems like you've taken to it. The way you command this expedition, I'd think of you as a leader, rather than a follower." His words are intended as a friendly jibe, as far as you can tell. But the conversation dwindles after that, and you spend the rest of the day alone, cataloguing observations and putting your notes in order. The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

relationwalker: relationwalker - 3 -- He raises his eyebrows. "Hm. Well, I won't cast judgement on you for that. Did they really treat you that well, or do interpreters have some kind of special privilege in there? I'm inclined to think you're closer to the top of the food chain. [if address === 'Ammar'; append] No offense meant, *Ammar*. You really must make everyone call you that? Why didn't you stay there, then?" [else; append] No offense meant. I wonder why you didn't stay there, then." [continue; append] You get the sense that he doesn't expect you to answer. You hear him mutter: "Bunch of ideologues." You spend the rest of the day alone, cataloguing observations and putting your notes in order. The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

In the afternoon you hear your companions having a conversation. There's vitriol in their voices. The oracle sounds more quiet and plaintive, the saltwalker wrathful. You step out. The stove is on, and your colleagues are having hot flasks of what looks like one of the stimulant drinks from the assortment in the rations, meant to be brewed in boiling water. It would be a warming sight, but as your colleagues see you their voices die down. The oracle looks away and sips their drink; the walker looks right at you for a long second. They don't offer you any of the beverage. You [[walk away]], your shoulders tense under the weight of their stares.

Your oracle stares out at the vastness of the ice plain, in which the two of you have been left to fend for yourselves. Their hands shake. [if walker === 'A'] "He... abandoned us. How can that—" They shudder. "He was meant to get us back." [if walker === 'T'] "She... abandoned us. How can that—" They shudder. "She was meant to get us back." [continue] "We'll be all right, won't we? We have each other, still." [if relationoracle < 26; append] They glance warily at you. [if dread > 30] In a voice now quiet and monotone, they continue: "No. No, we're going to die out here, aren't we? I've always known it."

[if walker === 'T' && mi < 250] Your survival is being called into question. The chance that you'll make it back to Hearth seems slimmer by the day. But then, impossibly, you see figures in the distance. [[Another travelling party.->scavengers]] [if walker === 'T' && mi > 250] {embed passage: 'cannibalism link'} [if walker === 'A' && onfoot] Your survival is being called into question. The chance that you'll make it back to Hearth seems slimmer by the day. The unspoken tension is like an electrical charge. [[Something has to break.->abandonment 1w]] [if walker === 'A' && !onfoot] Your survival is being called into question. The chance that you'll make it back to Hearth seems slimmer by the day. The unspoken tension is like an electrical charge. [[Something has to break.->1w abandonment car]] [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'low rations no walker'} [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'X'] {embed passage: 'halfrations desperation'}

A four-winged flier crosses the height of the sky, like a ghostly sliver of bone moving against blue. It's one of the few species of the wrack you're truly familiar with. You used to see them all the time, when you were doing field work outside Firmament. They never stooped down to land. You wonder what this one's doing so far north. In the old world, before the saltfall, there were birds.

Aside from getting to know your colleagues, the expedition is going well enough, so far. The terrain is familiar, and you're travelling on well-mapped land. You are beginning to think of the basic conditions of the wrack as constant, holding no or little surprise. You are wrong. Overnight an impossible cold moves into the area. You feel it in your bedroll, when you wake briefly to shiver and curl up beneath layers and layers of insulating fluff. In the morning a thick and angry band of clouds blots out the sky, as wind scours the barren plain. The temperature measures 30 degrees below freezing. After breakfast, it is 35. Nobody wants to take the tents down. You ask the saltwalker what to do. [if walker === 'A'; append] He [if walker === 'T'; append] She [continue; append] shrugs. "It's a storm vortex. We hunker down. We wait it out. Unless you want to lose your toes and fingertips." [align center] [[stay put]] [[the idea of waiting is unacceptable]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew -- There's no point in risking injury. You're well-stocked with supplies; you can wait out this cold front, however long it takes. You'll have a lot of time to kill. [align center] [[talk to the oracle->oracle convo coldsnap]] [[talk to the walker->walker convo coldsnap]] [[relax on your own]] [[keep up your studies]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew -- How long will this last? You don't know. It could get colder; it could be 50 below by tomorrow. You can't afford to lose any more time than necessary. "If we head east," the saltwalker points out, "we'll have an easier time, based on the angle of the wind." [align center] [[align yourself north]] [[align yourself east]]

north: north + 15 mi: mi + 15 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You don't want to have to double back later. Heading east might result in lost time anyways. The scalding cold wind, nearly opaque with tiny shards of ice, isn't easy to bear no matter which direction you're facing. Any exposed skin goes livid and numb in minutes. You are forced to travel more slowly, and after a mere few hours none of you can take it anymore. But the cold snap abates [[the next morning->day 8]].

lateral: lateral + 20 north: north + 4 mi: mi + 24 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The scalding cold wind, nearly opaque with tiny shards of ice, isn't easy to bear no matter which direction you're facing. Any exposed skin goes livid and numb in minutes. You are forced to travel more slowly, and after a mere few hours none of you can take it anymore. But the cold snap abates [[the next morning->day 8]].

starving: true -- You're out of food. [if onfoot] You won't be able to travel for long without eating. Your strength will wane dramatically. [if onfoot && halfrations; append] Already you know what it will look like. [if oracle !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'low rations no walker'} [else] {embed passage: 'st embed'}

The functionary nods. "I'll tell the others as much, {address}." It's taken months to persuade the Observational Society to sign off on your expedition. But now, most of the obstacles are out of the way, and concrete reality is setting in: there are only a few weeks left before your departure. You've been assured that the Society's clerk will see to the budgeting. "All expenses have been approved," she reminds you. "And in case something happens to one of you out there... well, you're undertaking this expedition with a full awareness of the risks. As are your colleagues." She gives you a half-smile. "I hear your candidates are a scholar or two, a couple of saltwalkers, and... an artist. Oh, don't look at me like that. You know what oracles are like. It's a wonder we managed to find two who wanted to be part of this." Reassuring. [[It's time to see who you'll be working with.->meeting]]

You don't need much of an advantage, or so you think. They are weaker than you, unaccustomed to hardship and certainly to combat. You creep up to them, wielding [if knives; append] the saltwalker's long knife. [else; append] your largest scalpel. [continue; append] But they turn, and look at you with their wide dark eyes as something in the world twists. A lurch of magnetism. [if knives] The knife [else] The scalpel [continue; append] is in their hand somehow, as though they're a mirror of you. Your hand is empty. You grasp, weakly. They look confused by what just happened, what they're doing to you, and the sky isn't quite You stagger, and kneel hard on the ground, not comprehending the vicious pain. The blood in your mouth. it doesn't seem like they've killed anyone before, you think, [align center] [[you never find out how->default death text]]

The shapes of mountains on the horizon, the angles between the sun and ground, all feel untrustworthy and somehow terrible. The world is newly hostile, skewed. You feel like you're trying to escape the attention of something enormous by hiding in its mouth. The ice is wrong, your body is wrong, and you dare not look closely at your [if walker === 'X' || oracle === 'X'; append] companion's face [else; append] companions' faces [continue; append] as you huddle together in the slanting shadows of the silent city. [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker has been quiet, aside from his urgent instructions as you fled. But he catches your gaze now, shifting uncomfortably. "If we return. *When* we return. Are we endangering Hearth? If we bring—something—back with us. If we're contaminated." [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker is visibly shaken, agitated. "I've never seen anything else like that. Never," she tells you. She keeps looking around sharply, one hand hovering by her knives. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle is standing unassisted by now, but it looks like they're still in shock. They're shuddering with something other than cold. "I wish it had taken me. You should have let it. We should have—we can't—" Their voice breaks off. They wring their hands together, over and over, staring into nowhere in particular. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle is standing at a distance. "This place is awful, evil—we shouldn't have come here." Their shoulders are hunched, their voice subdued. "There's no way to be rid of it, is there? No way to make it stop." You wonder, yourself. If humanity had more resources, more accurate knowledge, could they change this? Cut off the source, end the unnatural winter. Maybe in a hundred years. Maybe not. It seems absurd to think anything could contend with what you witnessed. There are always worse possibilities. [continue] You are at a loss for words. There are no terms to describe it. You worry that you are changed, somehow. That it inhabits you. Exposure—parasitism— [[Will you ever be safe again?->returning summation]]

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- Your nerves are burned numb, but you recover slowly as you flee. Little particles drift in the air, in the washed-out beams of your lamps. The darkness is streaked with snowy flecks. You think of the first saltfall, and nearly bring yourself to taste the particles, but they're not crystalline. Only some kind of organic dust. [if walker !== 'X' && oracle !== 'X'] One of your colleagues [else] Your colleague [continue; append] shouts to you. "Look—it's alive, it's moving!" You see nothing but deep-sea gloom. Then warped monsters where your lamplight fails. It is not your imagination. The shifting dust rises to form shapes that loom and reach to grasp you. No; the structure itself is bending, swelling. But you begin to see through the walls. A colorless light from nowhere illuminates the facility, irradiates you. You see your bones as shadows in your hand, wired with veins and arteries. Closer. Deeper. The shapes of your cells. You only notice the blood leaking from your eyes when it runs into the corner of your mouth. You feel a breath of wind. Beyond the overhang, beyond the staircase up, there is sky. The entrance clings to you like a long shadow, like a sucking mouth. When you stand once more on the ice above the ruined city, something of you remains below. You can't have been [[gone->returning]] for even a full day. But there's a coating of snow on the vehicle, and no clouds in sight.

day: day + 1 mi: mi - 12 north: north - 9 lateral: lateral - 3 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- The cloudy sky isn't helpful. Somehow you get turned around, and only understand this when you've lost a few miles. That night, an aurora laps down over the greyish land: massive swaths like glowing ribbons, sickly green and violet, shrouded by strands of weblike cloud. Your skull prickles. The compass is more reliable the next day, but your progress is slow; you use the sun to [if north > 550; append] navigate. {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'} [else; append] [[navigate.->salty plain]]

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You have a few hours to spend in camp. Touching anything made of metal, you soon learn, will deliver a painful shock. Blue phosphorescence dances on your skin when you brush up against the tent. In the distance, something spirals like a column of smoke, or like a swarm. That night, an aurora laps down over the greyish land: massive swaths like glowing ribbons, sickly green and violet, shrouded by strands of weblike cloud. Your skull prickles. The compass is more reliable the next day, but your progress is slow; you use the sun to [if north > 550; append] navigate. {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'} [else; append] [[navigate.->salty plain]]

Exhaustion and hunger are taking their toll. You only manage a few miles a day, like some sick crawling animal, hopeless in this unending expanse. What remains to you? [if mi < 200] You're getting closer to the inhabited parts of the world, to the cities. It's a slim chance, but you might come across some saltwalkers who are willing to help. [if mi < 200; align center] [[use up your last few rations, and hope to somehow be found]] [if mi > 199 && onfoot] You know that some few foolhardy people have eaten the biota of the wrack. You could take your chances foraging flora and fauna. It might only hasten your end. [if mi > 199 && onfoot; align center] [[eat what meager life you can find]] [[don't even bother]]

The oracle takes up a real position in the Observational Society, and soon becomes a fairly prestigious researcher. They work with Hearth's university, delivering the occasional lecture on physics. But they seem subdued, hollowed out in a way. Haunted. You understand all too well.

The saltwalker accepts his honors, patient and quietly proud. After the expedition, he retires. You see him every so often, usually accompanied by family members. Eventually you recognize a restless, unfulfilled energy in him: even now, he would rather be out on the wrack. You wonder if he's still haunted by the objective, or trying to forget.

day: day + 3 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- The cavern is abundant with life; even in this closed system there is more than enough to sustain you. Soft-bodied fungal fruits, and things less identifiable. And you can see by the living light inside this place. Delicate glowing traceries, green luminosity in the dark. Your eyes adapt to the dimness. Some of its passageways are just large enough for your body to fit through; you press up against the walls of the cave, its slick stone and yielding flora. You're not sure yet what form of life grows sessile on the rocks, but animals crawl through it: animals like microscopic things magnified. Translucent squirming forms, ciliated or many-legged. Nothing that you've ever seen before. You spend days exploring the sprawl of tunnels, down into groundwater pools and lush beds of moss. The cave's depths are temperate, heated either by geothermal warmth or by the metabolisms of its ecosystem. It is like a garden buried in the earth. Your oracle tells you they intend to stay in this place. They want to live alongside it, and become a hermit of the wrack. You could too. [align center] [[stay, and learn to dream the wrack into your waking mind]] [["I can't. I have to go back to Hearth."]]

config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- Your mind is opened up, in increments, in dreams and foreknowings. You become an oracle of sorts; you sense more than ever before. But you are an interpreter still. You chart the ecology of these caverns, catalogue the individual species. And at the same time you divine the sentiments of an amoebic consciousness, the massive slow hungry mind of the salt wrack itself. Strange flora grow on you, in you. A benevolent exchange of biologies, as these delicate cavern creatures become rooted in your flesh. They add to you. Perhaps you and your companion will be the heralds of a new world. Perhaps someday you will take your anchoritic knowledge back to the cities, and humanity will adapt alongside the biota of the wrack. You could never have imagined this future, this refuge, when you set out on your quest. But you have been altered. Principles abandoned, pathways of hope opened up. Like so much in the years to come, it remains to be seen. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

mi: 178 north: 108 lateral: 70 rations: rations + 20 dread: dread - 4 oracle: 'X' config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- "I understand. That's your orbit. I'll help as much as I can." They sit cross-legged on the floor of the largest chamber, perched beside a cleft in the waxy stone. Mosses and fruiting tendrils flourish from the walls. Luminous patches and strands cling to the ceiling. The air is hazy with vapor, maybe, or spores. The oracle whispers to you of safer routes they see, dangers you cannot understand but will know enough to avoid. You ask if you will make it back to Hearth. They do not respond. You harvest rations from the cavebody's abundance; not too much, so as not to disturb the delicate biome. You chart your course, and carefully mark your location on the map. And you bid your companion farewell, leaving them to their prophetic ecologies. Now you will be travelling [[alone.->return to hearth from cave]]

Yellow sky, gray land, sickly crystalline sun. You pass massive floes, heaped up as though this were the edge of an ocean.

mi: mi - 18 north: north - 6 lateral: lateral + 12 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You don't make much progress, but you trust that it's best to avoid whatever specters the oracle is seeing. [if oracle === 'V' && oracletent] {embed passage: '1o nightmare'} [else] {embed passage: 'mind'}

omen: 1 dread: dread + 3 mi: mi - 18 north: north - 12 lateral: lateral - 6 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle doesn't seem satisfied with this route, but they don't offer a correction. [continue] Every so often, there's a feeling of pressure in the air, a contraction as you pass through. But you can see nothing except the mist. [if oracle === 'V' && oracletent] {embed passage: '1o nightmare'} [else] {embed passage: 'mind'}

You find yourself avoiding food, eating odd quantities. The sensation of hunger fills you with dread and nausea, but every mouthful gives rise to panic. There is so much you don't dare think about. A guilt, a horror, in you that will never heal.

The oracle watches, with what seems like disapproval. "I think it would be better to understand it in different ways. Maybe we can become more like these creatures, somehow, instead." [align center] [["I know. But I have to get specimens somehow."]] [["I didn't ask."]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 1 -- What did they think they were signing up for? You ask, not unkindly. "I know," the oracle says; "I felt differently about it before. But I'm beginning to think that we have to live with the wrack, rather than... oh, don't mind me. I'm sorry for interfering." You [[finish cataloguing the specimen.->mist day]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 3 -- They nod curtly and walk away; you [[finish cataloguing the specimen.->mist day]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 4 day: day + 1 dread: dread + 6 walker: 'X' crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + (175 - lateral) lateral: 175 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if relationoracle > 19] "It doesn't matter to me very much if we live or die," they say calmly. "We would just become part of the wrack itself. It's not that I want to die, but if that happens, it would be only fair." [if relationoracle < 20] "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter very much to me if you live or die," they say calmly. [continue] You don't know what to do. How can you possibly trust them now? You travel east along the range for a day, thinking constantly of the walker's body in the crevasse. The eastern pass comes into view: a gap like a missing molar. It looks like a slow path, but a fairly safe one, the easiest entry to the glacier you're likely to get. [continue] You will be far more careful this time. [align center] [[ascend the pass->pass2 go]]

[if oracle === 'V'] The stress is taking a toll on your oracle. The tremor in their hands has worsened. They flinch at loud noises, or an unexpected touch. You see them rummaging around the medical supply at one point, and decide to take inventory. The sedatives are missing. You might want to [[talk to them about that->ask them about that]]. [if oracle === 'S' && walker !== 'X'] The stress is taking a toll on your oracle. You notice they've been going without shaving, recently; there are dark wisps along their jawline and upper lip. Their skin is ashen, their hair tangled and unkempt. Sometimes they stare into the distance, nearly catatonic, and you cannot snap them out of it for minutes on end.

An uncharacteristic warmth brings little black flies to prick at your exposed skin. You wonder what they feed on, how long they spend frozen into the soil before a brief day of flight.

