Eldritch Guidance

Side Story 3 - Robert’s Grayland Expedition Journal

-2/11/2988-

Hello, to all who may be reading this. My name is Robert Evan, and I am a scholar at Obsidian Tower University. I specialize in research about the mysterious race known as the Graywalkers. I’m preparing an expedition into the homeland of the Graywalkers, known as the Graylands, and during this expedition, I intend to record my experience in this journal for possible future publication, as many others have done before.

Now, let me provide a brief explanation of how this expedition came to be. It was early in the year when I was approached by a wealthy businessman from Hoxly, a man by the name of Gibber. He was exceptionally elderly, yet still exuded the charisma of someone who had built a considerable fortune in the textile industry. Gibber sought out an expert willing to lead an expedition into the perilous Graylands, and that’s when he came to me.

The purpose of the expedition was to retrieve the mysterious gray flowers. An exceptionally rare and key ingredient in the production of life-extending potions. This was an alchemical ingredient that was traded regularly with the Graywalkers thousands of years ago, before the foolish king Frederick killed one of the Graywalkers.

I swear, if I could go back in time, I would strangle Frederick with my own two hands. That fool killed a Greywalker, convinced that consuming its heart would grant him immortality. How he came up with such a revolting idea, I will never understand. Yet, I find some grim satisfaction in the fact that Frederick discovered firsthand that consuming Greywalker organs is very lethal. Still, I will never forgive him! His reckless actions caused the Graywalkers to retreat deep into the Graylands, where they have almost never been seen since. This has made the task of acquiring Gray flowers infinitely more challenging and has made my work as a scholar of Graywalkers exceedingly difficult.

There are just too few sources of information about the Greywalker to properly understand them. The records of human interaction with them are sparse, and the conversation with the giant that interacted with Graywalkers is unhelpful. The only thing the Giant sages say about the Graywalkers is: “They are not ones to be known or understood.”

Oh, dear. Now, reading this, I seem to have trailed off on another tangent. (Remove rant about Fredrick before publishing)

When Gibber explained that he wanted to acquire Gray flowers, it wasn’t difficult to understand his motive. One look at his deeply wrinkled face and white hair told the story. Although he never explicitly said so, I suspected that he was grappling with age-related health issues and was likely seeking to create life-extending potions to counteract some of those conditions.

Under ordinary circumstances, I’m not sure I would have accepted Gibber's proposal to lead an expedition into the Graylands. The place is exceptionally dangerous, and those who venture there sometimes disappear without a trace. However, my scholarly curiosity was ignited by the prospect. The chance to explore the Graylands, to witness firsthand the environment where the Graywalkers live, and to deepen my understanding of these mysterious creatures was simply too tempting to resist. The substantial fortune Gibber offered for each Gray flower we brought back also sweetened the deal. Just one flower would be enough for me to live in luxury for the rest of my days. (Remove that last part about the money)

I ultimately agreed without hesitation, and the following weeks and months will be spent collaborating closely with Gibber to assemble a team and secure the necessary supplies for the expedition. The preparations will be extensive, with every detail meticulously planned to ensure the success of our venture into the Graylands.

-3/10/2988-

Today, Gibber introduced me to a man named Sam Bueve.

He was a titan of a man. Muscular and stood over seven feet tall (2.15 meters). His size made me wonder if he was giant-kin. Despite Sam’s imposing appearance, he was actually a very pleasant individual. Friendly and amenable to talk with. It was surprising to learn that he was trained as a combat mage and mercenary.

I have always been under the impression that mercenaries were unpleasant people to interact with. But, Sam seemed to fly in the face of that assumption. I guess one should never judge a book by its cover.

Gibber told me that Sam would be in charge of the security detail. I was to talk to Sam and explain the possible dangers we may face while in the Graylands.

I explained to Gibber and Sam that any records of dangers in the Graylands are purely psychological and supernatural. It wasn't something that I believed Sam’s military training could protect against.

Despite my reservations, Sam insisted that he and his mercenary team should be part of the expedition, arguing that there might be physical dangers not accounted for in the records. I could only smile at his persistence. After all, Sam was still a mercenary, clearly looking to secure a lucrative contract from Gibber. Yet, there was some truth to his reasoning. Having a team with combat experience could indeed prove valuable in the unpredictable terrain of the Graylands. And, considering it was Gibber’s money funding the expedition, I saw no reason to object.

In the end, I didn’t attempt to stop Sam’s mercenaries from joining our team. Besides, I was certain that his crew possessed a range of skills beyond combat that would be useful during the expedition. Their presence might even turn out to be an unexpected asset in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

And to be honest, I found Sam quite charming. A man clearly hailing from good blood. I feel like I could trust him.

