He, Elos, the meticulous cataloger, the diligent healer, found himself reduced to the most basic of struggles. His knowledge of plants, vast as it was, felt theoretical in this new, alien environment. He knew what to look for, but where? The sparse trees offered little in the way of familiar edibles. The rocky ground, unyielding, offered no easy burrow for warmth.

And Ivy kept finding ways to get stuck in rock crevices, needing Elos to haul her out by her horns. “Ivy, honestly! You’re a goat! How do you keep doing this?” he’d grumble, and she’d give him a look that clearly said,

“Experience is the best teacher, isn’t it?”

“Fool,” he muttered to himself that night, shivering beneath the thin canopy of a wind-whipped fir. Ivy, for her part, was contentedly chewing her cud and radiating a surprising amount of heat. "You're much warmer than I am, Ivy. Care to share?" Elos grumbled, attempting to snuggle closer to the goat, who simply let out a disgruntled snort, shifting just enough to deny him direct warmth but not moving completely away.

“Fine, be that way. I’ll just freeze,” Elos said, and Ivy, with a barely perceptible sigh, nudged him with her flank, offering a sliver of her natural warmth.

His teeth chattered uncontrollably. "You chose this. You chose freedom over a warm bed, over a full belly.” Ivy stopped chewing, giving him a long, solemn look, as if to say, “Well, technically, you chose this. I just came along for the snacks.”

His self-dialogue was harsh, accusatory. He saw Elder Thevos's stern face in his mind's eye, almost heard the booming pronouncement: 'May the Sun-Blessed One abandon you to the shadows you seek!' Was this the Sun-Blessed One's judgment? Or simply the indifferent reality of a world outside the temple's carefully constructed order? He wasn't sure. The clarity he had felt in the Sanctum, the conviction that had burned so brightly, now flickered, a fragile flame against the vast, dark unknown.

He spent the next day forcing himself to be methodical, despite the growing weakness in his limbs. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. And, he noticed Ivy seemed to be mimicking his every action, as if trying to be helpful—or just mock him, it was hard to tell. “Honestly, Ivy, are you taking notes?” he asked as she stood, staring intently at a patch of moss. She bleated softly, then carefully nibbled a bit of the moss, as if demonstrating its edibility.

He began to apply the very principles the elders had condemned: observation, categorization, understanding. He moved slowly, his eyes scanning the ground, the rocky outcrops, the patches of withered grass. He found a small, meandering stream, its water icy cold but wonderfully clear, and drank deeply, the chill a shock to his system. Ivy stuck her nose in the water, snorted, and looked at Elos with disgust. “Don’t like it, eh?” he chuckled. “Well, I suppose you prefer it when it’s got a touch of… goat pond… to it?” Water. One need, temporarily, met. He filled his waterskin and after a brief rest he moved on.

Foraging for food was harder. And Ivy was no help. Her taste seemed to run exclusively to things that looked thoroughly unappetizing. “Ivy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this… this looks like a dried-up slug,” Elos said, examining a leathery-looking object she had nudged towards him with her nose. She promptly ate it herself. His usual forest bounty of broadleaf greens and sweet berries was absent. The sparse trees here were mostly evergreens, their needles unappetizing, only good for teas and potions.

He remembered old tales from the forgotten scrolls, the ones that spoke of early nomads, and their desperate ingenuity. He recognized a hardy, low-lying shrub, its tough, leathery leaves almost invisible against the grey rock. He'd only read about it, described as a 'mountain potato bush,' its roots edible but extremely bitter if not prepared correctly. He dug with his bare hands, scraping his fingers raw against the unforgiving soil, finally unearthing a small, gnarled tuber. Ivy watched with keen interest, nudging the soil he’d loosened with her nose.

It was bitter, as expected, but offered a surprising burst of energy, a hint of starchy sustenance. He felt a surge of triumph, small but significant. It was not enough, but it was a start. He sketched it meticulously in his water-stained parchment, adding crude notes on its location and method of extraction. Ivy peered at the sketch, then snorted and nibbled on the corner of the parchment. "Ivy! That's my research!" Elos cried, pulling it away just in time. The urge to catalog, so ingrained in him, was a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of his new reality.

He found a shallow cave, little more than an overhang, on the following day, just as the sun began its descent. Ivy seemed pleased with this discovery, marching right in and promptly claiming the driest spot for herself. It wasn’t much, but it offered protection from the biting wind and a patch of dry ground.

With renewed, desperate energy, he gathered fallen branches, twigs, and dry pine needles, remembering the lessons of his youth, though they’d seemed theoretical then. Starting a fire without flint was a slow, arduous process of rubbing two dry sticks together, his already sore hands cramping, his breath ragged. Ivy watched with intense, almost unnerving focus, her head cocked to one side, as if analyzing his technique. She then pawed at a dry leaf pile, as if suggesting better kindling.

But eventually, a wisp of smoke, then a tiny ember, bloomed into a flickering flame. The warmth was an immediate, profound relief, chasing away the cold that had settled deep within him. He huddled close, watching the dancing light, a primal satisfaction filling him. Ivy nudged him gently, as if saying, “About time you got that sorted.”

He was a nomad. This was his reality. And in the heart of this raw existence, the quiet, almost forgotten yearning of his soul began to re-emerge, sharper, more defined than before. The world around him, harsh and unforgiving, was also intensely beautiful, and utterly true. There was no pretense, no dogma, just the intricate, brutal, astonishing dance of life and survival. And he had Ivy, his cantankerous, surprisingly resilient, and oddly comforting goat companion.

Elos's Journal - Approaching the Mountain Pass The ink runs a little, my hands shake from cold and hunger. But I must record. This is Vasal, stripped bare. No temple. No golden light. Just rock and wind and the relentless will to live. And one extremely opinionated goat. It feels… real. Terribly, wonderfully real. Found the 'Mountain Potato Bush' – not its true name, I’ll need to devise a better system. Its roots are tough, bitter, but provide sustenance. Must find a way to leach the bitterness, perhaps slow roasting? Need to experiment. It grows on south-facing slopes, clinging to scree. Hardier than anything I’ve ever seen. A testament to perseverance. Shelter is a small overhang. Fire is life. So simple, yet so profound when you truly earn its warmth.

Tonight, I prayed. Not to a carved sun, but to the vast, star-dusted sky. To the quiet, compassionate force that allows even a bitter root to sustain life. I felt… heard. Not in words, but in the slow easing of the fear, in the warmth of the small fire. This is my sanctuary now. This boundless, unforgiving, beautiful world.

The following week blurred into a pattern of painstaking survival and relentless observation. Elos learned the rhythm of the mountain forest. He discovered that the small, gnarled fir trees provided a resin that, when warmed, could be chewed to alleviate the dryness in his mouth. He learned to identify the subtle shift in wind patterns that signaled an incoming cold front, learned to read the sky for rain long before the first drop fell.

His feet, once accustomed to the smooth paths of Veridia, grew tough and calloused, navigating the uneven terrain with increasing confidence. His hunger remained a constant companion, but it was no longer a paralyzing fear; it was a driving force, a reminder of his connection to the fundamental struggle of all life.