One of the tents is ruined. You'll have to do something about this. The tents are spacious enough that two people should easily be able to sleep in one. [if relationwalker > 25] The saltwalker nods at you. "I'd share with you, if it suits you. Should be plenty of room." [if relationwalker > 25; align center] [["Sounds fine to me."->walkertent agreement]] [["No, I'd prefer to sleep alone."]] [if relationwalker < 26 && relationoracle > 22] The oracle tentatively raises their hand. "I would gladly share with you, as long as you wouldn't mind it. You might have strange dreams..." [if relationwalker < 26 && relationoracle > 22; align center] [["Sounds fine to me."->oracletent agreement]] [["No, I'd prefer to sleep alone."]] [if relationwalker < 26 && relationoracle < 23] Your companions glance at each other. "The two of us can share a tent," says the saltwalker. "Rather not disturb your peace, {address}." You are given the tent that belonged to the oracle. You'll travel quickly tomorrow, and [[sleep uneasily tonight->science day]].

relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 relationoracle: relationoracle - 1 -- You are given your privacy; neither the oracle nor the walker asks why. You'll travel quickly tomorrow, and [[sleep uneasily tonight->science day]].

walkertent: true relationwalker: relationwalker + 1 -- [if walker === 'A'] {embed passage: 'in tent with 1walker'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: 'in with the walker'}

mi: mi + 68 north: north + 68 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if north > 660] A rocky outcropping juts above the ice sheet like an island, and in its center is a shining mirror. It seems misplaced in the expanse of glacier. A relic from further south, from a subtly different climate. The land around it feels somehow blurry, warped at its edges. [if crew === 3; append] You all [else; append] You [continue; append] dismount from the vehicle to inspect it. The motionless water isn't frozen over, even though the shoreline is piled with chunks of ice. There are things in those glassy boulders: bubbles, dark fungal strips, fissures and boreholes. Is that a skeleton, thready white and delicate? It's too deep in to be sure. The pond's ripples lap almost imperceptibly against a beach of dark silt, washed from the frosty soil. The water, you see as you come closer, is clear teal blue in its deepest center. A mineral color, devoid of life. [if walker === 'A' && north < 660] You turn to the walker for guidance. He stares out at the little body of water, brow furrowed under his hood. "I've never come across this one. It doesn't seem quite right to me, but I'm sure the water could be purified, if you want to stay here. Might be samples for you to take." [if walker === 'A' && north > 660] You turn to the walker for guidance. He stares out at the little body of water, brow furrowed under his hood. "It doesn't seem quite right to me, either. But I'm sure the water could be purified, if you want to stay here. Might be samples for you to take." [if walker === 'T' && north < 660] You turn to the walker for guidance. She stares out at the little body of water. Her posture stiffens. "Doesn't seem right to me. Something about it..." She turns abruptly and paces around the shoreline. After a couple of minutes, she gives a short shout and points to something scratched into a rock. It's a saltsign, the kind that walkers use to communicate about a location. You don't know this one: a loop encircling a dash, the ends closed with a slashing line. "Means that this place is a trap. We should leave. I don't know what exactly is wrong here, but let's not wait to find out." [if walker === 'T' && north > 660] You turn to the walker for guidance. She stares out at the little body of water. Her posture stiffens. "Doesn't seem right to me. Something about it looks like a trap. I don't know how to explain. I don't trust it." She throws a pebble into the pond, and the waters close over it without a splash. "Some things are best left alone. Let's go." [if walker === 'A'; align center] [[stay by the pond]] [continue; align center] [[keep heading north->nopond]]

rations: rations - crew crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - crew walker: 'X' dread: dread + 6 pooldeath: true config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle wakes you up, urgently. Something is wrong. [continue; append] In the bleak cold light of morning, you see the pool of water. Something in it, meters from shore. It's the saltwalker. Facedown, floating. Motionless. You think of going out to retrieve his body. But you'd have to come in contact with the water yourself. Wet clothing alone could be a death sentence out here, and you don't know what quality of the pond did this to him. You can't know. [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle is just as stricken as you are; they stare out at the water, twisting their gloves absently. "Is there nothing we can do? He was—" Their words fail. No, you are well aware: there is nothing to be done, now, other than trying to complete your expedition without a saltwalker to lead you. {embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} [else; append] And you're [[all alone]] now. [if oracle !== 'X'] Turning back is unthinkable. You've come this far already. [[You have to try->walker dead navigation pass/fail]] to make it to the objective.

"There is a place on the other side of the door. You remember. In the objective, the..." *The vanishing point.* That's how you've been thinking of it. The oracle mirrors your words. "We can travel through it. Using it as a path. We have to. There's no way we'll get back otherwise, is there? I took something from inside the objective. I'm going to use it to pierce through." You still don't understand, but you know enough to have some faith in them. This is likely to be your only chance. They tell you to leave them alone for a few hours, so that they can work. When they call you back, you bring two packs with some supplies, not knowing what to expect. The tent is full of scattered pages that look illegible at first glance. Bits of metal, too. The oracle is holding... something. You peer closer, trying to parse the object in their hands. Is it there? Is it somewhere else entirely? They're reaching for you. No—it's reaching. *It is like a candle made of metal. It is like an insect made of glass. It is like a hand that grasps and tears, and you have a sick tilting feeling in the core of your body, like at the objective point, as though you're falling forward into* [align center] [[a sick passage->antergleam]] [[an impossible passage->antergleam]] [[a mouth->antergleam]] [[an eye->antergleam]] [[nowhere, nothing,->antergleam]] [[a mirror that->antergleam]] [[sees only the inside of you->antergleam]]

The other oracle, the [if oracle === 'V'; append] tall placid [if oracle === 'S'; append] slight wide-eyed [continue; append] one, lingers around them too. Once, you walk in on them curled up together in a narrow bed, as the other one strokes your oracle's hair. Even now, the two of them are cagey about their names.

relationoracle: relationoracle + 1 -- They smile faintly. "Thank you, Interpreter. For asking. I don't actually believe in that superstition, but... I think I'd prefer to remain nameless, out here, at least." Perhaps you wanted to share your own name with them, but now it doesn't feel like that would be appropriate. [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 -- You listen, and try to be fair. But you've worked toward this expedition for years. This might be the most significant thing you do in your life. Turning back is unthinkable. And the oracle asked you to see the objective point. After their sacrifice, it seems all the more necessary. You explain all this to the saltwalker. He pleads with you, again. But you are adamant. Righteous determination fills you to the core: you will go north, and you will witness what nobody else yet has. Eventually, he nods, defeated. "If I can't stop you, the best I can do is to make sure you get there safely." He glances back to the tent in which your colleague's body lies. "It's late. We need to sleep. We'll [[keep travelling->journal navigation]] in the morning."

relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 -- you've worked toward this expedition for years. This might be the most significant thing you do in your life. Turning back is unthinkable. And the oracle asked you to see the objective point. After their sacrifice, it seems all the more necessary. You explain all this to the saltwalker. He pleads with you, again. But you are adamant. Righteous determination fills you to the core: you will go north, and you will witness what nobody else yet has. Eventually, he nods, defeated. "If I can't stop you, the best I can do is to make sure you get there safely." He glances back to the tent in which your colleague's body lies. "It's late. We need to sleep. We'll [[keep travelling->journal navigation]] in the morning."

oracletent: true relationoracle: relationoracle + 1 -- [if oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'in with v 1'} [if oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: 'in with s 1'}

Unbeknownst to you, there is a flaw in the engine. A loose component, jarred by the constant trek over mountainous terrain, flicks over and over against the fuel tank. It knocks the cap loose, which catches and grates against a piston. A spark flares. There is almost no warning. The vehicle judders, freezes, and then a searing luminosity pushes up out of the engine and against you. It is brilliant, roaring, dark orange. It fills your world, and then you see nothing. The explosion overturns the vehicle, spilling you out beneath it as it crumples. In the adrenaline aftershock you don't feel pain, not at first, but the skin of your face is tight—burned stiff on one edge. The sleeve of your thermal coat has partly melted into a flat shiny mess. You turn, with difficulty. Pinned beside you, under the steaming metal, is the saltwalker. The body of the saltwalker. [if walker === 'T'; append] She caught the worst of the blast. Her face is gone, scorched black and red. The char extends down her open torso. You realize it would be worse, much worse, if she were breathing. [if walker === 'A'; append] He caught the worst of the blast. His face is gone, scorched black and red. The char extends down his open torso. You realize it would be worse, much worse, if he were breathing. [continue] You manage to crawl out from the ruined vehicle, though it brings you a little closer to the walker. You smell burnt meat. Carbonized hair and polymer. [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle is standing nearby, trembling violently. A big shard of the windscreen is embedded in their arm. They clutch their wrist with their other hand. Their eyes are wide and absolutely vacant, as though they're looking into some other world. [continue] You are dazed; your hearing, and balance, feel off. But it is clear to you that [[your situation->vehicle explosion followup]] is dire.

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- So far, you've managed to avoid any blizzards. But your meteorological instruments are giving ominous readings this morning. You set out anyways, hoping to make the most of the time before the storm. The sky darkens dramatically with a swell of clouds. Not long afterwards, the snow starts. Soon it's so thick that you can't see more than a few meters ahead. [align center] [[make camp and wait out the blizzard]] [[keep travelling in it]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 4 usedclay: true -- She looks at you appraisingly. "Sure. I'll tell you. I was raised in Clay, not that it matters. North of Hearth. I am sure you, of all people, know the draw of Hearth, hm? Big city. Old city. Rich, without being a profiteers' state. Ethical." The last word is delivered sneeringly. "But Hearth wouldn't have its luxuries without Clay, would it? And Clay never got much in return." She sniffs gutturally. "It's a glorified mining town. All it does is extract. There are better things to do, in this world. I went for a life on the open wrack. Not alone. And not the first to do so, by far." The city-states are humanity's only harbors, and they are proportionally tiny: a few dozen square miles in total. All the land between is saltwrack: lonely swathes of contaminated, frozen ground. No habitation. No assistance, or food, or shelter, besides that which its travellers make for themselves. There are subcultures, you have heard, that live nomadic and perpetual on the wrack itself. They live and die on the margins, enamored with the open empty land. Its subtleties, its brutality. This makes sense for her. She doesn't seem keen on discussing the practicalities of her life, but you feel that you've gained her trust regardless. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 61 north: north + 61 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The night passes without event. By next morning, the weather is excellent: no clouds, no wind. The sun lances through the whole sky, fills the air with unusual mildness. You'll be able to travel far. [if north > 550 || walker === 'X'] {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'} [else] {embed passage: 'saltwrack etymology'}

A relic of Firmament itself. You run your fingers over the twisted band; it flexes and springs back into shape. Someone fashioned it, but you found it discarded on a factory floor. You remember the trams passing through the industrial sector, and their passengers: sturdy women and men and androgynes self-assured in their utility. Stray children watching the movement of machines, daring each other to climb the watch platforms. You were once one of them. You remember the awe. The pride. A sense of power, of protection from the winter outside. The thrilling smell of heated metal. The poetry of sparks spewing into subterranean air. (Hearth, your host city, keeps its industry out of sight. Its workers are not praised in paintings or songs, beside the ones they sing themselves.) By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

day: day + 1 mi: mi - 48 north: north - 48 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" glaciereturned: false checkpoint: 2 -- A stark black circle hangs low in the sky. It looks like a hole in the world. You've heard of such optic phenomena before, but the sight is still unsettling. Over an hour it goes oblong, splits, dwindles, and disappears. [if relationoracle < 23 || relationwalker < 23] {embed passage: 'low relation evidence'} [if omen < 28] {embed passage: 'a vehicular breakdown'} [if omen > 27] {embed passage: 'cc embed'}

rations: rations - 10 dread: dread + 8 splodecar: false onfoot: true walker: 'X' -- The walker is dead. Saltwalker burial rites are not something you're familiar with; the travelers of the wrack have their own customs, usually secret and guarded. You don't know how to mourn your fallen companion. [unless oracle === 'X'] You help the oracle tend to their wound. Though at first they're in shock and incoherent, after a few minutes they reassure you that they're alright. Without the saltwalker, you will have to rely on them—and your map and compass, whatever use they are in this agitated land—to navigate. [if oracle === 'X'; append] You're alone now. Your only hope for navigating is your map and compass, whatever use they are in this agitated land. And the shreds of intuition you're still gaining. [continue] {embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} Some of your supplies were ruined in the explosion; you have to discard them. {embed passage: 'on foot'}

There is a pass through the mountains here, a ragged glacial outflow that pours through a gap in the range. The ice-covered slope is steep, littered with broken jags. Hopefully your vehicle will be able to climb it. [if !journalnav] If you went further east, [if journalnav] If you went further east, the way the oracle's notes direct you to, [continue; append] you might find an easier path up onto the glacier, closer to the objective. Then again, it might be a colossal waste of your time. [if oracle === 'S'] "It seems safe enough," the oracle says. "I think it's the most direct route we'll find." [if omen > 50; align center] [[ascend the pass->nondeath]] [else; align center] [[ascend the pass->certaindeath]] [continue; align center] [[head east instead]]

There is a pass through the mountains here, a ragged glacial outflow that pours through a gap in the range. The slope is shallow. [unless walker === 'X'; append] Your saltwalker points out a route that winds sideways up and past the ice-covered rocks. [continue; append] It looks like a slow path, but a fairly safe one, the easiest entry to the glacier you're likely to get. [if oracle !== 'X' || journalnav; append] And, according to the oracle's notes, it should be aligned well with the objective point. [continue; align center] [[ascend the pass->pass2 go]]

The mountains open up here, and beyond the massed pouring of glacier, you see the wrack plain to the south. This pass, the westernmost, is closest to Hearth. It also seems steep and precarious, jagged as a mouth full of broken teeth. [align center] [[descend the pass->glacier death return]] [[head east instead->no chance]]

The mountains open up here, and beyond the massed pouring of glacier, you see the wrack plain to the south. The descent winds down the glacial outpouring; it looks like a slow path, but a fairly safe one. [align center] [[descend the pass->pass2return]]

mi: mi - 6 north: north - 6 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Even though the monolith-hemmed streets should be familiar by now, time and again you come to a dead end, like panicked animals in a maze. It is many hours before you find the road that funnels out of the city. You travel as far as you can, but have to make camp hemmed in by the mountain pass again, perched above the glacier's blankness. That night, an aurora wavers over the ruined city. It is of bruise colors, wound colors. Indescribable hues, too vivid, making the sky ghastly. You would swear that you can hear it: a crackling hiss. There is a smell of ozone in the night air. Down from here, you remember the way you came. It looks subtly different, past the road of ice. Perhaps that's just the new angle you're seeing it from. [unless walker === 'X'] But the saltwalker points in a different direction. "That should be a more direct path." [else] If the saltwalker were alive, you might be able to find a better way. But for now, it's best to rely on the path you've already traveled. [continue; align center] [[the old way]] [unless walker === 'X'; align center] [[the new way]]

Without the vehicle, you'll have to travel on foot. This is not immediately such a problem. You've done it before, in short stints. But some issues come to mind. Your food supply. [if rations < 31; append] It's already running low, but now you're in danger of starvation. [continue; append] Since you won't progress nearly as fast now, you could very well run out of food before reaching Hearth. And if you take too long, the seasons will turn against you. You'll be heading into autumn, and the weather will rapidly cool. You spend the rest of the day reapportioning supplies into your packs, and setting up makeshift sledges for what you cannot carry. The straps that secured your supplies become [[harnesses->on foot description]].

Your oracle stares out at the vastness of the ice plain, in which the two of you have been left to fend for yourselves. They look up, letting the sun strike their eyes. Their breathing is uneven. "We're alone, then. We'll make it, though, {address}. I think we know enough by now to survive."

day: day + 1 mi: mi - 5 north: north - 5 mi (!onfoot): mi - 24 north (!onfoot): north - 24 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- Something is wrong today. Blurred shapes just out of sight. A pressure at your back. You feel a sinking sense of dread, even before you see the spires in the distance. That's what your companions had called them, these thorny black outbursts that cascade up from the land. The mountain slope won't permit you to veer far from your planned course, but you should be able to skirt around the spires. Every so often, you glance sideways to make sure that none of them have moved. And then, impossibly, on one of them—in one—is a human figure, like a shrike's prey pinned on a thorn. [[Your oracle. ->shrikework]]

The snow piles up quickly, blown into drifts against your tents by the fierce wind. You'll have plenty of time to spare before it stops. [unless walker === 'X'; align center] [[talk to the saltwalker->blizzard walker convo]] [unless oracle === 'X'; align center] [[talk to the oracle->blizzard oracle convo]] [align center] [[just take some time to sleep]]

rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 16 north: north + 12 lateral: lateral - 4 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The snow piles up in your vehicle; while one person navigates, [if crew === 3; append] another [else; append] the other [continue; append] has to periodically bail out the interior and sweep off the instrument panel. And despite those instruments, you're starting to get lost. Navigating in these conditions is impossible. You have to stop travelling and make camp, only a few miles away from where you began. The day was a waste, and you're exhausted. The blizzard doesn't abate until [[tomorrow->glacier cut day]].

You surprise her with her helm off. [unless seeneyes; append] She's plain, and perfectly human, without it. No scar or deformity, no gouged sockets. There are pink indents on her skin where the edges of the visor sat. Her eyes are fierce, falconish, and dark brown, under fluffy thick brows. She is confused, and then furious. [continue] She turns, and the blade goes into her shoulder, slides along her collarbone. A red jet of blood spits over your hand. She growls. You slash forward again, desperately, but she's moving now, reaching for something at her hip. She pushes you back and, in one vicious motion, slits your throat. There is a knowing amusement in her face as she watches you fall and struggle. You splutter around a mouthful of blood. It's trickling into your lungs. Your vision pulses, goes grey. The walker kicks your scalpel out of your hand. She stands over you, as you choke and spill, until [[you stop moving->default death text]] altogether.

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" mi: mi + 37 north: north + 37 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The land is briefly volcanic. You follow the side of a fissure that snakes north-south. Refrozen meltwater has pooled in its depth. Beneath the snow, craggy dark grey stone glitters brittle and glassy. You see steam in the distance, and approach it; a hot spring smolders in a ring of mineral ice. Bubbles rise and hiss continually in the cloudy water. [align center] [[keep heading north->not spring]] [[take a moment to relax here]]

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 relationwalker: relationwalker + 3 dread: dread - 3 -- The wind whips away the steam, but some of the water's heat still warms you if you crouch close. [unless walker === 'X'; append] The walker has an idea, and pulls out packets of stimulant drink. You set your flasks in the shallow edges of the spring, and enjoy the hot beverage. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle pulls off their glove and tentatively splashes at the water. "It's warm," they report. "Not too hot. Smells like sulfur, though." [if crew === 3] All of you [else] The two of you [continue; append] crowd together, watching the water splutter. For a little while, your fears and doubts recede. [if day < 12] You're making good progress so far—at least, [[you hope so.->day 10]] [else] You're behind the planned timeline. [[You'll need to try to catch up.->day 10]]

A few things come to mind. But if you have nothing left for the engine parasite to feed on, you'll have to travel on foot. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle tilts their head. "It lives on fuel, but I think it would take other forms of food." They stare into the engine cavity. "Do you have a spare scalpel? I want to try something." [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle looks it over, fiddling with the end of their braid. They seem deep in thought. "Do you have scalpels, {address}? I think there's something I could do for now." [unless oracle === 'X'; align center] [[feed blood to the engine]] [if rationdescrip !== 'None'; align center] [[feed rations to the engine]] [if specimens > 0; align center] [[feed specimens to the engine]] [continue; align center] [[abandon the vehicle]]

relationwalker: relationwalker - 2 dread: dread + 4 -- You need to use a scalpel, forceps, and all the strength in your arms. But eventually you wrench free the bulk of the parasite, like a clinging tangle of hair. Fuel and lubricant spatters your coat, and some thin watery fluid that leaks from the organism itself. You throw it onto the ice, where it freezes against the ground and moves no further. The engine will not start. It sputters and then dies entirely. Your vehicle is useless. [if walker === 'A'] When the saltwalker finds out what you've done, he sighs heavily. "You did your best. It was bound to happen, I suppose." But surely he blames you, in part. [if walker === 'T'] When the saltwalker finds out what you've done, she growls low in her throat. "Can't blame you, can I? Who's to say what that thing would have done if we'd left it in." But surely she does blame you, at least in part. [continue] {embed passage: 'on foot'}

dread: dread + 11 crew: crew - 1 oracle: 'X' rations: rations + 50 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 49): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 50 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" murderer: true cannibal: true -- You drag the corpse into a tent. This will take time. You strip the oracle to the waist first. Their skin is wax-pale and taut over bone. With your anatomical skill, you dissect them. Crack the ribcage, carve out organ and muscle. There is enough meat here to sustain you for a long time. That is all that matters. It is the work of several hours. Hard, grotesque work. You try not to look at the piteous flensed wreck that is left, afterwards. This is an inhuman thing to do. You want to live, so badly.

dread: dread + 6 crew: crew - 1 oracle: 'X' murderer: true -- You wander south in a daze, too agitated to make much progress. A sense of guilt comes and goes and refuses to land fully on you, like a cautious fly. It is a deeper betrayal. You were raised to think of yourself as one member of a precious living body: everyone you met, everyone you worked with, exactly as vital as you. Obligation to others knit you into the fabric of community; but by holding yourself apart, you hardly have a thread to bind you to Hearth or Firmament, besides the tatters of your own ambition. You have chewed away everything good that was in yourself, and you feel none of it now. You know that... [align center] [[...you'll make it back alive]] [[...you'll die alone out here]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- It is slow. Slow, and inevitable. Your abdomen is suffused with constant gnawing pain. Your gums are sore. Each day you are weaker. Your body has no fuel to heat itself. It combusts your own cells, withering you to a husk. Your vision feels blotted and burned. Eventually you are able to walk only a few miles a day. Then comes a point when you cannot put your pack on. Your hands are skeletally thin, the skin bruise-colored and slack over bone. It is the cold, eventually, [[that takes you->default death text]].