-3/13/2988-

Today, I was introduced to Sam's mercenary crew. They were a rough, battle-hardened group of men, each one bearing the unmistakable marks of years spent in combat. Their demeanor was gruff and no-nonsense, with an intensity that spoke of countless skirmishes and battles fought. These were not men to be taken lightly; their experience and toughness were evident in the way they carried themselves, always alert, always ready for whatever might come their way. It was clear that Sam had chosen his team well, surrounding himself with individuals who had seen their fair share of danger and lived to tell the tale.

They wore heavy mage combat armor, heavily modified with various additions that made it easy to identify them as part of the same unit. The addition to their armor I could only describe as “Spikey”. It just seemed like a lot of unnecessary sharp edges were added to their armor. Overall it was more intimidating than practical, giving them a menacing appearance that matched their tough demeanor.

It was during this meeting that I met Tom. I did not like Tom.

Personality-wise, he was the complete opposite of Sam. He embodied everything I despised about mercenaries—rude, inconsiderate, and clearly hailing from one of the lower servant classes of an inbred and uncultured unhuman savage. It was obvious by the shape of skull that he came from lesser stock. There was a slightly crazed look in his eyes that set me on edge, making me question his mental stability. I couldn't shake the feeling that he might be a liability to our expedition, as he seemed a little too eager for action, almost trigger-happy. His presence made me uneasy, and I couldn’t help but worry that his recklessness could put us in danger. (Remove the racial insult/slurs and mentions of “inbred” to avoid causing controversy)

I voiced my concerns about Tom to Sam, but Sam quickly tried to reassure me. He insisted that he trusted Tom with his life, emphasizing that Tom had nerves of steel that had never wavered, even in the most extreme combat situations. However, I couldn’t shake my doubts.

Stressful situations and the Graylands were two entirely different beasts. What good were "nerves of steel" in a place that seemed to pervert the laws of nature as the Graylands? The unique dangers we would face there demanded more than just combat experience, and I wasn’t convinced that Tom was equipped to handle them.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t persuade Sam to leave Tom behind. He firmly stated that they were a "package deal," leaving no room for negotiation. Realizing that Sam was immovable on the matter, I decided to drop the issue. However, I resolved to keep a close watch on Tom throughout the entire expedition. His unpredictability made me uneasy, and I knew I’d need to stay vigilant.

-3/15/2988-

It seemed that Sam could still sense my unease about Tom and asked me to watch them work during a training session to assuage my fears. Unfortunately, it did not.

This was also the day that Sam wanted to explain to his men the danger of the Graylands to them, and so I did.

I told them the danger of something we scholars of the Graywalkers call the “Graying”. A supernatural phenomenon that occurs only in the Graylands. For whatever reason, color slowly starts to drain whatever clothing you're wearing and eventually even yourself, until you and everything you're wearing become some shades of gray.

I was laughed at by that detested Tom! Said, “What’s the big deal about clothing turning gray”. Such a fool he is! I had to explain further.

I asked Tom what he thinks happens after a person, and I meant a person, and not the clothing they’re wearing, turned gray. He gazed upon me with his mouth agape, a vacuous expression draped across his face like a mask of profound idiocy. Clearly, there is no answer to grasp in that empty head of his.

My overwhelming knowledge and intelligence are lost on such a simple-minded fool.

Continuing to explain, I told him that once the graying spreads to your flesh, it starts to bleed into your mind. “Your thoughts also become gray,” as another scholar put it. Once that happens, people usually develop an extremely severe case of dissociation, a mental disorder that can stay with you for the rest of your life if you are not careful.

The expression that twisted across Tom's face after I had finished my explanation was a sight that filled me with satisfaction. His eyes, which had moments before blazed with a confident, almost contemptuous fire, now widened with a mix of disbelief and dawning danger.

It was at that moment that I found myself besieged by a barrage of frantic inquiries from Sam's men—once brimming with bravado, but now clearly gripped by an encroaching dread. Their faces, once indifferent or even mocking, had transformed into masks of apprehension. “Would an airtight suit protect us?” one of them stammered, his face pale and twisted with concern. They were all beginning to grasp the true depth of the danger I had been warning about.

I told them an airtight suit wouldn't help. The graying cares not for the air we breathe. It is no poison of the lungs, no miasma that a helmet might filter away. It is a phenomenon that is based on proximity to the Graylands. Once we enter the Graylands the graying will immediately start affecting us.

I could see the fear on the faces of Sam's men deepen as I explained this to them.

