Screams.

Distant, pained, and panicked.

    

Were they from now? Later? It was unclear what one could hear drifting through the Iliyfain. Between here and Iliyfain, the fog-realm, or “the mist,” as civilians called it, visions fluttered in and out of the peripheral, like strolling through living memories.

    

Other times, it was a sea of whispers. Leyotan scout Emery Leao was wandering through memories of the Gorrikali valley in Istos, from the life of an old Cartanian woman and her grandnephews.

    

The young boys were having a wild-root picking race, while their elder caretaker looked on with a fond, patient smile. Emery was surveying the area beyond the family when they became overwhelmed by a flurry of voices and imagery.  She tried to ignore them at first, as most times she could.

    

Voices of the Iliyfain always wept over tragedies. The issue is that they were often events from long ago. 

Past traumas of the land. Terrors in some city long lost to the fog and no way for her to help if she wished. 

Yet still, the mist pleaded.

Tonight, the mist was persistent and forced its way into her consciousness, like a cloud dulling everything out.

    

Lost memories of travelers and their nightmares filled her mind. Walkers, Scouts like her that crossed the lands between long ago and the hidden paths they left; their secrets. Ghosts. 

They all wanted. . . Something. The voices wailed and moaned and begged Emery to understand—something urgent. . . Important. 

    

A heavy hand shook the mist-walker out of her conference; their distant cries faded.

 “Leao!” 

“Atharri’s blessings,” cursed the scout. The sudden interruption left them fog-blinded, mist clinging to their eyes. "Is that you, Siro?" Emery asked, rubbing roughly ate their eyes. She felt cold water seep into her shirt front from the Second's gloved hand still on their shoulder.  

    

“Forgive, scout. Captains orders,” started Siro, their earlier annoyance from the involuntary game of hide-and-seek from looking for them faded to unease. The scouts eyes fogged over like that reminded them of a corpse.

“There’s a fog wall rolling over the river," Siro continued, moving to stand near the door. "and the air…has that strangeness to it. The crew’s on edge. Give it a look?”