[if lateral < 100 && lateral > 75] {embed passage: 'glacier pass 1'} [if lateral > 174 && lateral < 200] {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2'} [if lateral > 99 && lateral < 175] The mountains here are too steep; the ice sheet that lies to the north is hemmed in by them. You might be able to find a way up, if there is a gap in the range. You decide to stay in the foothills, travelling... [if lateral > 99 && lateral < 175; align center] [[west]] [[east]] [if lateral > 199] {embed passage: 'lesseast'} [if lateral < 76] {embed passage: 'lesswest'}

day: day + 1 mi: mi + (lateral - 99) lateral: 99 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'glacier pass 1'}

day: day + 1 mi: mi + (175 - lateral) lateral: 175 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2'}

usedparanoia: true -- [if relationwalker < 24 && walker === 'A'] The walker is planning something. He seems wary, like he's hiding some secret. Maybe the harsh conditions are getting to him. Maybe he's grown tired of having you around. Saltwalkers are practical people, by brutal necessity. [if relationwalker < 24 && walker === 'T'] The walker seems like she's planning something. Maybe the harsh conditions are getting to her. Maybe she's grown tired of having you around. Saltwalkers are practical people, by brutal necessity. [if relationoracle < 25 && oracle !== 'X'] You can't know what the oracle is thinking. Maybe their mind is diseased; maybe the harsh conditions are getting to them. They might have some unknown motive. [continue] You should remain on guard. [if relationwalker < 24 && walker !== 'X' && relationoracle < 24 && oracle !== 'X'] If it's true, you'll have to deal with your colleagues somehow. [else] If it's true, you'll have to deal with your colleague somehow. [align center] [[disregard the idea]] [[remain wary]]

dread: dread - 2 -- You're being unreasonable. And it chills you, now, to realize how strongly paranoia had gripped you. If you are vigilant, maybe you'll be able to stop this from happening again. You can trust your [if crew === 2; append] companion. [else; append] companions. [continue; append] You have to. The rest of humanity is hundreds of miles away. There is nobody else to rely on. [if checkpoint > 0] {embed passage: 'redirects'} [if checkpoint < 1] Your concentration is shaken, but you [[sleep a little easier.->mist day]]

dread: dread + 2 -- If there is a plot against you, you'll be prepared. You can kill if necessary, can't you? You might have to. [[Better to be ready.->murder setup]]

north: 1000 lateral: 175 mi: north + lateral config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" returning: true -- You force yourself to think rationally. The return journey should be shorter. You will be able to rely, in large part, on the route you took to get here. Some of the wrack is known to you already. [if dread < 18 && crew === 3] Despite the horrors you have seen, you and your companions are fit to take on the journey again. You [else] It remains to be seen whether fear and misery will be your downfall. You are badly shaken. You have the recurring thought that something is wrong with your mind. [if crew === 3 && dread > 17; append] Your companions behave in erratic ways—or is that just your own paranoia? Nevertheless, you [if crew < 3; append] And the loss of one of your colleagues is a crushing blow. Nevertheless, you [continue; append] are familiar with the wrack, its ecology and hazards. Maybe fortune will be on your side. [if crew === 3 && rations < 90] Your rations are running low. But if you make haste, and stretch them out, they should last until you reach Hearth again. [continue] You've spent more than enough time at the objective. The best thing you can do now is [[head back, as fast as you can.->mountain pass return]]

A group of people, five of them, carrying heavy packs. Their clothing and equipment are varied, and much of it looks to have been repaired several times. The whole band has a raggedly utilitarian look. They stride over the wrack as though born to it. Your saltwalker yips in excitement, unties the sledge harness and drops her pack, and runs off into their midst. "Friends, friends!" They see her, in her half-helm, and surround her: shaking her hand, slapping her on the back. [if relationwalker > 23] She turns to you. "These are my kinsmen. Citizens of no city. I walk with them. Give me some time; I have to discuss..." {embed passage: 'some time'} [else] She turns back to you, tilts her head. "These are my kinsmen. Citizens of no city. I walk with them, and them alone. And now [[you're going to give us->robbery]] what little you have left."

day: day + 5 mi: 10 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.right: "Rations: Sufficient" -- The saltwalker and her pack of comrades keep you fed, as they promised. They lead you unerringly southwest using paths you wouldn't have thought of. This is their territory. You relax, a little, now that you're in such capable hands. Once you are [[within sight of Hearth->generic return to Hearth text]], the saltwalker taps you on the shoulder. "I'm leaving. Out into the wilds. You're close enough, {address}; you can make your own way back now. I'm a creature of the salt wrack, not of the cities. It's been an honor to travel with you. I don't imagine I'll see you again, but I'll keep this all in mind."

For perhaps half an hour, she converses with the scavengers in a dialect you've never heard before, so thick with slang and unfamiliar words that you cannot parse it. [unless oracle === 'X'; append] You and the oracle sit together, watching from a distance. [continue; append] Eventually she returns to you. "We've done each other a good turn. My friends and I will take you back to Hearth. [if rations > 7; append] You'll share your food with us, and us with you, so much as you need it. And leave any extra with us. [if rations < 8; append] We'll keep you fed. [continue; append] And [[you'll be back safe]] to your city." She leans in conspiratorially. "If I didn't trust you as I do..." She mimes cutting a throat, and grins. "It's not a soft life, out here on the wrack. We chose it. Our needs come first. But I'm glad to say I don't have to rob you, or do you in."

walker: 'X' rations (!halfrations): 20 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- The saltwalker smiles. "Nothing to do with you, {address}. Simple misfortune. For you, that is. Good fortune for us." [if !halfrations] The scavengers take many of your rations. They leave you with what should be enough to get back to Hearth alive, as long as you are careful. There is no question of disobeying them. They have long knives. [if halfrations] The scavengers take medical supplies, a tent, one of the lamps. But they let you keep the small amount of rations that remain. The walker glances at you with pity, and what seems like scorn as well. There is no question of disobeying them. They have long knives. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle stands beside you, watching; their expression is inscrutable. You wonder whether they even care. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle stays close to your side. You can tell that they're tense, keeping a wary eye on the scavengers. [continue] And you are left to [[find your own way back]].

A dark upwelling of mountains, plumed with ice-fog, stretches across the northern horizon. You will reach them within a day or two. [if journalnav] The oracle's journal instructs you to take the easternmost pass through the mountains; there is another closer to Hearth, they write, but it is more treacherous. [align center] [[keep heading north]] [[head northeast, looking for an easier passage]]

mi: mi + 70 north: north + 70 day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: 'dead reckoning'} [continue] {embed passage: 'first glacier sorting'}

mi: mi + 70 north: north + 35 lateral: lateral + 35 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'flying animal daytext'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: 'dead reckoning'} [continue] {embed passage: 'first glacier sorting'}

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- Impossibly, in the distance, you see figures. A blur of color. Your eyes are degraded; you are hollow, empty. Open. You keep walking to them, one foot at a time, too tired to do anything else. The saltwalkers meet you. You cannot answer their questions. They feed you, and you sleep for a long time. They bring you [[back to Hearth.->near miss return]]

day: day + 2 mi: mi + 90 north: north + 45 lateral: lateral + 45 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You travel through a terrain so bleakly bitter with salt that you don't bother running its ice through the purifier; you use as little water as possible, and keep moving. Each day feels longer than the last, stretched out with light. You have been hewing to the map, following an old and little-used trail that runs northeast between the foothills and glacial moraines. [if oracle === 'S'; append] But the oracle shares some new information. {embed passage: '2o pool request'} [else] {embed passage: 'airborne particles lead'} [continue; align center] [[keep to the planned path]]

The first things you see are diagrams, of a sort: maps of the terrain, but with inclusions that seem abstract or menacing. A tangle of lines, a flowing tower. Some are graced with a phrase or even a few sentences, in sprawling shuddery handwriting: "this speaks", "levels too high", "get closer a chasm". Numbers on the margins. Symbols you can't read: another language? The most unsettling part is the pictures. Human figures blasted by lightning or smoldering with flames; what seem to be the nerves of an eye; amorphous animals flaring and blooming—you're not quite sure what you're looking at. One page is entirely black with ink: layers and layers and layers of scribbling, warping the center with an awful weight. Then sparse, relatively ordinary notes on one of the recent days. Then a dissected figure, labeled like a textbook illustration with paragraphs of shakily rendered glyphs. Then something like a star falling to the earth.

It is a good day, by anyone's standards. But you feel a scratching in your throat, or deeper down in your chest. A migraine looms, pulses, threatens to burst upon you. It seems too trivial to complain to your colleagues about, but it worries you nevertheless. The corner of your eye itches. You rub at it. Something like black sand comes away on your fingertip. If you're still feeling ill tomorrow, you reason, [[you can tell them then.->you ouch]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew -- It's a bad night. You thrash in your sleep, sweating through your bedroll, and wake with a fever. The left side of your vision is overtaken by crawling forms that flit and jerk when you move your head. The antipyretics in your medical supply don't help much; you have a hopeless feeling of slipping from lucidity. Your chest is tight. You say something to the oracle, and realize you're not making any sense. Something hot and wet in your throat, and a visceral flood of metal-taste. Grainy black particles in your spit, fragments as sharp and brittle as glass. There's something hard in your ear, [[the rest is only half-there->you spirelung]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" journalnav: true rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew -- {embed passage: 'oracle dead summation'} The oracle mapped out a path for you to follow. They describe particular features of the land to orient you, should you stray from this route. There are two passes through the mountains, onto the vast northern glacier. They instructed you to take the further one, to the east, explaining that it is less risky. The glacier itself is described in painstaking detail, often down to the mile—despite the fact that nobody has ventured so far north. Their journal is not entirely given over to these instructions. There are side notes about dreams or premonitions that you cannot parse. There are sketches: anatomies, wrack biota, things that look like stars or solar flares. There are questions written in the margins, often incomprehensible to you. Questions that can never now be answered. The oracle's handwriting is spidery and sprawling, sometimes almost illegible. You remember the constant tremor in their hands. Oddly, you can find nothing concrete about the objective point itself. With the journal, and the saltwalker's guidance, you prepare to [[head out once more.->day 8]]

The saltwalker's departure is treated with bafflement, and some suspicion, but eventually she returns briefly to linger around Hearth. As far as you know, her life of voluntary exile continues just as she wants it. You wonder if she's still haunted by the objective, or trying to forget. You wonder just how much of an impression the expedition made on her.

You keep toiling south, as best as you can. Sometimes you are wrong. The terrain deceives you. It moves around you, or it moves you. Even the compass is unreliable; there are other fields here, invisible, fluctuating. Agitated by your presence, you think wildly.

You dream of something rising out of the ground. Out of the glacial crevasses. In the dream you are walking on the ice, the three of you—is it three? The air begins to swarm. It is the heads of people, ghost heads of the dead. They're touching you. You wake up in a hurry, struggling, soaked in sweat.

The saltwalker barks in exasperation and kicks their insensate body. "Useless!" She rounds on you. "I'll handle it. Stay here. Don't do anything stupid. Make sure they don't, either." With that, she draws her longest knife and is out through the tent flap, leaving a rustle of cold air in her wake. You kneel, hardly daring to breathe, and wait. The walker's footfalls recede. After what must be less than a minute, you hear the oracle beside you draw in a little gasp. They're awake; their gaze flits between you and the open flap. [if relationoracle >= 30; append] You reach down towards them reassuringly, and they grip your hand with terrified force. [continue] The two of you stay still in grim silence as the heat filters out of the tent. You become aware of something large moving outside, an instant before it comes [[into view.->creature of the wrack]]

The walker has questions for you, it seems. "I've been meaning to ask you why you would come all the way out here, looking for a dead city." [align center] [["For our past. We have to understand history."]] [["For our future. Maybe we can fix things."]] [["The idea wouldn't leave me alone."]]

[if walker === 'T'] She chuckles dryly. "How optimistic. I can't say I share that feeling... but best of luck to you." [if walker === 'A'] He nods slowly. "You're younger than I am. Maybe your generation is more optimistic. Well, I wish you luck." [continue] The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

The saltwalker nods. "Makes sense. You might well get what you want, if you're right about the objective. If we make it up there... I can't imagine the sort of things you'll find, but maybe you have an idea. Then we'll be part of history ourselves." The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

The saltwalker nods slowly, looking troubled. "I've seen many like you. Be sure to keep in control of yourself, as best as you can. Sometimes the wrack snares your mind." A brief smile. "But I'm sure you're smarter than most, hm?" The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

specimens: specimens + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You notice something interesting today, while passing by some boulders that jut like monoliths from the flat white desert. There are tiny mounds of sand, reminiscent of anthills, atop them, and the nearby stone is scraped away. You stop to examine the little piles, and find what look like a colony of miniature isopods living in the crumbly rock. You take a few in a vial to examine later. {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'}

dread: dread + 4 -- You think it at first a trick of the wrack's blank whiteness, an error of your vision, and blink over and over again. There's something coming up the slope, with a lurching, dragging gait. Its hood blows in the wind. It is the saltwalker. You stand still as the apparition comes near to you. All thought is stricken from your mind: no capacity to run, or speak to it. Its eyes are clouded; its face is swollen and discolored, not from decay but from the brutal charring frost. Even so, you know beyond doubt what it is. [if glacierdeath; append] There is a ragged hole in its chest, the coalsilk coat fringed into bloody tatters. You remember the fall, the icicle spike. [if pooldeath; append] Its clothing is frozen stiff. The flesh is ruptured from within, raw and red where water has expanded and burst the skin. You remember the pond you left the walker floating in. [if beastdeath; append] It is maimed, torn. Its head lolls limply as though the neck had been snapped. One arm is missing, wrenched off, and—you see as it approaches—the back of its head is cracked open like an eggshell. [continue] It stops for a moment before you, staring with sightless eyes. Then it shudders and stalks past you and and continues its pained walk, like a machine. North. [unless oracle === 'X'] You would ask the oracle what it was, but they're sobbing silently in fear. "I don't—I don't know. I don't know how. Please, let's just go..." [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else; align center] [[head south as fast as possible->snowdayharsher]]

dread: dread + 4 -- You think it at first a trick of the wrack's blank whiteness, an error of your vision, and blink over and over again. There's something coming up the slope, with a lurching, dragging gait. Its hood blows in the wind. It is a person. A person? No. It takes a moment, a long moment, and then you realize: the figure looks like you. Can it be you? The blank aimless eyes, the haggard windburned features. You do not remember yourself. It stops for a moment before you, staring at or past you without emotion. There is silence except for the empty murmuring of the wind. Then your double keeps walking, like a pained machine. North. [unless oracle === 'X'] You would ask the oracle what it was, but they've moved to stand away from you. As they look between you and the double, there is uncertainty in their face, and a wild fear. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else; align center] [[head south as fast as possible->snowdayharsher]]

The glacier piles up and juts out here in cliffs of compressed ice, shockingly blue near the bottom. It is rough footing for the vehicle. In one cliff face you see something like a large figure entombed in the ancient ice. It looks like a statue, maybe, but it's little more than a dim shape. You continue up the blocky tumble of glacier. [align center] [[north->glacier track north]] [if lateral < 130; align center] [[northeast->glacier track northeast]] [if lateral > 185; align center] [[northwest->glacier track northwest]]

A mist hovers over the ice, shrouds the sun in steady unchanging grey. The land looks flat in such diffuse light. You see the bright fabric of a tent, slumped under snow. And a body—two—lying nearby, similarly half-buried, in thermal clothing. [align center] [[investigate it]] [[don't bother with it]]

dread: dread + 2 mi: mi + 11 north: north + 11 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rations: rations - crew -- There were two travellers here. The snow has hardened into a crust over their bodies. As far as you can tell, there are no signs of a fight, or of anything else that might have killed them; it is as if they crawled out into the wrack and died, absent of purpose. Perhaps you were hoping that any of their supplies might be useful to you, but it seems disrespectful to rob the dead, now that you're looking at their frozen faces. How long ago did this happen? Out here, bodies can linger strangely above ground for years, preserved by salt and subfreezing temperatures. You're glad to [[leave the place behind.->day 6]]

mi: mi + 32 north: north + 32 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rations: rations - crew -- It is better, perhaps, to leave the dead to their icy graves. Out here, bodies can linger strangely above ground for years, preserved by salt and subfreezing temperatures. Nothing can be gained from prying around the corpses of strangers, save for a moment of macabre contemplation. And before long, you're far away, glad to [[leave the place behind.->day 6]]

mi: mi + 67 north: north + 67 day: day + 1 rations: rations - 3 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- With each passing day the strangeness recedes and you notice, more and more, the wrack's austere beauty, its complete sovereign self. [if north > 90] {embed passage: 'some preglacier day text'} [else] {embed passage: 'aero wreck'} [continue] {embed passage: 'bad air'}

mi: mi + 24 north: north + 24 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'snowday'} {embed passage: 'water'} [if day < 12] You're making good progress so far—at least, [[you hope so.->day 10]] [else] You're behind the planned timeline. [[You'll need to try to catch up.->day 10]]

The mapped path takes you around the shoreline of a vast frozen lake, more like an inland sea. It would be quicker to simply cross over the ice; the vehicle's clawed feet won't slip. But you're not sure whether it's thick enough. You might be in danger of falling through. [align center] [[cross the lake]] [[take the longer route around]]

mi: mi + 80 north: north + 80 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rations: rations - crew dread: dread + 1 usedfirstdream: true rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew -- You track a straight line north across the glassy white lake. The ice never fails. It must be a meter thick, at least; it doesn't crack once under the vehicle's weight. Perhaps the lake enters your thoughts that night, because you dream for the first time in the wrack. A dream about the ocean. It rises around you, deep and hostile and wonderful. Though you have never felt the motion of waves, you know it now as you are caught in a swell of water, buoyed, churned down and sunken. Are you there at all? There seems to be nothing but empty dark brine, mountaining over itself as though it were all the planet contained. A sphere of depth, crested with sky. The surface is far above you, awash with foreboding light. A pressure at your chest. Something below you. It fragments and you [[wake.->spire forest day]]

rations (!halfrations): rations - 10 rations (halfrations): rations - 4 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" onfoot: true dread: dread + 4 walker: 'X' crew: crew - 1 -- In the night, you wake up to brightness and a loud sound. When you scramble out of the tent, you see the walker sitting in the vehicle, the engine running, the headlights on. You can't understand, for a long moment. He calls down to you over the sound of the engine. "I am sorry to do this to you. I truly am. But you're already gone—you'll never make it back, and I can't help you. I can't." And your vehicle crunches away over the snow, disappearing into bands of shadow. The freezing air tears at your lungs. You're shaking. [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle stands watching, shivering, without their thermal coat. They look stunned, beyond hope. The two of you make eye contact, and for a moment you wonder if you should run after the saltwalker. [else; append] For a moment you wonder if you should run after the saltwalker. [continue; append] But it's already over. All you can do is return to the tent and go back to sleep. As you sink into exhaustion it begins to feel like a bad dream. You wake, and you [[remember]], and bleak terror hits you.