Oh, how satisfying it is to watch the arrogant veneer of those once-proud military men crumble before a force they could neither conquer nor comprehend. Their faces, once set in rigid confidence, twisted into horror as they finally grasped the dreadful reality before them—a threat against which their weapons, their strategies, and their very strength were as impotent as children waving sticks against the storm.

Alas, I had my fill of satisfaction from terrifying them at the moment and shifted to placate their fears.

I explained to them that the graying is a very slow process. It also affects the object you carry first, leaving your flesh the last thing to start turning gray. So, if we're quick, we can get into the Graylands and out with only a few pieces of ruined clothing—rather than suffer any of the potential mental debilitation.

This appeared to soothe the nerves of most of Sam’s men, their rigid postures loosening and their eyes no longer darting with frantic uncertainty. Yet, there were still a few among them whose gazes betrayed a lingering dread, eyes that remained clouded with doubt and mistrust.

To those wavering souls, I offered further reassurance. "Prepare yourselves as I instruct, and we shall get through this unharmed," I spoke with a confidence I did not entirely possess, for I knew all too well that there are likely dangers to the Graylands that even I am unaware of.

It is hard for such a great mind as I to know exactly what others are thinking, but I like to think that these men of war finally understand the dangers we face now and might finally begin to respect me.

-3/16/2988-

Today I will meet with a team of engineers and builders. I needed to talk with them to make a necessary device for our expedition into the Graylands.

Within the Graylands no conventional navigation techniques or devices work. The stars do not shine to guide, and there are now known notable landmarks to follow, even a compass does not function in that place.

So, following in the footsteps of scholar Jax, who made a journey into the Graylands a hundred years ago, I prepared for this inevitability. The thing I sought from these craftsmen was a…rope. Yes, a most primitive technology, but necessary. I intend to leave behind a large rope as we travel the Graylands, using it to help find our way out, as Jax had done.

Since there is no normal way to navigate the Graylands, this rope will be our group's lifeline, the thing that will guide us out of that place. As such, It must be flawless—impervious to any strain that might seek to sever it—and of a length sufficient to plunge deep into the Graylands.

It will also need a machine capable of deploying and reeling in that rope. I assume this machine will have to be of substantial size and mechanical power.

I realized as I write this. In a manner most uncanny, this rope would serve similar to that of a cable for a diving bell of old, which once bore intrepid souls down into the unexplored depths of the ocean. It is somewhat poetic.

I will update my journal tomorrow after I speak with the engineers.

-3/17/2988-

I have conferred with the engineers, and they have guaranteed what I seek can be made. A rope that will not be easily broken that is light enough for us to carry and leave behind as we travel. And, a machine capable of deploying the cable and retracting it.

They recommended a cable made from a relatively newly discovered alloy that they called “Silter” or “Lesser Jinsil”. It does have all the properties I was seeking… but the price.

It seemed the reason they referred to it as "lesser jinsil" lay in its composition—a curious alloy forged from iron and the rare substance known as darlight. Darlight, I was told, is a vital component in the creation of jinsil. As you might surmise from mentioning jinsil, the figure quoted to me was anything but modest.

Jinsil is prohibitively expensive and highly sought out for suppressing aetheric energies, so the materials used to make jinsil are also very expensive. A cable crafted from silter would cost less than half the price of one made from pure jinsil. Yet, even with this compromise, the length of cable required for the expedition would be considerable, and the expenses would still mount to an uncomfortable amount.

I don’t like the prospect of using a hemp rope, like Jax did with his expedition. A simple rope might suffice, but I desired something far sturdier—something less prone to fray and snap when faced with the unknown perils that lay ahead. It became clear I would need to consult Gibber. Perhaps he, with his network of contacts and business dealings, could procure the silter cable at a more reasonable price.

Worst case scenario, we can always use a regular iron or steel cable. We just won’t be able to travel as far due to weight constrictions.

In the meantime, I would have a week to prepare for my next meeting with Gibber—a week to plan and refine my arguments, to find the precise words that might sway him into obtaining the silter cable I so desperately needed.

-3/24/2988-

I fear I have gravely underestimated Gibber's desperation for the elusive gray flowers—or, perhaps, I have misjudged the extent of his wealth. When I disclosed to him the exorbitant sum required for the materials I sought, I fully expected a drawn-out negotiation, perhaps even a complete refusal. Instead, to my astonishment, he agreed without hesitation.

And… that was it. I spent so much time preparing to convince him, and he just agreed. No questions asked.

I'm not used to this. Working for the Obsidian Towers in a field that is not very valued, I’m more used to fighting with people to get the necessary funding for my department. Thus, the ease with which Gibber agreed to provide the funds for my current undertaking felt profoundly alien. The sudden shift from grappling with financial gatekeepers to being granted my request without a hint of hesitation was disorienting.

