Dragomir's Diary

The sphere has been dormant the whole day. That should ease my mind, but it doesn't. It really doesn't. 'cause we discovered something rather chilling despite its dormancy.

We spent Friday night in what looked like a small church. Lined with stone pews and saintly statues rounded and smoothed by time, the interior of the little building also featured a lovely, comfortable coating of sand. We've long since given up dusting our clothes, as the sand is fucking everywhere, and I was quite comfortable flopping down into a big heap of yellow and snoozing away.

Before sleeping, though, we discussed our strategy. We've been belowground for two weeks now, and though Plato kept us on a more-or-less straight path to Iko (he insisted as much, anyway) we've since lost our way. Grylock was in charge of watching for landmarks to establish direction, and he admitted on Friday that, at some point, he'd mucked up and lost his bearings. I guess his mounting illness played a part.

Where are we? No clue.

Where's Iko? No clue.

Where's the exit? No clue.

Where are my hands? On Grylock's neck, but only briefly. We all should've been paying attention to direction.

Given that we fled from an enormous black thing for a long time on Friday, I'm not at all surprised that we're lost. Our strategy at the moment is simply to avoid trouble and hope Iko somehow finds us. I have no doubt in my mind that the prick knows exactly where we are, and that this is all some sick game. His little charade with the Eve clone stinks of a twisted personality.

Eve. Cripes. I wonder where she is. Surely she's doing better than I am. Some day, sweetie, some day...

At any rate, after determining that the enormous black sphere thing was nowhere near us - Celine informally named it the Nothing, since that's kinda what you see when you see it - we bedded down and slept. We stopped moving 'round at roughly 11, assuming we're still counting hours properly (doubtful), so we figured we'd be safe for the weekend.

We probably assumed wrong.

Before sleeping, Celine went looking for the Nothing. She returned to our shelter twenty odd minutes later, telling us that the Nothing was exactly twenty-five blocks to the east-west-north-south. One of those directions. It was, she said, nestled against a leaning tower, a busted flagpole draped over its black shell.

It wasn't there when we got up. Took us an hour of searching to find the Nothing, discovering in the process that it had moved around us while we slept. It moved during the weekend, during that time when nothing fucking moves.

Things don't move on the weekend. That's what the Weekendists say. Only the gods ever do anything on the weekend. The gods, and, I suppose, the rats.

So...

Is it a creation of the rats, and can, therefore, move whenever it likes?

Or...

Is it a god...?

Regardless, I don't think we're ever safe. And that terrifies me. I'm so glad Libby and Fynn stayed with the Dauphine.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Wanderer