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations (!usedvehiclethought): rations - 6 mi (!usedvehiclethought): mi + 56 north (!usedvehiclethought): north + 56 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if !badair] You're all still tired, and your pace is a bit slower today. But at least you're not making the journey on foot. [if !usedvehiclethought] You grow to treat [[the vehicle]] like an animal. You are all fond of it. It carries you, it shelters you—somewhat. [continue] The cold makes your body tense, stiffening and curling inwards to protect its heat. Your muscles become sore after a long day spent sitting in the vehicle. Your clothing, woven from coalsilk fibers, is warm and light, but it traps your sweat and clings to your skin. Sometimes it feels like everything you touch is polymer, glossy and smothering. [if oracle === 'V'] Later, as you're heating up dinner, the oracle approaches you. "I suppose I should introduce myself better. I'm sorry, it's been a while since I was last out in the field—" they gesture to the stark surroundings— "and even if the saltwalker won't stand for us sharing our names, it's an honor to meet and work with you. I used to be an interpreter myself, and I've been missing the work terribly. I had always hoped for something like this." You wind up talking for a little while about the biology of the wrack. It's good to know that your colleague thinks about things the way you do: methodically, scientifically. [continue] [unless usedbackstory] For some reason, you've been thinking about your past. The stark change of scenery from Hearth reminds you of when you left [[Firmament->backstory thinking 2]], years ago. [else] Despite the harsh conditions, you are [[glad to be here->day 5]], grateful for the brilliant blue sky and your own sense of purpose.

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- [if north > 350 && north < 450] {embed passage: 'big lake'} [else] {embed passage: 'motile terrain'}

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- [if north > 350 && north < 450] {embed passage: 'big lake'} [else] You come across what you first think is a mirage. But no: it's a [[pond->the beach that kills old men]].

knives: true walker: 'X' crew: crew - 1 dread: dread + 6 walkertent: false oracletent: false -- There is no body left, only a wide ribbon of blood on the snow. It trails off into the distance, rusty orange at its edges. Too much to have survived losing. Two of her knives lie scattered on the ice, frozen against the ground by the bloodstain. You wrench them free and take them. They may be useful to you later on. "What is the saltwalker mourning rite?" the oracle asks softly. "I don't know it. We don't know how to honor her." They are quiet for a long moment. "How are we to find our way back now?" [align center] [["You have to know how. You're our way out."]] [["I have the maps, and the instruments. We know enough."]]

The machine's top speed seems to be decreasing. You can't push it as hard. And, more importantly, the parasite is draining far more fuel than your expedition accounted for. Sooner or later, you'll run out.

dread: dread + 3 bloodcar: true -- [unless oracle === 'X'] Your oracle makes a shallow cut on their forearm and lets blood trickle over the lattice of pipes and pistons. [if oracle === 'X'] You make a shallow cut on your forearm and let blood trickle over the lattice of pipes and pistons. [continue; append] The parasite soaks it up—does it expand before your eyes? And your engine judders back to life. With the vehicle functional again, one of your problems is solved for the moment. But how long do you have before it needs more blood? Can this possibly be a good idea? {embed passage: 'redirects'}

rationcar: true rations: rations - 3 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You hesitantly sprinkle some powdered grain over the engine and its new occupant. To your surprise, the parasite curls to engulf the food. You add more, until you've gone through a day's supply. And the engine starts again. You don't have enough rations to keep feeding it like this. But you also don't have enough rations to make the long trek back on foot. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

specimencar: true specimens: specimens - 1 dread: dread + 2 -- You select one of the organisms you've collected, empty out the preservative fluid and toss part of your scientific labor into the guts of the machine. The parasite engulfs it slowly in a web of strands. And the engine starts again. It's distressing to see your work eaten. But it would be worse to not make it back to Hearth.

{embed passage: 'on foot'}

checkpoint: 3 -- [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'bliz'}

dread: dread + 4 day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 18 north: north - 18 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- The vehicle pitches forward sharply. You gasp, and icy air rushes into your throat and makes you cough. You're not falling; that's a relief. But you're not going, either. The vehicle is stuck; its front legs are trapped in a crevasse. It jostles ineffectually. Its churning limbs widen the fissure, digging it further in. You power it off and climb out—very carefully—to see what to do about this. You can't get the vehicle out. Not today. [if crew === 3; append] The three of you [if crew === 2 && walker === 'X'; append] You and the oracle [if crew === 2 && oracle === 'X'; append] You and the walker [if crew === 1; append] You [continue; append] spend a frustrating couple of hours digging, but the blizzard fills in your efforts and confounds you. You make camp nearby, and spend the night convinced that you're about to tumble into a crevasse if you so much as roll over. [if walkertent || oracletent; append] Sharing the tent doesn't help. In the morning you return to your labor. [unless oracle === 'X'; append] The oracle figures out the best digging strategy, and by [else; append] By [continue; append] making a sort of slope under the vehicle's claws, you manage to free it. The interior is packed full of snow, of course, and [[the day is spent->avalanche area]] once again. This was a costly mistake.

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You make camp. You'll have to wait and rest for a day or two; that's not so terrible. [if walker !== 'X' && oracle !== 'X' && relationwalker < 22 && relationoracle < 22] {embed passage: 'interrupt convo'} [else] {embed passage: 'bliz insert'}

mi: mi - 2 lateral: lateral + 2 rations: rations - 10 -- You cannot be sure that you're making any progress. The glacier's fluid bulk is treacherous. Sometimes it gives beneath your foot, and you jolt in terror. But the slow dragging work of walking makes you too exhausted to be wary. [if walker === 'A'] You hear the walker shout, amid the cracking of ice. You turn to look, and he's gone; the contents of his sledge clatter against ice. Where? A crevasse splits the glacier, nearly invisible until you are on top of it. You kneel down to look into it. There is no sign of him, or of the sledge: both swallowed in entirety by the dark gulf. A torrent of snow eddies down into the still air, trickles past the sheer ice, settles somewhere very far below. You remain there for several minutes, unsure what to do. And then, numbed by impossibility, [[you keep walking->walker dead]]. [if walker === 'T'] You hear the walker shout, amid the cracking of ice. You turn to look, and she's gone; the contents of her sledge clatter against ice. Where? A crevasse splits the glacier, nearly invisible until you are on top of it. You kneel down to look into it. There is no sign of her, or of the sledge: both swallowed in entirety by the dark gulf. A torrent of snow eddies down into the still air, trickles past the sheer ice, settles somewhere very far below. You remain there for several minutes, unsure what to do. And then, numbed by impossibility, [[you keep walking->walker dead]]. [if walker !== 'X' && oracle !== 'X'; append] The oracle stays so close that you fear your sledges will get entangled. But you're also afraid that, if they stray beyond sight for a moment, you will lose them. [if walker === 'X'] You focus on moving forward through the snow, squinting against the gale, keeping it out of your eyes and face. You don't see the crevasse below you until it is [[too late->slip]].

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" checkpoint: 8 -- Another impossible cold settles over the wrack. The air is absolutely still. There is no wind, just a frigid mass of atmosphere like something out of the deep sky. [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'cs embed'}

There is a question you've been wanting to ask them. Maybe a few questions, actually. [if oracle === 'V'; align center] [["Why are you no longer an interpreter?"]] [if oracle === 'S' && !usedart; align center] [["Which city did you come from?"]] [if oracle === 'V' && !usedwick; align center] [["Are you from Firmament too?"]] [if oracle === 'S' && !usedoccipit; align center] [[just let them talk->oracle 2story]] [continue; align center] [[ask them about the other oracle, back in Hearth]]

dread: dread - 2 -- Although the wind howls, the snow mutes sound. It's quiet in your tent, and warm. {embed passage: 'trinket'}

usedart (oracle === 'S'): true usedwick (oracle === 'V'): true -- [if oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'vi wick convo'} [if oracle === 'S'] Your colleague is still somewhat of a mystery. It might help if you could get to know them better. [if oracle === 'S'; align center] [["Which city did you come from?"]] [[just let them talk->oracle 2story]]

usedhistoryques (walker === 'T'): true usedfirmamentconvo (walker === 'A'): true -- [if walker === 'A'] {embed passage: 'saltwalker a conversation'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: 'walker history q'}

dread: dread - 3 -- The wailing voice of the wind rattles your tent, but as long as you stay dressed in some of your thermal layers, the outside conditions can't disturb you. You spend a long time sleeping, curled close to the warmth of your [[chemical lamp]]. The cold snap abates the next [[morning->day 8]].

There's not much observation you can safely do while the temperatures are so hazardous. You don't dare venture far from camp. But the wind is high; it might be a good time to take a sample of [[airborne particulates->particulate matter 1]].

This far north, at this time in the summer, evenings spill their light later and later. The setting sun is huge and molten, mild enough that you can look directly into it. It washes the endless snow in pale gold, pink, and intense blue. The whole landscape overcomes you—its sublime awful beauty. [if crew < 3] And it is beautiful, like nothing else, even though you have seen firsthand its killing power. [else] And it is beautiful, like nothing else. [continue; append] The wrack strips you down to your core, like a bared nerve, and makes you full of its emptiness. This sunset, this flood of color, feels miraculous.

[if dread < 16 && crew === 3] You're all doing as well as you can be, considering the circumstances. The salt wrack has a reputation for driving wanderers into despair and frantic terror, but morale is high. [if dread < 23 && crew === 2] The two of you are doing as well as you can, considering the circumstances. The salt wrack has a reputation for driving wanderers into despair and frantic terror, but you're staying levelheaded, despite the loss of one of your colleagues. [if dread < 30 && crew === 1] You're doing as well as you can be, considering the circumstances. Your missing companions are a deep weight on your mind, but you press on, thinking of the importance of your mission. [if dread > 15 && crew === 3] Sometimes you have strange urges. Thoughts that itch at you. Thoughts that don't make any sense. You understand things that you haven't learned, an innate comprehension of saltborne biology. [if dread > 22 && crew === 2] Sometimes you have strange urges. Thoughts that itch at you. Thoughts that don't make any sense. You understand things that you haven't learned, an innate comprehension of saltborne biology. The loss of one of your colleagues is a heavy weight on your mind. You keep thinking, over and over, of how it happened. Of how it's your fault. [if dread > 29 && crew === 1] Sometimes you have strange urges. Thoughts that itch at you. Thoughts that don't make any sense. Your missing companions are a deep weight on your mind. Your fault. All your fault. [if dread > 25 && crew > 1] {embed passage: 'mp embed'}

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 12 north: north - 12 mi (!onfoot): mi - 78 north (!onfoot): north - 78 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 9 -- A silken swath of ice-crystal cloud stretches over the sky; the midday sun, shrouded behind it, spills iridescence. Oilslick colors unnameable in pallid brilliance. It looks sickly; it looks stunning; it hurts your eyes, but you keep watching. [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'im embed'}

It has been two months since you left Hearth, in the summer's comparative mildness. The days are still long, but autumn is already approaching. You don't have much longer. No human can survive the winter wrack.

mi: mi + 81 lateral: lateral - 40 north: north + 41 mi (!onfoot): mi + 100 lateral (!onfoot): lateral - 50 north (!onfoot): north + 50 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 9 -- Something is agitated today. The air, the deep ground. The terrain blurs around you, sick and indistinct despite the brilliant cold sun. [unless onfoot] You squint at the instruments on the dashboard. That can't possibly be correct. You were heading southeast a moment ago. You're angled northwest, and the mileage... [if onfoot] You stop to take a reading with your instruments. That can't possibly be correct. You were heading southeast a moment ago. You're angled northwest, and the mileage... [continue] A deep sense of foreboding hangs over you. You can't trust your own body; it might shift next, your cells rearranging into what the wrack demands of them. [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'im embed'}

[if halfrations || starving || dread > 30 || rationdescrip === 'None'] You are not so far from Hearth after all. Maybe your charts were wrong. It is such a relief that you nearly cry. [[You will survive.->near miss return]] [else] {embed passage: 'hsemb'}

"Yes." They do not speak this out loud. You feel it, as a flutter of images and sense-motions. "If you're becoming more like an oracle now... I told you at the objective. It has speech, it's alive—thinking. It goes into us. But I don't know why this is happening only now." Ever since the vanishing point, you've been having premonitions. But here, something different is happening, as though a channel were opened up. It seems natural, easy, almost perfect. Two people in an impossible biosphere, speaking. Maybe it's knitting you together, making you part of a whole. Maybe the oracle's delirium is getting to you. You tentatively feel for the flurry of their thoughts. The more you reach out, the better you can understand. You let instinct take over; now their directions are given to you in dreamlike fragments of imagery, rather than spoken words. You respond and inquire when you need to. At this point, the oracle is silent; if not for the trickle of thought, you would think them nearly lifeless. They are slack in your arms, breathing shallowly. You feel them longing to rest, like sinking into deep dark water. You, too, are tired. Your companion's body is a different weight from the pack and the sledge. The land around you is like a crater, a clearing fringed by ferny vegetation—or sessile animals?—the color of ash. You lay the oracle down, recline by their side, and [[sleep->anternap]] without intending to.

They're silent for a moment. Their eyelids flutter. "Maybe." You feel something occur to them, a better understanding of your point. "No. Not here. The objective. If you're becoming more like an oracle now... I told you it has speech, it's alive—thinking. It goes into us." Ever since the vanishing point, you've been having premonitions. But here, something different is happening, as though a channel were opened up. It seems natural, easy, almost perfect. Two people in an impossible biosphere, speaking. Maybe it's knitting you together, making you part of a whole. Maybe the oracle's delirium is getting to you. You tentatively feel for the flurry of their thoughts. The more you reach out, the better you can understand. You let instinct take over; now their directions are given to you in dreamlike fragments of imagery, rather than spoken words. You respond and inquire when you need to. At this point, the oracle is silent; if not for the trickle of thought, you would think them nearly lifeless. They are slack in your arms, breathing shallowly. You feel them longing to rest, like sinking into deep dark water. You, too, are tired. Your companion's body is a different weight from the pack and the sledge. The land around you is like a crater, a clearing fringed by ferny vegetation—or sessile animals?—the color of ash. You lay the oracle down, recline by their side, and [[sleep->anternap]] without intending to.

The oracle readjusts to life with their typical amicable apathy. They've achieved some small level of fame from the expedition; a while later, you find out that they've gone back into creating avant-garde art, which critics deem disturbing and compelling in equal measure. They leave Hearth, eventually, for their home city of Rye.

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" mi: 9 north: 9 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- The wrack thins to a single ashy layer of mineral-filled ice. And, beyond it, a low familiar skyline. The city-state of Hearth. [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: '2s good leaving'} [else] Like a dream. For one unaccountable instant, you are terrified. [align center] [[return to the city->generic return to Hearth text]]

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 13 north: north - 13 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- It is not snow that you walk through today, but drifts of salt. A low-lying valley has collected mineral runoff. Earth-stained crystals crack under your boots. [if day > 54] {embed passage: 'day long'} [continue] [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] {embed passage: 'abandoned chemical manufactory'}

mi: mi - 65 north: north - 45 lateral: lateral - 20 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You follow the road to its end, and then chart a course southwest. The land does look different somehow. Altered. You sketch the differences lightly over your map. Any data you can gather might be helpful. You sleep lightly that night; at one point you wake, thinking that you felt [[the glacier->glacier crunchin daytext]] move beneath you.

mi: mi - 57 north: north - 57 rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You follow the track of your former route. It looks nearly the same as the surrounding land, but [unless walker === 'X'; append] the saltwalker [else; append] the oracle [continue; append] insists you are on the right path. You come to an area near a high slope, and see something unexpected: a rockfall has taken place sometime in the past week or so. The mountainside is raw with exposed stone and scraped-away ice. Only a thin coating of fresh snow lies over it, like gauze on an avulsion. If you [[pry up a chunk of rock]], there might be something to see underneath. Or you could just focus on [[getting clear of this mess]].

day: day + 1 rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 40 north: north - 40 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'morale check return'} The glacier seems more active now. It crashes and booms almost constantly; scarcely a few minutes pass without some distant roar as the ice roils. You cannot help but wonder, paranoid, if this has anything to do with the objective, with your trespass into the tomblike facility. Its biota is awakened, scuttering and oozing to the surface. Delicate longlegged arthropods cluster on the sides of the vehicle. [align center] [[take a sample to study]] [[keep moving; no time to spare]]

mi: mi - 25 north: north - 25 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Travelling is easier now, with all the experience you've gained so far. You try not to get distracted, or unnerved by how far away you are from the rest of humanity. All you have to do is [[make it->mist day]] to Hearth again.

specimens: specimens + 1 rations: rations - crew -- You capture one of the insects, and drill down into the glacier for a sample while you're at it. The ice itself is hollowed almost into foam, and transparent tentacled forms pulse within it, in the light of your microscope. Hydras, polyps, a profusion of tiny invisible life. Maybe the long summer sun causes them to grow, at this time of the year. You can't be sure. [if oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: '2o reaction to specimen'} [else] It's tempting, even now, to prioritize your studies. But you have to [[make it->mist day]] back to Hearth.

Did you ever have companions? Were you ever anywhere else? No. This absolute emptiness is the whole of your life, and everything that seems to have come before is only a fading dream. You move in thrall to the salt wrack, to its annihilating entropy.

mi: mi + 80 north: north + 50 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew dread: dread + 1 usedfirstdream: true -- Rather than entrusting the vehicle to summer ice, you trace around the edges of the lake. You cover a lot of ground, but much of it is doubling back in a wide arc. Perhaps the lake enters your thoughts that night, because you dream for the first time in the wrack. A dream about the ocean. It rises around you, deep and hostile and wonderful. Though you have never felt the motion of waves, you know it now as you are caught in a swell of water, buoyed, churned down and sunken. Are you there at all? There seems to be nothing but empty dark brine, mountaining over itself as though it were all the planet contained. A sphere of depth, crested with sky. The surface is far above you, awash with foreboding light. A pressure at your chest. Something below you. It fragments and you [[wake.->spire forest day]]

There is an abundance of nematodes in the ice, when you sample it. Contrary to what you might expect, the scant biodiversity of the wrack is only increasing as you travel north. Why, though? You can't imagine how any living thing is getting sufficient nutrients. Chemosynthesis, maybe. [if dread > 8 && oracle !== 'X' && walker !== 'X'] That night, you make contact with [[something else entirely.->beast 2]] [else] That night, [[a strangely familiar dream->observational society dream]] finds you.

dread: dread + 3 -- {embed passage: 'journal'} Those illustrations make their way into your dreams. [if walker === 'X'] There is nothing, and nobody, to shelter you now. You are [[all alone]]. [else] {embed passage: 'redirects'}

[if oracle === 'S' && relationoracle > 25] Your oracle isn't concerned about the shortage of food. They explain why: "We can [[forage what we need from the wrack itself->no ration good ending 2o]]. I've figured out how." [if oracle === 'V' && relationoracle > 25] You've been travelling slowly. Maybe that's why [[something else->creature attack 3]] has caught your trail. [if oracle === 'S' && relationoracle < 26] In the morning, you have a [[problem->2oabandonment]]. Your oracle is no longer there. [if oracle === 'V' && relationoracle < 26] The oracle has been even more quiet and reclusive than usual. [[In the morning they're gone.]]

specimens: specimens + 1 -- You need forceps; there are none in the medical supply, and you panic for a moment before remembering your dissection kit. When you begin probing the wound, the oracle jolts under your hands. Their eyes widen in disoriented pain. It's one of the wrack beast's teeth, or a fragment of it, slick with blood. You grasp it, and the forceps slip away again and again, widening the wound. Your colleague cries out and thrashes. For a moment you panic, trying to hold them still, and then they give an awful gasp and go limp as you manage to tear the fragment free. It comes out with a ripping feeling. You see a network of lacy white roots on the end of the tooth, slick with blood. This isn't the way to clean punctures, but you don't have saline solution. You have alcohol wipes and water that you can hope is sterile. You irrigate the wound as best you can, suture the ribboned flesh, and bandage it. The oracle does not wake up. You watch them. Eventually, without noticing, you [[fall asleep]].

[if oracle !== 'X' && walker === 'X'] The oracle is exhausted and often uncooperative. They cast cold glances at you, and otherwise barely acknowledge your presence. [if walker !== 'X'] The saltwalker is hostile, almost mutinous. [continue] This might be your chance. You also might be making a terrible mistake. [if oracle !== 'X' && walker === 'X'; align center] [[plot to kill the oracle]] [if walker !== 'X'; align center] [[plot to kill the saltwalker]] [continue; align center] [[disregard the idea]]

[if oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'murder 1o'} [if oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: 'murder 2o'}

You resolve to do it with your scalpels. You wait several hours into the night, then steal out into the dark. No lamp. No coat. The freezing air grips you and sinks through you. You unzip the saltwalker's tent flap, shuddering, your fingers already stiff with cold. [if walker === 'A'] {embed passage: 'kill the saltwalker'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: '2walker murder attempt'}

mi: mi + 12 north: north + 12 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You make fine progress for the rest of the day, and sleep [[untroubled->easy day]] by dreams. Setting up camp is a little more arduous without a source of fresh water on hand, but you're used to using the purifier by now.

relationwalker: relationwalker - 3 -- [if walker === 'A'] He scoffs. "You want to get to know me? What for? We're colleagues, in case you've forgotten. Not friends." [if walker === 'T' && oracle !== 'X'] She snorts. "So you want to talk. What's there to say? My job is to get you there and back. Go bother the oracle, if you must. Not me." [if walker === 'T' && oracle === 'X'] She snorts. "So you want to talk. What's there to say? My job is to get you there and back." [continue] Your saltwalker has it out for you. Who could be so hostile without completely despising you? It's a warning: there could be something much worse in store ahead. [align center] [[indulge in paranoia]]

The day is dry, and a strong wind sweeps over the wrack plain, blowing saline dust into your face. Now might be a good time to [[collect some airborne particles->particulate matter 2]], in case you want to study them under the microscope.

An abandoned chemical manufactory is marked on your map, ahead. It could be a good place to spend a night, free of the dangers of the wrack. Then again, seeking the structure could slow you down—and it might contain hazards of its own. [align center] [[head for the building tonight]] [[stay out in the open]]

day: day + 1 dread: dread + 2 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (halfrations): rations + crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- There is a smell in here, mineral and oily. The cold filters in through the building's shattered ribs. But there is no wind. You set up camp easily, framed by a feeling of relative peace. You wake some time before sunrise, as snow drifts in and brushes against your tent. And all of a sudden you remember the abandoned facility far in the north. The origin point. You do not sleep again that night, and in the morning you are glad to leave the place to its silent desolation. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else; align center] [[it can't be far, now->lilsort]]

dread: dread + 1 -- You keep heading south, and make camp in the most sheltered place you can find. It's been so long since you saw any evidence of humanity. But surely you're not so far from Hearth now. You'll return to the city, and then you won't have to think of clinging to ruins for comfort. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else; align center] [[keep telling yourself that->lilsort]]

The nature of the wrack and the origin point, in combination, feels like a revelation that you can't quite grasp. You've been thinking about it obsessively. You need to compile your ideas somehow. [if crew > 1; align center] [[deliver a lecture]] [if crew === 1; align center] [[write down your thoughts as a treatise]]

dread: dread - 2 -- {embed passage: 'the life of the wrack'} You do feel more settled afterwards. If some sense, any pattern, can be made out of what you've witnessed, [[your world seems a little more stable.->shortcut return day]]. It would help if you had anyone to talk to, out here.

dread: dread - 2 relationoracle: relationoracle + 2 relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 -- It is more of an excited ramble; you would be embarrassed to talk like this in front of the Observational Society, but it helps you understand what you've been thinking this whole time. {embed passage: 'the life of the wrack'} [if oracle === 'V' && relationoracle > 20] The oracle rivals your own intensity as they question you, drawing attention to profound conclusions of their own. [if oracle === 'S' && relationoracle > 20] The oracle asks you a few questions that you find unexpectedly profound. They clearly observe far more than they tend to tell anyone. [if walker !== 'X' && relationwalker > 20] To your surprise, the saltwalker has a few insights to offer that you hadn't considered at all. [continue] You do feel more settled afterwards. If some sense, any pattern, can be made out of what you've witnessed, [[your world seems a little more stable.->shortcut return day]]

relationoracle: relationoracle - 1 -- Their eyes widen. "It's only in my experience, I mean that—Hearth is larger, but it's colder, if that makes any sense. Less kind... well, no, I suppose you're right. I don't want to stereotype. But it's more the city itself, not the individuals, really, at all; it's like the collective knows a different instruction." They twist the end of their braid between their fingertips. It's possible you made them nervous. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 dread: dread - 1 -- In Firmament, you explain, it was easier to know where you stood. Everyone was equal; everyone was approachable. Even the system of honorifics, in Hearth, feels imposed. You stand on one rung of a vast ladder, rather than side by side with the rest of humanity. "Rye is similar. The solidarity. Since it was founded along with Firmament... But I think maybe that's less present today. What you're describing sounds interesting. I'd like to see it someday." The oracle tells you about their life back in Rye: the mundane details, their crowded flat over a central square. Architecture from before the saltfall. The sights and sounds and smells of the city. You've never been there, but they have a way with words when describing scenes. You can imagine it vividly. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

{embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} Your oracle told you that this way was safe. Because of them, the walker is dead. It could have easily been you. How can you trust them now? Are they actually trying to get you killed? [align center] [["I need to rely on you. We could die here."]]

usedbackstory: true -- {embed passage: 'backstory'} And now you're [[out here.->day 3]]

usedbackstory: true -- {embed passage: 'backstory'} And now you're [[out here.->day 5]]

The oracle is companionably quiet, now that the two of you are alone together in the tent. They are younger, definitely, than you. In their late twenties at most. They attend to their long hair before bed, combing through it with their fingers. You still can't place the significance of their tattoos: abstracted maps, maybe star-charts, that cross their arms again and again with points and intersections. They are tall enough that the tent is cramped with two people in it; their knees brush up against your back during the night. There is an odd flavor to your dreams that you don't recall much of in the morning. Like you were [[seeing through a sharper lens->science day]]. Or someone else's eyes.

The oracle has a persistent cough that develops quickly over the day, until they are doubled over in their seat of the vehicle, gasping for breath. They insist that they're fine; they insist that you keep going. At the end of the day, they wince every time they cough. When you ask, they mutter that it feels like something's clawing at their lungs. The saltwalker watches them apprehensively. "I don't like that. We have antibiotics; I'll make sure they get some." [[The night passes, and you do not dream.]]

[if walker === 'T' && oracle === 'V' && onfoot] {embed passage: 'head start'} [if oracle === 'S'] In the morning, you have a [[problem->2oabandonment]]. Your oracle is no longer there. [if oracle === 'V' && walker !== 'T'] The oracle is even more quiet and reclusive than usual. [[In the morning they're gone.]]

Both of them have it out for you. Who could be so hostile without completely despising you? It's a warning: there could be something much worse in store ahead. [align center] [[indulge in paranoia]]

dread: dread + 2 relationoracle: relationoracle - 3 -- [if oracle === 'V'] They wrap their arms across their chest, staring down at the bloodstain and swaying back and forth subtly. They say nothing. [if oracle === 'S'] They look at you as though about to say something, and then let it go. There is bleak urgency in their face. Some emotion you've never quite seen before animates them. [if twotents] Each of you will have your own tent again now. Not that that's any consolation, with one of your crew brutally dead. [continue] You resolve to keep heading [[south->glacierendbit]] for the day, just in case the thing comes back for you.

"That's true." They give a long shaky sigh. "Let's keep heading [[south->glacierendbit]] for at least a few hours. It might come back for us."

Will she find food and shelter somehow in the wrack? You have to imagine so. But you have to keep going. [unless halfrations; append] You are obligated, now, [[to the city->generic return to Hearth text]] of Hearth. [else; append] The sooner you [[get to the city->near miss return]], the better.

There are skeptics. The scientific community is thrown into uproar; some claim you are peddling a false narrative. [if specimens < 4; append] All you have to prove the truth of your voyage, beside the records you kept, are a few paltry specimens. [else] But you have a number of specimens, and the records you kept. [continue; append] Eventually the tide turns in your favor, and you become a celebrity of sorts. You hear that reporters from the mercant city of Noble have found out about you, and used your story in anti-communalist propaganda. The narrative they have constructed bears almost no similarity to your life, or the expedition. But you can recognize yourself in it as in a fractured and distorted mirror. Your career, in Hearth, will be illustrious. You are hailed as a hero. You rarely sleep without terrible nightmares. The Observational Society promotes you, congratulates you, invents new honors to bestow on you. Being inside a building for too long makes you uneasy; you develop a fear of the dark. Your name is known throughout the six cities, eventually. [if crew === 3] All three of you returned safely; that, alone, is impressive. [if walker === 'A'] {embed passage: '1s return followup'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: '2s return followup'} [if oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'v return followup'} [if oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: 's return followup'} [if crew === 2] There will be questions, for as long as you live, about what happened to your colleague. You cannot give a satisfying answer. [if crew === 1] There will be questions, for as long as you live, about what happened to your colleagues. Questions that you cannot answer. [if murderer && !cannibal; append] What would the world make of you, if they knew? [if cannibal] {embed passage: 'returning as a cannibal'} [continue] You are a scientist, still and foremost, and now you have a great deal of material to analyze. Surely that's enough to keep you [[occupied->final return bit]] now.

You try to settle back into work as an interpreter. But it feels like some of your self remained out on that empty glacial land. The rhythm of your life is warped, subtly and slowly; over time it becomes apparent. Like an orbit being dragged askew by the interference of some massive gravity. Your thoughts return to the expedition. Over and over, you dream of the objective point—_the origin point. Of it metastasizing._ _Sprawling like a stain, fed by your witnessing, awakened by your trespass._ Years later, another interpreter has the idea to analyze your body's tissues. The structure of your cells. The anomalies are only mild. You will probably live the rest of your life without it affecting you. But by then, discussions of further expeditions are already under way. And, try as you might, for all your warnings and all your diligent effort, you cannot protect them. _An open mouth, a hungry and wounded space, waiting._ [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

There are trees here, stunted alien things growing from a crevice in one of the rock outcroppings. They are purple-black to catch the harsh sunlight, covered in platy frills rather than leaves or needles. The tallest barely reaches your knee. In the ice itself you find other wonders. Silicaceous networks and lattices, tubes, vase- and flower-shapes; you wonder if these are some relative of sea sponges or corals, and if so, how they could have made their way onto this land. Cnidarian clumps of tendrils, too, that hang from boulders or slabs of ice. Soft-bodied crawlers cling to these glacial reefs. [if journalnav] The oracle's notes align with the landscape. You begin to understand some of the diagrams that had remained arcane to you, until now. Their shaky sketches anticipated what you're seeing. [continue] Day by day, it seems, more living things occur where you would expect the land to be empty. It is... [align center] [[wondrous]] [[disturbing]]

dread: dread - 2 -- These twisted extremophiles are surviving in a place that humanity has foresaken. It's a hopeful vision; the saltfall was not the end of the natural world, merely a change. Life is recovering. [[Reclaiming.->late glacier generic 2]]

dread: dread + 2 -- This is not how ecosystems work; this cannot possibly be a stable place for such biodiversity to flourish. It's too far beyond the bounds of possibility, yet these twisted extremophiles are surviving in a place that humanity has foresaken. Despite all your efforts, there is some pattern here that you're not seeing. [[You need more->late glacier generic 2]] information.

specimens: specimens - 1 specimencar (specimens < 1): false dread: dread + 2 -- You select one of the organisms you've collected, empty out the preservative fluid and toss part of your scientific labor into the guts of the machine. The parasite engulfs it slowly in a web of strands. And the engine starts again. {embed passage: 'redirects'} [if specimens < 1] You're out of preserved specimens. That was the last one. When the vehicle stops running again, you'll have to abandon it. The parasite seems to have adapted to its particular diet. You have a little time left, though, in which to think about it. A few days. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

dread: dread + 3 bloodcar: true -- [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle cuts their arm and lets the blood flow onto the engine. The parasite seems bigger now, its writhing tendrils reaching eagerly for stray spatters. Your companion, meanwhile, seems anemic; they hold onto the side of the vehicle's hood for balance. {embed passage: 'redirects'} [if oracle === 'X'] As you saw the oracle do, you pull back your sleeve. The hairs on your arm prick upright in the shocking cold. You make a shallow incision in your forearm, hissing at the pain. The engine parasite sops up your blood like a nest of wet hungry hair. It's grown, undeniably, since you first discovered it. You bandage the wound. The cold has gotten into your hand, and it takes nearly half an hour before it no longer feels like your arm is frozen. The cut stings for days, though you tend it carefully. But it's better to survive scarred than never return to Hearth at all. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

[if oracle !== 'X' && relationwalker > 25 && onfoot] You ask the walker what to do. You're running out of food; your survival is being called into question. The chance that you'll make it back to Hearth seems slimmer by the day. She nods. "Trust me, {address}. I'll handle it." [else] Your survival is being called into question. The chance that you'll make it back to Hearth seems slimmer by the day. The unspoken tension is like an electrical charge. [[Something has to break.->abandonment 2w]]

fuel: fuel - 1 -- The vehicle slows to a limping halt. [if fuel > 0; append] You open a fuel canister and empty it into the tank, then toss the canister out onto the ice. Your supplies haven't run out yet, but the parasite is taking more and more fuel. Even if you're set for now, it won't last much longer. [if fuel === 0; append] You refuel it with the last canister that remains, pouring the last trickle into the tank. Now you're out of fuel. At this rate, you'll be stranded in a few days. [if fuel < 0] {embed passage: 'no fuel'} [if fuel > -1] {embed passage: 'redirects'}

rations: rations + 6 -- You are wary, but there are no ill effects from eating the translucent growths. They taste mineral, almost inorganic, and only lightly salty. They deliquesce before a few days are up, but you include them in some reheated meals before then, and manage to extend your rations a little. [if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'hypothesis failure'} [continue; align center] [[keep travelling->car check 1]]

specimens: specimens + 1 -- The translucent growths deliquesce quickly; you can see their cell structures withering under the microscope. They seem to be held up by chitin, like the cells of a fungus. They might be nutritious, but you don't dare try to eat them. [if oracle === 'S'; append] Even if your oracle had no problem with it. [continue] You hypothesize about how these organisms maintain the right balance of salt in their cells. Maybe someday useful plants could be engineered to grow in saltridden ground. [if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'hypothesis failure'} [continue; align center] [[keep travelling with your samples safely in tow->car check 1]]

dread: dread - 1 -- It's tempting to pry into every minor mystery you encounter, but giving yourself a break lets you clear your mind a little. You leave the wrack to its quiet strangenesses, and [[keep travelling.->car check 1]] [if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'hypothesis failure'}

walker: 'X' -- She guides you to within sight of the city of Hearth: it floats like smoke on the horizon, a low gray smear against the gray-white plain. Wordlessly the two of you bury your butchered cache of meat under stones. The permafrost will not cover it easily, but the wind and snow will erase it over time. This low haphazard cairn will be your oracle's grave, and the meager flesh that used to be them will go nameless, nameless and forgotten. Grief and horror twist in your throat. The saltwalker turns and heads out into the wrack, unencumbered by you or your mission or your morals. [[You don't think you will ever see her again.->near miss return]]

mi: mi + (lateral - 185) lateral: 185 day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You spend the next day ranging along the foothills. And you make a discovery: there is a wide swath carved between the mountains. It is steep, littered with fallen stones, and partially buried by the ice sheet. But it is still, unmistakably, a road. You wonder what infrastructure might be submerged deeper down. Your vehicle crawls up it like a stoic insect, metal claws indenting the ice. Its motor churns, the only sound in this high empty air. You make camp for the night in the middle of the ruined road. A wind churns through it continually, blustering against your tents. A pressure settles in your head and won't leave. Early the next day you cross the pass, [[down->the approach]] into the northern valley.

mi: mi + (165 - lateral) lateral: 165 day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- You spend the day ranging along the foothills. And you make a discovery: there is a wide swath carved between the mountains. It is steep, littered with fallen stones, and partially buried by the ice sheet. But it is still, unmistakably, a road. You wonder what infrastructure might be submerged deeper down. Your vehicle crawls up it like a stoic insect, metal claws indenting the ice. Its motor churns, the only sound in this high empty air. You make camp for the night in the middle of the ruined road. A wind churns through it continually, blustering against your tents. A pressure settles in your head and won't leave. Early the next day you cross the pass, [[down->the approach]] into the northern valley.

rations (rations > 2): rations - 3 rations (rations < 3): 0 rationcar (rations < 3): false rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- [if rations < 1] You empty the last of your rations into the vehicle's engine. {embed passage: 'starvation'} [else] The parasite devours your rations, engulfing the food in an amoebic web of strands. {embed passage: 'redirects'}

Your pace is slowing again. The engine sputters out. You'll need to feed the vehicle its esoteric meal. [if specimencar && specimens < 1] You have no more preserved specimens left to feed to the engine parasite. [if rationcar && rations < 1] You have no more rations to feed to the engine parasite. [if specimencar && specimens > 0; align center] [[refuel the vehicle->specimen car refuel]] [if bloodcar; align center] [[refuel the vehicle->blood car refuel]] [if rationcar && rations > 1; align center] [[refuel the vehicle->rations car refuel]] [if specimens < 1 && !bloodcar && rations < 1]

useddeadwalkers (lateral < 21 || badair): true usedscavenging (lateral > 20 && !badair): true mi: mi + 23 north: north + 23 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if lateral < 21 || badair] {embed passage: 'dead walkers find'} [else] {embed passage: 'scavenging'}

You are twitchy, paranoid. [if walker === 'A'; append] The walker looks hopeless; he watches the sky mournfully. [if walker === 'T'; append] The walker has taken to sharpening her knives ostentatiously. She grins at you without mirth. "You might be mad enough, {address}, but I'm not worried for myself." [if oracle !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'oracle dread effect'}

Without a saltwalker, [unless oracle === 'X'; append] neither you nor the oracle has [else; append] you do not have [continue; append] the necessary practical experience to traverse the saltwrack. Granted, you've been doing it for {day} days by now, but this is not your profession. Frequently, the saltwalker would correct you on best practices: how to pitch a tent, what paths to take or avoid, ways to keep yourself healthy. Small matters of efficiency that become the difference between life and death out here. You'll be careful, from now on, but inevitably you'll make mistakes.

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + (175 - lateral) lateral: 175 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You travel along the range for a day, until the eastern pass comes into view: a gap like a missing molar. [unless walker === 'X'; append] Your saltwalker points out a route that winds sideways up and past the ice-covered rocks. [continue; append] It looks like a slow path, but a fairly safe one, the easiest entry to the glacier you're likely to get. [if oracle !== 'X' || journalnav; append] And, according to the oracle's notes, it should be aligned well with the objective point. [continue; align center] [[ascend the pass->pass2 go]]

A couple of potential passes through the mountain range, up onto the northern glacier, are marked on your map. But you're further east than either of them. You've overshot the closest one; you'll need to [[travel west]].

A couple of potential passes through the mountain range, up onto the northern glacier, are marked on your map. But you haven't gone far enough east to reach either of them. [align center] [[travel east along the range]]

The night is clear, and the moon is full. It rises above the ice sheet, monstrously swollen, and brightens as it rises, till the sky is a murk of purple-gray-brown and the ice glistens with its wet light. Where clouds occlude it, they seem to turn into greasy landscapes far in the distance.

mi: mi + 58 north: north + 48 lateral: lateral + 10 mi (walker === 'X'): mi - 30 north (walker === 'X'): north - 20 lateral (walker === 'X'): lateral - 10 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'X'] You and the oracle have a disagreement over the map, encounter an impassably steep slope, and lose time. [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'X' && !journalnav] You have a confusing time reading the map without any guidance; you encounter an impassably steep slope and lose time. [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'X' && journalnav] You get confused between the map and the oracle's directions, encounter an impassably steep slope, and lose time. [if walker !== 'X'] The map confuses you for a little while, but the walker tells you confidently which direction to head in, and you make up the lost time. [if north > 550 || walker === 'X'] {embed passage: 'glacier coming up'} [else] {embed passage: 'saltwrack etymology'}

The moon is full again, casting a stark yellow-white light over the wrack. Black shadows fall where ridges of rock and ice obscure the glow, featureless as ink. The land feels like a stage, struck too dramatic by this ghostly overpowering light.

day: day + 3 dread: dread + 3 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 11 north: north - 11 mi (!onfoot): mi - 68 north (!onfoot): north - 68 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Tomorrow it is even colder. And the temperature is no higher the next day. In your tent, you feel confined, smothered by coalsilk fabric. You're losing time. [if walker !== 'X'] The walker determines that you must keep going, despite the cold. [if walker === 'X'] Eventually you have no choice but to keep going, despite the cold. [continue; append] After that rest, you have more energy, and you make good time. The wind lessens and settles, and [if omen < 20; append] the wrack's [[more usual conditions->motile terrain return]] are, for once, a relief. [else; append] the wrack's [[more usual conditions->iridescent sky]] are, for once, a relief.

[if oracle !== 'X' && relationoracle < 23] The oracle is distant, only speaking to you when you ask them something. They don't evince outright hostility to you, though. [if walker !== 'X' && relationwalker < 23] The saltwalker quarrels with you constantly, dismissing your questions and instructions. [if walker !== 'X' || oracle !== 'X'] You're beginning to worry that the bonds between you aren't strong enough. What if this imperils the expedition as a whole?

rations (!halfrations): rations - 20 rations (halfrations): rations - 8 crew: crew - 1 walker: 'X' rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" dread: dread + 4 -- You come out this morning to find your walker shoving rations into a pack. You have a sense of what's happening, before you even ask. "Well. It's been a lovely time leading you around, {address}." Her voice is bitterly sardonic. "But I'm afraid I have to leave you to your half-witted fate. Perhaps you'll even do better without me interfering. I've taken my share of supplies. I hope you don't think ill of me for it." Her hand strays toward the knives at her belt. [unless oracle === 'X'] With a contemptuous glance back at you and the oracle, [else] With a contemptuous glance back at you, [continue; append] she shoulders her pack and trudges [[away->walker mutiny]] into the empty expanse of ice.

[if relationoracle < 25 || relationwalker < 25 && crew === 3] It seems like your colleagues are growing tired of you. Your interactions often end in mutual irritation or stony silence. It could be worse. Maybe it will. [if relationoracle < 25 || relationwalker < 25 && crew === 2] You and your colleague are growing tired of one another. Your interactions often end in mutual irritation or stony silence. It could be worse. Maybe it will. [if relationoracle < 25 || relationwalker < 25; align center] [[indulge in paranoia]]

You meditate on the word *saltwrack*. Wracked land, tortured land. Salt in its wounds. And reminiscent of a wrack line, too: what washes up on the boundaries of this frozen ocean. The land is defined from the perspective of your cities. From outside of it. But they are only tiny points in an amorphous, indefinable whole. And now you are part of it, subject to its [[tidal pull->magnetic storm]].

[if oracle === 'V'; align center] [[the oracle->first oracle reflection]] [if oracle === 'S'; align center] [[the oracle->second oracle reflection]] [if walker === 'A'; align center] [[the walker->first walker reflection]] [if walker === 'T'; align center] [[the walker->second walker reflection]]

[if crew === 3] All three of you returned safely; that, alone, is impressive. [if walker === 'A'] {embed passage: '1s return followup'} [if walker === 'T'] {embed passage: '2s return followup'} [if oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'v return followup'} [if oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: 's return followup'} [if crew === 2] There will be questions, for as long as you live, about what happened to your colleague. You cannot give a satisfying answer. [if crew === 1] There will be questions, for as long as you live, about what happened to your colleagues. Questions that you cannot answer. [if murderer && !cannibal; append] What would the world make of you, if they knew? [if cannibal] {embed passage: 'returning as a cannibal'} [continue] You are a scientist, still and foremost, and now you have a great deal of material to analyze. Surely that's enough to keep you [[occupied->final return bit]] now.

You have specimens, detailed logs of your journey, maps of the shifting and treacherous wrack. You have a secret that pulses in your skull, a nightmare you will never be able to convey to the Observational Society. You are now, by far, the most significant explorer of the saltwrack. [if crew > 1; align center] [[agree to describe, as best you can, what you found at the objective]] [[swear not to tell another living soul what happened]] [if crew === 1; align center] [[describe, as best as you can, what you found at the objective->agree to describe, as best you can, what you found at the objective]] [[refuse to tell another living soul what happened->swear not to tell another living soul what happened]]

Your course takes you through a field of what seem to be sponges: porous living clumps, a color like wax or tarnished ice. You feel as though you're passing through gardens. [align center] [[take some samples for microscopy]] [[keep moving, trying not to damage the sponges]]

specimens: specimens + 1 -- Later, you cut the samples into very thin strips, so that light can pass through them. And you sketch the structures you see through the lens. Behind a tough outer layer, their cells are remarkably complex. Apart from the silica framework, these don't resemble the sea sponges you're familar with: dry, dead things turned to brittle fragments in a dusty collection. You see slow-pulsing life at work here. The evidence of a glacial metabolism. Thready filaments that might be some sort of nerves. You conclude that these must be derived from... [align center] [[pre-saltfall sea life, now extinct]] [[something far more alien and unexpected]]

mi: mi + 28 north: north + 28 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- Sea sponges, you remember, lived in abundance at one of the world's poles below its oceanic ice sheet. If these are similar, they might have been growing since soon after the saltfall. They could be a hundred, two hundred, years old. You have no way of confirming it, but [[you're humbled nonetheless->daytext vehiclestart]].

Sea sponges, you remember, lived in abundance at one of the world's poles below its oceanic ice sheet, growing over hundreds and hundreds of years. And this is a frozen ocean you're standing on, isn't it? Almost an inverted one, with its profusion of life strewn at the surface. And then you wonder: is that true? [[You cannot know->daytext vehiclestart]], after all, what lies buried deeper down.

Despite their structural similarities, these are nothing like the species that inhabited living oceans. Could they have arisen from windblown single-celled organisms? Bacterial mats? Fungi? You don't have any solid hypotheses. [[It's frustrating.->daytext vehiclestart]]

You encounter a field of amorphous star-shaped animals—at least you think they must be animals of some sort, sprawled motionless and slick over the ice. They are not quite symmetrical, joined together like a branching mat of neurons. Their exteriors are too tough to cut into, so you don't take a sample, but you find yourself thinking about them for the rest of the day. It seems likeliest that they are... [align center] [[derived brittle stars->biology study]] [[a lattice of gigantic cells->biology study]] [[something completely unknown->biology study]]

There is a gap, a gape, in the horizon. Like a tunnel. You don't know why you think of that; it's at the same level as the rest of the terrain, not burrowing into it. But you sense that the bleak light warps, somehow, and diverts into something. Through the world, leaking sideways. [if oracle === 'V'] "We can travel through here." The oracle pushes their glasses up and stares into the anomaly. "And I think we should. It'll save us a great deal of time." [if oracle === 'S'] "This will take us where we're trying to be. More or less." The oracle rests their arm on the side of the vehicle, staring into the anomaly. "We should go through it." [if oracle === 'X' && walker !== 'X'; append] You've been staring at it for too long. [if walker === 'A'] The walker shakes his head vehemently. "No. It's unstable. It could swallow us up, for all you know." [if walker === 'T'] The walker shakes her head. Her lip curls. "No. Absolutely not. It's hungry land; we should go as far around it as we can." [if walker === 'X'] There is something instinctually frightening about the discontinuation of the land. You can't quite see what ought to be there. [unless oracle === 'X' && walker !== 'X'; align center] [[take the "shortcut"]] [continue; align center] [[stay well clear of it]]

mi (returning): mi - 154 north (returning): north - 50 lateral (returning): lateral - 104 mi (!returning): mi + 274 north (!returning): north + 139 lateral (!returning): lateral + 135 dread: dread + 4 relationwalker: relationwalker - 1 usedshortcut: true -- You angle the vehicle forward into it. [unless walker === 'X'; append] The saltwalker mutters something that you don't catch. [continue; append] There is silence, save for the crunching tread of the vehicle's clawed feet. And then an awful vertigo; you are falling between nowhere, and there are dim things, shapes, coming closer, or you are nearing them, and your whole body is subject to— The land is present again. A different wind sweeps against you. [if !returning] You are [[elsewhere->daytext vehiclestart]]. You retch, over and over, bringing up strings of spittle that freeze on your face. [else] You are [[elsewhere->glacierendbit]]. You retch, over and over, bringing up strings of spittle that freeze on your face.

usedshortcut: true mi (returning): mi - 12 north (returning): north - 6 lateral (returning): lateral - 6 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' -- [if !returning] {embed passage: 'shape in ice'} [else] You stay far from the anomaly. The land settles and solidifies into [[reality.->blizzard 2 glacier return]]

dread: dread + 6 walker: 'X' crew: crew - 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 18 north: north - 18 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} You huddle to wait out the storm. Some of your rations were lost. [if oracle === 'X'] You're [[all alone]] now. [else] [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

day: day + 1 mi: mi - 7 north: north - 7 mi (!onfoot): mi - 32 north (!onfoot): north - 32 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew usedroadside (!usedshortcut): true config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- But the wrack is always shifting, in ways that defy categorization. [if !usedshortcut] {embed passage: 'evil shortcut'} [else] {embed passage: 'roadside zone'}

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 5 north: north + 5 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- Your progress is back-and-forth, first in switchbacks up the slope and then in the zigzagging avoidance of crevasses. You track them to their narrow points. [if walker !== 'X'; append] The saltwalker leads you on foot, where visibility is easier. [continue] It feels haphazard. The ice creaks occasionally, grunting and splitting off, and once there is a great booming crash from somewhere many miles north. You come to a massive rift in the glacier, where meltwater has carved a channel down into it and refrozen in slick glassy knives below. It looks, at first, impossible to traverse. You follow it for a couple of cautious miles, to where it veers off and you can creep past it. There are a few other uncertain moments, when the vehicle's claws can't get traction on the mountainside, but you make it up over the ridge. {embed passage: 'glacierdaytext1'}

day: day + 2 rations: rations - 3 rations (!halfrations): rations - 2 mi: mi - 16 north: north - 16 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You churn through fresh snow. The silence is eerie and complete, aside from the motions of [if onfoot; append] your body [else; append] the vehicle's metal limbs [continue] against the landscape. You are alone, for two days. And then, improbably, impossibly, a human figure crosses the rock-strewn valley ahead of you. Even from so far away, you can see the glint of her half-helm. [align center] [[follow the saltwalker]] [[stay out of her sight]]

day: day + 5 rations: rations - 5 rations (!halfrations): rations - 5 mi: mi - 44 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'timecut south struggling'} {embed passage: 'alone south struggling'} You take to carrying [[the head]] with you, not just when you travel during the day, but in your tent at night. It seems kind to put it somewhere warm.

You forge your own course, without the experience of a saltwalker or the foreknowledge of an oracle. There is some incipient glimmer of intuition, though, that compels you in certain directions. Otherwise you rely on your instruments and the rough map you've already sketched out. Your campsite is the only speck of habitation in this white sweeping expanse.

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" checkpoint: 5 -- [if oracle === 'S' && walker === 'X' && onfoot] {embed passage: '2o crevasse onfoot no walker'} [if fairgame && oracle !== 'X' && walker !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'creature 1'} [else] {embed passage: 'bt emb'}

This is certainly the wisest call. If she slaughtered your oracle so brutally, she might very well do the same to you. You don't know what provoked her, or how it happened, but you're not putting yourself in the company of a murderer. You hide for half an hour and head in the [[opposite direction->head whatever]] as her.

day: day + 1 dread: dread + 6 oracle: 'X' crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + (175 - lateral) lateral: 175 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'oracle dead summation'} You travel along the range for a day, thinking constantly of the oracle's body in the crevasse. The eastern pass comes into view: a gap like a missing molar. [unless walker === 'X'; append] Your saltwalker points out a route that winds sideways up and past the ice-covered rocks. [continue; append] It looks like a slow path, but a fairly safe one, the easiest entry to the glacier you're likely to get. [continue] You will be far more careful this time. [align center] [[ascend the pass->pass2 go]]

day: day + 1 walker: 'X' dread: dread + 6 crew: crew - 1 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + (175 - lateral) lateral: 175 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} You travel east along the range for a day, thinking constantly of the walker's body in the crevasse. The eastern pass comes into view: a gap like a missing molar. It looks like a slow path, but a fairly safe one, the easiest entry to the glacier you're likely to get. [if oracle !== 'X' || journalnav; append] And, according to the oracle's notes, it should be aligned well with the objective point. [continue] You will be far more careful this time. [align center] [[ascend the pass->pass2 go]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 54 north: north + 54 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if north > 1099] {embed passage: 'objective narrowing in'} [else] {embed passage: 'flora'}

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 56 north: north + 56 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [if north > 1099] {embed passage: 'objective narrowing in'} [else] Something is pulling you closer. The idea forms in your mind, but then you question it. You are no oracle; you aren't having premonitions. But there is a sense of anticipation like a static charge. It informs your movements. You feel like the landscape is slipping to allow you easier passage: a sense of northward gravity. [[A day or two more.]] Then, surely, you'll be within sight of your long-held goal.

mi: mi + 14 north: north + 7 lateral: lateral + 7 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- After two hours or so, you make it safely out of the motile terrain. [unless oracle === 'X'; append] The oracle guides you the whole time, as though they're seeing the shape of some invisible structure. {embed passage: 'teamwork musings'} [continue] Even once it clears, you don't quite trust the landscape anymore. You measure it in the corners of your vision, [[trying to see->day 11]] anomalies.

mi: mi + 15 north: north + 15 dread: dread + 1 lateral: lateral - 39 rations: rations - crew config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- The terrain begins to look right again after no more than two hours. There's a discrepancy, though, with your instruments. Your lateral reading is different; you've been displaced west by some distance. [unless oracle === 'X'] {embed passage: 'teamwork musings'} [continue] Even once it clears, you don't quite trust the landscape anymore. You measure it in the corners of your vision, [[trying to see->day 11]] anomalies.

You are coming to the mountain range that marks the end of the northern glacier. The peaks are an overpowering sight: massive, stark grey where their jagged faces are void of snow, blue in the distance. It's heartening—you are almost halfway back—but now there's the matter of finding a pass to traverse down to the plain. [if glacierdeath && lateral < 100] There's [[no chance]] that you'll risk the westernmost pass, after losing one of your colleagues to it. [if lateral < 100] {embed passage: 'glacier pass 1 return'} [if lateral > 174] {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2 return'} [if lateral > 99 && lateral < 175] The mountains here are too steep; you're positioned between the two possible mountain passes. You head laterally along the ridge, travelling... [if lateral > 99 && lateral < 175; align center] [[west; a faster route->glacier pass 1 return]] [[east; a safer route->glacier pass 2 return]]

day: day + 3 dread: dread + 2 dread (onfoot): dread + 2 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" mi: mi - 31 north: north - 31 mi (!onfoot): mi - 158 north (!onfoot): north - 158 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Even your thermal clothing cannot protect you from temperatures this low. Venturing outside is painful. [if onfoot; append] Without the vehicle you have no shelter during the day, but keeping your body in motion helps you stay warm. [continue] Your extremities are frostbitten; at the end of the day, you have to carefully warm your skin back to life. Blisters form on your feet, dead raw abrasions on your face and hands. But eventually the harsh cold abates. [if omen < 20; append] The wrack's [[more usual conditions->motile terrain return]] are, for once, a relief. [else; append] The wrack's [[more usual conditions->iridescent sky]] are, for once, a relief.

mi: mi + 28 north: north + 28 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- You note this idea down in the logs you're keeping. You'll need to see more, analyze more specimens, in order to confirm anything. But the species of the wrack are often endemic to certain areas, or found only in some seasons. Any study of this extremophile life tends to reveal only [[what you do not yet know->daytext vehiclestart]].

The walker spends most of [if walker === 'A'; append] his [if walker === 'T'; append] her [continue; append] time in camp resting, but amicably welcomes you for a conversation. Someone so experienced with the wrack must have plenty of stories to tell. [if walker === 'T'; align center] [["Where did you come from?"]] [if walker === 'A' && !used1wtravelques; align center] [["How far have you travelled?"->glaciertravelq]] [if walker === 'A' && !used1wcityques; align center] [["So you're from Hearth; what is it like, for you?"]] [if walker === 'A'; align center] [[ask him his name->walkernamerequest]] [if walker === 'T'; align center] [[ask for her name->walkernamerequest]]

relationwalker: relationwalker + 3 -- He nods, his face crinkling into a smile. "My whole family; I can trace it back four generations. My grandfather's sibling was a high-ranking councillor. None of them were ever saltwalkers, before me. Bit of a break with tradition. I love the city well enough, but I couldn't imagine being confined to it my whole life. Or to any city at all." He talks of the crispness of the salt wrack, the way its empty landscape makes him feel alive. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

relationwalker: relationwalker + 2 -- "Mm. A little past Wick—that's near four hundred miles north of here, and further east than we'll be going, unless the Society was wrong about where the objective is. Didn't you do those triangulations, {address}?" His voice is gruff, but there's the hint of a smile on his bearded face. "You'd best not be leading us astray. At any rate, I've gone further south than north. Down past Rye. You can still see where forests used to be, they're not all gone under the ice... but the salt is worse. More of it in the soil." He tells you about the remnants of those trees: gray boughs like driftwood on land, petrified by minerals and the lack of decay. By the next day, the blizzard abates, and you step out again [[into the silent world->glacier cut day]].

usedsunset: true rations: rations - crew mi: mi - 7 north: north - 7 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'glacier sunset'} You sleep lightly that night; at one point you wake, thinking that you felt [[the glacier->glacier crunchin daytext]] move beneath you.

glaciereturned: true day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 13 north: north - 13 mi (!onfoot): mi - 50 north (!onfoot): north - 50 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 7 -- Finally you have left the glacial valley behind. Grey foothills mound and slope up; the vehicle crunches through odd formations of blown snow, smooth as a sheet, puffed into ridges and crests. This way is not the same one that brought you over the mountains the first time; it follows what was once the course of a river. Far in the distance, a frozen waterfall hangs in a shaggy clump, bristling from a cliffside. Its water no longer reaches this place. Today's travel is unaccountably wearying. You feel strange and sick. Your hands go cold, then numb, inside your gloves; you curl them into fists, trying to regain some lost warmth. The wind blows damp and low and icy. It lulls you into huddled misery. [if dread > 29] {embed passage: 'hi dread check'} [if dread < 30 || oracle !== 'V'] {embed passage: 'wp embed'}

You kneel, hardly daring to breathe, and wait. After what must be less than a minute, you hear the oracle beside you draw in a little gasp. They're awake; their gaze flits between you and the open flap. [if relationoracle >= 30; append] You reach down towards them reassuringly, and they grip your hand with terrified force. [continue] The three of you stay still in grim silence as the heat filters out of the tent. You become aware of something large moving outside, an instant before it comes [[into view.->creature of the wrack]]

day: day + 1 mi: mi - 65 north: north - 65 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 1 -- [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'insert 1'}

{embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} [if oracle === 'V'] {embed passage: 'mutiny reaction v'} [if oracle === 'S'] {embed passage: 'sunder abandonment append'} [if oracle === 'X'] {embed passage: 'all alone'} [unless oracle === 'X'] {embed passage: 'redirects'}

walker: 'X' dread: dread + 6 crew: crew - 1 day: day + 1 mi (lateral < 175): mi + (175 - lateral) lateral (lateral < 175): 175 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} You turn back, and travel along the ridge to the eastern pass. {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2 return'}

oracle: 'X' dread: dread + 6 crew: crew - 1 day: day + 1 mi (lateral < 175): mi + (175 - lateral) lateral (lateral < 175): 175 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'oracle dead summation'} You turn back, and travel along the ridge to the eastern pass. {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2 return'}

day: day + 12 config.header.left: "Day {day}" -- It takes you nearly two weeks; if you were a saltwalker, if you knew the right pathways, it would be faster. The wrack is cooling by now, with the approach of autumn. You keep moving, afraid to be caught by the end of summer. Your thermal clothing would be insufficient. And then, one day, like a dream, the flat skyline ahead. The grey blocks of buildings. For an instant, for a reason that you can't place, you are terrified. {embed passage: "generic return to Hearth text"}

day: day + 2 mi: mi - 19 north: north - 19 mi (!onfoot): mi - 120 north (!onfoot): north - 120 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- [continue; append] You go through the motions of travel mechanically, not yet wanting to cope with the oracle being gone. And what it might signify for you. If they had some sense of danger approaching, and fled to save themself. [if day > 47] {embed passage: 'full moon 2'} [else] {embed passage: 'surreal head dream'} [if walker === 'X'] You have the sense of some ultimate fate creeping [[towards->find oracle if alone]] you. [else] The walker charts a course [[southwest->post abandonment continue]].

day: day + 3 rations: rations - 3 mi: mi - 28 mi (!onfoot): mi - 160 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'oracle dead summation'} {embed passage: 'timecut south struggling'} You could eat, but you're not hungry. [[Your hand itches.]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 60 north: north + 60 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'objective narrowing in'}

day: day + 1 mi: mi + (75 - lateral) lateral: 75 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'glacier pass 1'}

day: day + 1 mi: mi + (lateral - 200) lateral: 200 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2'}

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew mi: mi + 5 north: north + 5 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- Your progress is back-and-forth, first in switchbacks up the slope and then in the zigzagging avoidance of crevasses. You track them to their narrow points. [if walker !== 'X'; append] The saltwalker leads you on foot, where visibility is easier. [continue] It takes you two days, but your caution is well-spent. Aside from a few uncertain moments when the vehicle's claws can't get traction on the mountainside, you make it up over the ridge as easily as you could hope for. {embed passage: 'glacierdaytext1'}

mi: mi + 55 north: north + 30 lateral: lateral - 25 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'beast potential'}

mi: mi + 55 north: north + 30 lateral: lateral + 25 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'beast potential'}

mi: mi + 55 north: north + 55 config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'beast potential'}

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 35 north: north - 35 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" -- [if lateral < 160] {embed passage: 'mist terror'} [else] {embed passage: 'will o the wisps'}

[if walker === 'X'] There's [[motion in the distance->dread consequence revived walker]]. [else] There's [[motion in the distance->dread consequence you double]].

day: day + 5 mi: mi - 57 north: north - 57 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Sometimes you think that the wrack wants to keep you. Clutches you to itself, jealously, possessively. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [if north > 49 && lateral > 49 && rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'starvation'} [else] {embed passage: 'valley of stones'}

day: day + 1 -- {embed passage: 'walker mutiny'} {embed passage: 'on foot'}

You have to assume that the oracle is dead, and focus now on getting back to Hearth. {embed passage: 'oracle dead summation'} {embed passage: 'redirects'}

day: day + 1 mi (lateral < 175): mi - (175 - lateral) lateral (lateral < 175): 175 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You head laterally along the ridge to the eastern pass. Thankfully, there is no interference from the land today. It's almost calm again. {embed passage: 'glacier pass 2 return'}

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 5 north: north - 5 rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Your progress is back-and-forth, avoiding crevasses and following switchbacks down the slope. [if walker !== 'X'; append] The saltwalker leads you on foot, where visibility is easier. [continue] It takes you two days, but your caution is well-spent. At this point, you're used to the ups and downs of travelling, but it's still frightening to look down onto the flow of glacier from where you are perched. You descend carefully. The mountains loom behind you, and once more you are on the [[wrack plain]].

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 56 north: north - 56 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles travelled: {mi}" checkpoint: 6 -- {embed passage: 'glacier end approaching'}

day: day + 2 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 25 north: north - 25 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- {embed passage: 'walker dead summation'} [if north < 50 && lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] {embed passage: 'redirect'}

[if oracle === 'V'; align center] [[ask them their name->1o name request]] [[spend some time working together]] [if oracle === 'S'; align center] [[ask them about their premonitions]] [[ask them their name->2onamerequest]]

[if parasite && !rationcar && !specimencar && !bloodcar] The vehicle has slowed to a halt again. You have nothing more to feed it.

relationoracle: relationoracle + 3 -- The two of you sort through the samples you've gained so far and exchange theories about the wrack. Your oracle is convinced that some sort of gestalt consciousness animates it, and that one might learn to speak its language. You can't quite gather the thread of their thoughts, but it's interesting to hear how they interpret what you've seen. [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

day: day + 2 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 33 north: north - 33 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- With so little to carry at this point, you travel quickly. Soon you are [[within sight of the city.->generic approaching hearth text]]

day: day + 2 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew mi: mi - 33 lateral: lateral - 33 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- With so little to carry at this point, you travel quickly. Soon you are [[within sight of the city.->generic approaching hearth text]]

day: day + 15 mi: -- The time you spend with the saltwalker is a matter of survival alone. You don't feel human anymore; you are nothing but a ragged automaton, following some terrible ghost through an endless dead place. Later, you won't be able to remember it all. Horror overpowers it, blots it from your memory. There is enough meat on a body to sustain two people for a long time. A thick fatty taste like iron. Guilt. Anguish. When on occasion you see your reflection in the walker's visor, you can't recognize yourself.

day: day + 5 mi: mi - 64 north: north - 64 rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 6 -- Travelling on foot is perilous here; you might not see a crevasse before you step into it. You test the land ahead of you. On the other hand, the sledge provides a balanced point, an anchor, and it's not so difficult to drag. {embed passage: 'glacier end approaching'}

Sometimes it feels like you're under that city still, in a sprawling lightless maze. Like it's still watching you. [if onfoot] You're getting [[closer->onfoot glacier]] to something. But how? You're moving further away from the northern point. [if !onfoot] You're getting [[closer->glacierendbit]] to something. But how? You're moving further away from the northern point.

day: day + 5 mi: mi - 60 mi (!onfoot): mi - 250 mi (mi < 15): 15 config.header.left: "Day {day}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- Starvation makes you clumsy, then weak. Simple tasks require far more coordination. Your hands shake; your muscles cramp. You are often overwhelmed by impotent rage, self-pity, and despair. At night, even though you desperately need sleep, the crawling pangs in your belly keep you awake for a long time. You tremble all the time. Your mouth feels wet, sour, and raw. You pick up and chew chunks of ice just to have something between your jaws. You wind up turning inwards for comfort, clinging to whatever of you hasn't atrophied yet. You imagine yourself lying in bed in your apartment in Firmament. You are perhaps ten years younger. A very dim bluish light filters down outside the window. You often had trouble sleeping. There's enough food for you in the apartment already, you remember, with a flare of desire. Your hand twitches, curls into a fist. There is bread from a municipal bakery, and a basket of pale radishes. In the cabinet there would be... you strain to remember, for a moment. Lentils, dried leeks, soup base. In your imagination you turn over and curl up in the narrow bed. If you think any more about food you might start crying. One of the elevated trams wasn't far from your apartment block, high up in the ravine within the mountain. You remember the exact rhythm as it passed by. A thudding roar, a vibration felt through your knees and palms, muffled by concrete. Early in the morning, late at night. There was an old woman, living at the end of your hall, who often smiled at you. The other neighbors were more reclusive. You didn't see them frequently. You're forgetting the rest. [if north < 150; align center] [[you lose time]] [else] It's just [[not enough->starvation death]].

You have no oracle, no saltwalker. All you can trust is your own intuition, your maps and instruments. You are [[all alone]].

dread: dread - 2 -- [if twotents] Your tentmate gives you space and quiet. [continue] You sleep for hours and hours as the blizzard shrieks. {embed passage: 'hypnagogia'} You dream of being buried in fresh snowdrifts, a fearless suffocation. It takes effort to wake fully, and when you do, you find that the snow is pushing in on the walls of your tent. [[The blizzard clears->avalanche area]], leaving you to dig your campsite out of the snow and travel through the soft treacherous land.

You come to the edge of a sea where there should be no sea. The water is thick with ice floes, lashing against the gravel beach. A mineral stink fills the air. You stare into the impossible horizon. The sun, captured in those glass-sharp waves, is cruel. There is no land on the other side. Not so much as a mirage. Wherever you are now, your map is meaningless. A microbial scum marks the edge of the water; no bones, no shells. Almost nothing lives in the ocean, anymore. (Wrackline. The wrack has many lines. Invisible boundaries. You cross them like tripwires.) That night you dream of your oracle kneeling at the edge of the beach, drinking seawater from their cupped hands. The water is opaque with contaminants. Something bad is going to happen. You look away, not wanting to see. A black line crosses the air, makes a horizon. It's coming closer. Behind you, the oracle's body burns from within like a star; you can see it through your skull. You wake to a sullen, milky sky. The beach is [align center] [[still there.]] [[not there. Nothing but miles, hundreds of miles, of blank white wrack.]]

dread: dread + 4 mi: mi - 12 north: north - 12 mi (!onfoot): mi - 58 north (!onfoot): north - 58 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- It shines furiously, a mercuric mirror. The air fills with haze. You can taste the minerals in it; they coat your skin, your tongue. The sky is white; the sun is white; the land is grey-blue and lightless. Black slime on the edges of the water. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] You make your way south, along the edge of this awful ocean. And, unaccountably, after several hours the coastline evaporates like a mirage. {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] You make your way south, along the edge of this awful ocean. And, unaccountably, after several hours the coastline evaporates [[like a mirage.->suns day]]

mi: 329 north: 191 lateral: 138 day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You take readings. Your bearing is off, and this landscape is completely unfamiliar though you doubt you'd recognize most of the ground you've covered. The skin of the wrack is terribly interchangeable. By the angle of the sun, the wind, the anomalous mileage indicator, you are somewhere closer to Noble than you expected. Further east than you should ever have been on this voyage. The compass disagrees with the sky. Where will you be tomorrow? It doesn't feel like the ground will hold. [align center] [[align yourself with magnetic south]] [[align yourself roughly with solar south]]

day: day + 1 config.header.left: "Day {day}" rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" checkpoint: 4 -- [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'avemb'}

config.footer.left: "" config.footer.center: "" config.footer.right: "" -- The mass of snow cleaves from itself. Sheds like an ice-pack transmuted into something animal, a destroying herd. It takes you with the force of a sea storm. You are dragged, head down, and swallowed by pressure. A roar, churning, and then silence. A dim gray-greenish light filters in. The snow encases you totally, crushing you into stillness. You cannot struggle against it any more than you could against rock. With your fingertips you manage to make indentations of perhaps a centimeter. You can't feel your body below a certain point in your lower back; the strain from your legs' position is the only indication that they're still attached. Your mouth is your prime weakness. The point of intrusion. Each stifled inhalation burns; you drag snow into your mouth, your throat. It melts and refreezes on your face. The hand of the wrack has closed around you. Something like numbness. The shudder of your own heartbeat. The cold becomes a flat, static stimulus. Your eyelids flutter, grazing the ice crystals pressed against you. [[That murky light.->default death text]]

mi: mi - 9 mi (!onfoot): mi - 22 north: north - 5 north (!onfoot): north - 9 lateral: lateral - 4 lateral (!onfoot): lateral - 13 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You lose time. [unless onfoot; continue] The vehicle picks its way over the thin crest of glazed rock, horribly unsteady in the blasting gale. [continue; append] Exposed to that brutal wind, you develop frostbite even inside your thermal clothing. It's like you're being flayed. Your skin feels chemically burnt. You can see for dozens and dozens of miles, peaks and clefts like industrial flaws in the matrix of geology, and that blue unreal haze that swallows the distance. If you didn't remember the cities, you would think this world was unlivable. Try as you might, you can't recall now how it felt [[to take warmth for granted.->bad things glacier day]]

dread: dread + 1 -- Closer to sundown, the ice takes on a gray tint. Only once you have made camp do you realize that it is crawling with thousands, millions, of mites. Each one is no larger than the diameter of a hair. When they come into contact with warmth—your stove, your face, the interior of your tent—they die. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] You don't remember your dreams, but [[you wake->suns day]] nauseated.

day: day + 2 config.header.left: "Day {day}" mi: mi - 25 mi (!onfoot): mi - 175 north: north - 25 north (!onfoot): north - 175 rations: 0 rationdescrip: 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You travel into nightfall, worn through with desperation. The days are one long stretch of fatigue and extremity. Frostbite touches your fingertips; they go grey, bloodless, then black with necrotic sores. Then your toes follow. Your face. You don't think of your scientific mission anymore. Only survival. You don't feel human. [if north < 100 && lateral < 100] By the end, you just want it to be over, one way or another. But you are dedicated—or, more likely, just [[lucky->near miss return]]. [else] It's [[still not enough.->starvation]]

She smiles. There is genuine fondness in her face. "I wouldn't kill you, {address}. I like you." "Come with me. I'll provide for us for a while. Show you how to do it. We take from the wrack, and it sustains us; we tread lightly. Picking off the edges of the cities, sometimes. Fuel, components. Travellers who won't be missed." [align center] [[join her as a scavenger]] [[refuse, and strive for Hearth alone]]

It takes some time to accept this self-imposed exile. The frostbite, the desperation, prolonged for a lifetime. You would have thought it impossible, before you left Hearth. But now you finally abandon all thought of returning. There is no human place left to go. In some ways it is a relief; you will never be judged for what you have done, save by yourself. You are outcast, spectral. A predator that haunts the bleak void between cities. To you, it is all the world, now. The map has been inverted. You belong to the wrack, and the wrack alone. It is a bitter, brutal life. It contains revels and horrors that few alive have seen. You learn the scavenger-language, new words for this new world. Pragmatisms and superstitions. Secret rites. Perhaps, once the cities dwindle and collapse like dying match-heads, you and your fellows will inherit the earth. [align center] [[SALTWRACK]]

She tilts her head, cracks her neck, considers. You wonder if you've made a terribly wrong choice. "Do as you will. You won't see me again. Best of luck by yourself." No hostility in her tone; only indifference. She takes a few basic supplies: a lantern, a tent. She claims she needs no more.

Abruptly you want to scream for help. There is nobody for hundreds of miles. Claustrophobic in this stifling white void, infinite negation.

You consider the oracle's face, blank with the emptiness of death. Nuzzle down against their hair: it still smells almost like a living body, though the absence of warmth makes the head obviously an object. A cold prop. Silky strands cling to your skin and the plane of their forehead. Your mouth sticks to their open eye, tugs at the corneal film. You press against the thin wasted lips. Probe further with your tongue, and taste blood. You lick rust and clots from the inside of their mouth, the dry teeth and membranes and tongue. Their neck. The hole in their throat. You orbit it, sucking the skin, lapping hungrily at the wounded tissue. Spinal bone clicks against your teeth. Your face is smeared with coagulated blood. This remnant of the oracle would be bruised, from the intensity of your affection, if they were living. Somehow time feels slippery. Or memory. Have you been here before? No; you haven't encountered yourself yet. Still you feel like you're being [[followed.->head end]]

You think of how the earth would look from beyond its atmosphere. A blue world, a white world. [if crew === 1] {embed passage: 'postglacier alone'} [continue; align center] [[so far to go->ice devil]]

At night when you close your eyes you see the anatomy of the wrack, flashes of hypnagogic shapes like a problem you have to solve. Firn, névé, cirque, tarn, glacial till, snowpack, massif. The forms of ice you've become familiar with: an edge that melts and refreezes until it's thinner than lace, a kaleidoscope of abortive fractals, a surface cloudy as flawed glass and offering nothing.

mi (mi > 50): 49 north (north > 50): 49 lateral (lateral > 50): 49 day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You file through a valley where the ice is covered in particles of sediment and can barely be distinguished from stones, having taken on their muddy dark grey color. Glacial till dirties the underbelly of the snowpack like geological excreta. {embed passage: 'home stretch'}

"I set out to look for a spring, but I didn't dare walk too far away. And of course I had no luck in that high dry place. I came back disappointed, starting to worry, but before I got back to the tent I saw someone else coming up the path towards me." He licks his lips, looking askance. "A traveller, out in the wrack. Shrouded in coarse black cloth. A full cloak, and a hood; I couldn't see their face. I heard them as they got closer, from the jingle of metal. I saw little charms glinting all over them. And then I saw what the charms were, and I broke out in a sweat all over." The saltwalker himself wears saltsign charms on his clothing; a common practice among walkers, you recall, thought to bring good luck and safe travels. "It was the death sign." His eyes, dark and solemn, meet your own. "You know it, don't you?" You do. A circle drawn tangent to a horizontal line on one side, with a vertical line protruding from the other. It's used to mark graves, out here; the very direst warning, and sometimes the last word of the departed. No saltwalker would ever use it lightly. Or wear it while living. "Every one of those charms was a death sign. And there must have been hundreds. Most looked like they were made from scrap metal. They were soldered or wired together, and sewn onto the shroud that [[that traveller]] wore."

mi: 229 north: 141 lateral: 88 mi: mi - 12 mi (!onfoot): mi - 58 lateral: lateral - 12 lateral (!onfoot): lateral - 58 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- The compass betrays you. You've been travelling east, not south. Still closer to Hearth. But it's beginning to feel like you can rely on nothing. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] You don't remember your dreams, but [[you wake->suns day]] nauseated.

mi: 229 north: 141 lateral: 88 mi: mi - 12 north: north - 12 mi (!onfoot): mi - 58 north (!onfoot): north - 58 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- You are no saltwalker; your calculations, based on the angle of the sun, feel imprecise. But your course is true. Once your instruments give constant readings again, you see that you've made good progress. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] You don't remember your dreams, but [[you wake->suns day]] nauseated.

mi: mi - 13 north: north - 13 mi (!onfoot): mi - 35 north (!onfoot): north - 35 mi (oracle !== 'X'): mi - 35 north (oracle !== 'X'): north - 35 -- The ice redoubles itself in falsehood today. Six suns ring the long end of summer, populating the sky with ethereal silken strands of oily light. Vivid sick rainbows against your corneas. [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle twitches visibly a few times, raises a hand as though to bat away the impostor-suns. "I can clarify this. Before we move anywhere, let me..." Was that what you saw them holding, at the objective? [if journalnav] A while ago, you saw a schematic in the oracle's journal that you're reminded of now. You retrieve it and flip through the pages. Yes—a diagram bursting with suns, erratic spikes of light, compass directions skewed sideways. You think you can parse it well enough to determine: travelling south isn't right for today. You'll have to go west, according to the oracle's code. [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle rolls back their sleeves, baring their hands and arms to the parchingly cold wind, and pores over the maps drawn into their skin. "We should travel west for a day. Maybe two. It'll convert, eventually; something has to flip over. Then we'll be closer to Hearth. I know it's not intuitive, but trust me on this." [if walker === 'T'] The walker stares directly at the brightest patch of sky, her helm giving her immunity to the searing light, and shrugs. [if walker === 'A'] The walker turns away, wincing. "Just don't look into it." [if oracle === 'X' && !journalnav] This is the sort of anomaly that oracles train themselves to see through. But you don't have the extrasensory guidance of one, anymore. You try not to be distracted. But the impossible sky disturbs you, and you find errors cropping up in your calculations. [unless oracle === 'X'] You follow the oracle's instructions. Miles slide and warp around your progress. The threads of light, the ragged end of summer. [continue] [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] Bullets of ice pelt your tent at night. You lie awake until the brief squall [[dissipates.->ice spikes day]]

You fall to your knees, overcome with despair, and press your face to the toxic ground. Subfreezing saline fluid stings your lips. It's unbearably bitter in your mouth. You are still where you are.

[unless oracle === 'X'; align center] [[feed blood to the engine]] [if oracle === 'X'; align center] [[sacrifice your own blood->blood car refuel]] [if rationdescrip !== 'None'; align center] [[feed rations to the engine]] [if specimens > 0; align center] [[feed specimens to the engine]] [continue; align center] [[abandon the vehicle]]

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" checkpoint: 15 -- A silver day, the clouds sharp-edged. The wind shears over this motionless expanse, sweeping down from the north. Sometimes you think you see particles in it like smoke, and pull your scarf tighter around your face. In the distance, a column rises, twisting furious and white. An ice devil. Snow and its accompanying toxins, caught up in a vortex. [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'id emb'}

day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" checkpoint: 11 -- The land wavers around you. Clumps of air seem to adhere. You see living things that belong further north, perhaps emboldened by the late summer, the relatively temperate season. Pale translucent ribbons sprawl over the ice, glistening like glass. Stones honeycombed and crawling with colonies. Pillars of salt. [if splodecar && !onfoot && walker !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'vehicle explosion life'} [if splodecar && !onfoot && walker === 'X'] {embed passage: 'vehicle explosion death'} [if !splodecar] {embed passage: 'bioemb'}

mi: mi - 12 north: north - 12 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- It is delicate work. You contort to avoid one ice stalagmite after another, knocking the thinner ones out of your way. Some are higher than your head. You sense the jaw of the wrack rising up at you. The constant threat of impalement. You find bruises on your body that night. Abrasions, even through your thick thermal clothing. Your pace slows. You're just grateful that the damage wasn't worse. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] {embed passage: 'outer view'}

mi: mi - 17 north: north - 7 lateral: lateral - 10 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- It stretches for miles. Eventually you find a point where the ground is level enough to easily make headway. But you've gone farther east than south. [if north < 50 || lateral < 50] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] {embed passage: 'outer view'}

[if checkpoint === 1; align center] [[You continue.->insert 1]] [if checkpoint === 2; align center] [[You continue.->theorizing]] [if checkpoint === 3; align center] [[You continue.->bliz]] [if checkpoint === 4; align center] [[You continue.->avemb]] [if checkpoint === 5; align center] [[You continue.->bt emb]] [if checkpoint === 6; align center] [[You continue.->glacier end approaching]] [if checkpoint === 7; align center] [[You continue.->cold snap 2 return]] [if checkpoint === 8; align center] [[You continue.->iridescent sky]] [if checkpoint === 9; align center] [[You continue.->snowdayharsher]] [if checkpoint === 10; align center] [[You continue.->bioemb]] [if checkpoint === 11; align center] [[You continue.->bioemb]] [if checkpoint === 12; align center] [[You continue.->ocea embed]] [if checkpoint === 13; align center] [[You continue.->hdemb]] [if checkpoint === 14; align center] [[You continue.->is embed]] [if checkpoint === 15; align center] [[You continue.->abandoned chemical manufactory]]

[if north < 805] {embed passage: 'glacial hole'} [else] {embed passage: 'tubes sample or yum'}

[if walker === 'X'] {embed passage: 'wrong sea'} [if walker !== 'X'] {embed passage: 'ice mites'}

[if dread < 22 && walker !== 'X'] "It'll be alright," the saltwalker says. "We're on the plain again. Mapped land. The further south we get, the better known it is. [[We'll make it.->bio return day]]" [else] You feel some malignity. Your joints ache. Your tongue feels too sensitive. A pressure like [[magnetism->bio return day]] in your bones.

[if walker !== 'X' && relationwalker > 21] The saltwalker is busy with trying to plot a more efficient course and shore up the campsite, but greets you with amity whenever you cross paths. [if oracle !== 'X' && relationoracle > 21; align center] [[talk to the oracle]] [if walker !== 'X' && relationwalker < 22; align center] [[talk to the walker->saltwalker hostility]] [continue; align center] [[rest on your own]]

[if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'dread chek'}

[if dread > 25] {embed passage: 'scary double'} [else] The barometer is dropping. You prepare for grim weather, a slower pace [[tomorrow->snowdayharsher]].

[if oracle === 'S' && walker === 'X'] {embed passage: 'trepan start'} [if oracle !== 'S' || walker !== 'X'; align center] [[wait for the cold to abate]] [[keep travelling regardless]]

[if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'theorizing'}

Another blizzard sweeps down from the far north: deep grey sky, howling shreds of shapeless snow. The air smells like ozone and metal. [align center] [[wait it out]] [unless onfoot; align center] [[travel despite the blizzard]] [if onfoot; align center] [[travel despite the blizzard->crevasse problem blizzard]]

Before you: a grim choice. The blizzard has deposited new snow over the terrain, meters thick where the wind heaped it up in dunes. The shortest way ahead is to cut through the valley, descending in switchbacks and crossing its glacial floor. Peaks rise like hypertrophic scarring above the cirque between the mountains. Keeping to that crest would be a longer route. Both seem dangerous. [unless onfoot] The vehicle will struggle on that exposed spine, staggering over snow-scabbed topography, blasted sideways by shearing winds. [if walker === 'A'] The saltwalker points to a nearby rock, jagged as a black tooth. Something like a petroglyph on its leeward surface. It could be an inclusion in the rock, a metamorphic smear. A bowed irregular arc, its ends crossed off by a diagonal slash. "This sign means it's a trap. The bowl is unsafe. We'll have to take the high route." [if walker === 'T'] The saltwalker wipes stray crystals from her visor. "Looks like an avalanche risk. We could chance it, but it'd be safest to take the high route." [continue] [if oracle === 'V'] The oracle shivers. A twitch up their spine, a flinch of straying neurology. "The snow is singing. Can you hear it?" [if oracle === 'S'] The oracle stares ahead, eyes wide behind their goggles. A blankness in their face. "The snow is singing. Can you hear it?" [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'X'] You stare into the face of the mountain. Its slopes, pillowed in dunes of névé, shadow-stark where jags break through like black teeth: a sign you cannot read. [align center] [[keep to the ridge]] [unless walker === 'A'; align center] [[cut through the bowl]]

[if onfoot] {embed passage: 'onfoot postglacier'} [else] {embed passage: 'valley of stones'}

mi: mi - 14 mi (!onfoot): mi - 30 north: north - 14 north (!onfoot): north - 30 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- The days blur: fear, exhaustion, anticipation. Blue sky, white sky, darkness. A taste like metal in your throat. [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'quik logic'}

[if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'wp'}

[if oracle !== 'X'] A [[vision]] comes— [else; append] You become less aware of your [[surroundings->cold snap 2 return]]

mi: mi - 71 north: north - 71 mi (!onfoot): mi - 15 north (!onfoot): north - 15 day: day + 1 rations: rations - crew rations (!halfrations): rations - crew config.header.left: "Day {day}" rationdescrip (rations > 90): 'Plentiful' rationdescrip (rations < 91 && rations > 50): 'Sufficient' rationdescrip (rations < 51 && rations > 30): 'Dwindling' rationdescrip (rations < 31 && rations > 0): 'Low' rationdescrip (halfrations): 'Bleak' rationdescrip (rations < 1): 'None' config.header.right: "Rations: {rationdescrip}" config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" checkpoint: 12 -- [if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'ocea embed'}

mi: mi - 5 north: north - 5 mi (!onfoot): mi - 36 north (!onfoot): north - 36 mi (oracle !== 'X'): mi - 14 north (oracle !== 'X'): north - 14 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- [unless oracle === 'X'] The oracle guides you around sticky patches of gravity and clawing force. Their motions respond and correspond to the terrain, twitching and wavering, honed into an occult compass. You barely need to speak to them anymore to understand their directions; through daily familiarity, you've become attuned to their ways. You are, after all, an interpreter. You and the oracle act together as a deciphering machine for the semiotics of the wrack. [if oracle === 'X' && !onfoot] The vehicle is caught up, time and again, in invisible patches of force; it struggles, its joints grinding against the air, like an insect in setting amber. This is what you need an oracle for. [if oracle === 'X' && onfoot && crew > 1] Your bodies are caught up, time and again, in invisible patches of force; you struggle like insects in setting amber. This is what you need an oracle for. [if oracle === 'X' && onfoot && crew === 1] Your body is caught up, time and again, in invisible patches of force; you struggle like an insect in setting amber. This is what you need an oracle for. [continue] You're travelling through known terrain now, but even so, it has its [[surprises->ocean horror day]].

[if !onfoot] With the vehicle, you still stand a chance of making it back to Hearth. But you'll have to [[travel as fast as you can]]. [if onfoot] Your chances of making it back to Hearth seem so slim. But maybe, if you [[travel as fast as you can]], a last desperate effort can save you. You have nothing else to hope for.

mi: mi - 7 north: north - 7 mi (!onfoot): mi - 45 north (!onfoot): north - 45 mi (walker !== 'X'): mi - 15 north (walker !== 'X'): north - 15 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- [if walker === 'X'] You hope it won't cross your path. But it swerves implacably closer, as though it's pursuing you. You are still in motion when the tower of wind engulfs you. The vehicle shudders, then begins to tip. [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'X'] The oracle is just as helpless as you are. They manage to cling to the side of the vehicle as it overturns. [if walker === 'X'; append] You fall hard. Jags of ice score your face, fly up your sleeves, pelt you like hail. When it's over, your skin is saline-sticky and windburnt. [if walker !== 'X'; append] Your saltwalker guides the vehicle behind the nearest low crag, then jostles it back and forth so that its claws splay out and grip into the terrain. You huddle low as the tower of wind passes around you. Jags of ice score your face, fly up your sleeves, pelt you like hail. When it's over, your skin is saline-sticky and windburnt. But nothing is damaged. [continue] [if north < 100 && lateral < 100] {embed passage: 'home stretch'} [else] {embed passage: 'idemb2'}

[if onfoot] [[You move carefully through the day's weather afterwards.->salty day wrackplain onfoot]] [else] {embed passage: 'abandoned chemical manufactory}

dread (onfoot): dread + 2 mi (!onfoot): mi - 69 north (!onfoot): north - 69 config.header.center: "Miles to Hearth: {mi}" -- A field of ice spikes, a glacier in miniature. You've heard of such phenomena. The wrack plain's weather churns up sculptures, artforms in desolate brutality. [unless onfoot] The vehicle crunches implacably through the formations of ice. Despite the strange ground, [[you make good time.->ice devil]] [if onfoot; align center] [[struggle through the field of spikes]] [[try to find a route around it]]

[if north > 49 && lateral < 50; append] You are not so far from Hearth after all. Maybe your charts were wrong. It is less than a hundred miles [[south->quick approach south]]. [if north < 50 && lateral > 49; append] You are not so far from Hearth after all. Maybe your charts were wrong. It is less than a hundred miles [[west->quick approach west]]. [if north < 50 && lateral < 50 && !onfoot; append] You are not so far from Hearth after all. Maybe your charts were wrong. You'll arrive [[tomorrow->generic approaching hearth text]], so long as your course is correct. [if north < 50 && lateral < 50 && onfoot; append] You are not so far from Hearth after all. Maybe your charts were wrong. [[A day or two more.->quick approach south]].

[if rationdescrip === 'Low' || rationdescrip === 'None'] {embed passage: 'low rations'} [else] {embed passage: 'hi dread suns'}

[if walker !== 'X' && oracle !== 'X'] The saltwalker has grim news to share. Your expedition is running low on rations. At this rate, you'll only have enough food for a week at most. Unless, that is, you all restrict yourselves to half rations. [if walker !== 'X' && oracle === 'X'] The saltwalker has grim news to share. Your expedition is running low on rations. At this rate, you'll only have enough food for a week at most. Unless, that is, the two of you restrict yourselves to half rations. [if walker === 'X' && oracle !== 'X'] You run through a few calculations and come to a disheartening conclusion: the expedition is running low on rations. At this rate, you'll only have enough food for a week at most. Unless, that is, you and the oracle restrict yourselves to half rations. [if walker === 'X' && oracle === 'X'] You run through a few calculations and come to a disheartening conclusion: you are running low on rations. At this rate, you'll only have enough food for a week at most. Unless, that is, you restrict yourself to half rations. [continue] One meal a day. You'll be far less physically and mentally capable in a state of starvation. But it is your best hope. [align center] [[redistribute your supplies]]