This feeling was further compounded by Gibber unexpectedly providing additional funds, insisting I hire the entire team of engineers I had talked with. To make them part of the expedition team. Obviously, this would be greatly helpful. Having a team of skilled engineers on hand would ensure our equipment remained in working order amidst the strange terrain and unpredictable conditions. Yet, such a notion had not even crossed my mind; I had been focused on adhering to a reasonable budget, carefully weighing every expense. I might have hired a single engineer or two, but hiring a full team of engineers would push us well beyond the bounds of what could be considered reasonable. It seemed excessive—almost recklessly so.

Yet, Gibber dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand, telling me not to worry about the money—that such sums were of no consequence to him. His words hung in the air, a casual dismissal of what most would consider a fortune. In a single breath, the modest budget I had painstakingly calculated was swept aside and replaced with an amount that had suddenly expanded tenfold, with the promise of even more if necessary. It was a gesture that left me reeling.

Could a man from the textile industry really have that much money?

To see someone like Gibber toss around such a staggering amount of money with such casual disregard forced me to reconsider who he truly was. The question flickered briefly in my mind, only to be quickly discarded. Men who possess the ability to spend vast sums without a second thought are seldom benign, and probing too deeply into their affairs often invites danger. To ask who they really are or to pry into the origins of their wealth is to risk them showing you their fangs.

So, I left it at that.

-5/02/2988-

After weeks of meticulous preparation, we were finally ready to embark on our journey to the Graylands. The trek to the border would take just over two weeks, slowed by the sheer volume of supplies and equipment packed into our caravan. However, there was no urgency in our pace; the true need for speed would come once we ventured deep into the heart of the Graylands, where time would become a far more precious commodity.

Sam assured me that his men were ready and that they had read the document I had given to him and his men to read to better prepare themselves. Sam’s assurance was not merely a formality—it was a solemn declaration that they were as ready as any mortal could be.

The tone in which Sam was assuring me was undercut by Tom’s witty comments. He was trying to be a smart ass and say this would be easier than fighting endless war cultists. How I wanted to smack him for ruining Sam's speech he made to me. This would be a long journey with that fool tagging along.

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-5/05/2988-

Why does misfortune cling to me so relentlessly? We had barely set out from Hoxly—no more than a day on the road—and already disaster struck. One of the trucks in our caravan faltered, its engine stuttering and choking before we were forced to pull over. Of all the vehicles to break down, it had to be the one carrying the precious silter cable—the very lifeline we would depend on once we ventured into the Graylands. With such a critical load immobilized, the entire caravan ground to a halt, unable to press forward.

The engineers quickly swarmed around the truck, their tools clinking as they examined the malfunction. After what felt like an eternity of tense waiting, they assured me the issue could be resolved, though not until tomorrow. A wave of relief washed over me, but only briefly. Thank the Light we had a full team of engineers on hand—had it been otherwise, we might have languished here for days, all due to this mechanical failure. Though I had told myself there was no rush, I still longed to have this endeavor finished before the year's end.

As if being stranded on the roadside wasn’t frustrating enough, I found myself stuck in conversation with Tom for the better part of the day—a situation that tested both my patience and my sanity. The man, with his slow-witted prattle and vacant expressions, grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I feared that prolonged exposure to his inbred idiocy might dull my own senses, as if his foolishness were some contagious affliction. Each mindless comment he made left me feeling as though my intellect was being steadily eroded, one nonsensical remark at a time.

How could such a man have found his way onto this expedition? His presence alone felt like an insult to Sam, a respectable man of good blood. If this was the caliber of person I had to endure along the way, then all the more reason to press forward quickly—before the Graylands claimed not only my time and resources but perhaps my sanity as well.

-5/07/2988-

Two days have passed since the truck’s breakdown. In truth, little of note has occurred since the incident—just endless stretches of road, the landscape blurring into an indistinct haze as we pressed onward. The days have been consumed by nothing more than the hum of engines and the ceaseless crunch of tires against gravel, a slow crawl through miles of empty, unremarkable terrain.

To stave off the crushing boredom, I’ve buried myself in a few books, trying to keep my mind engaged as the hours drag by.

The only occurrence of any interest was during our brief stop at a small, isolated town along the way. The locals I spoke with seemed gripped by a quiet but palpable unease, their conversations laced with hushed whispers of an impending war. According to the rumors circulating, the Union States was on the brink of launching an invasion into Gix, setting the stage for a conflict that would engulf the region.

Now, I’ve never claimed to be a man well-versed in the world of geopolitics, but from what I understand, there hasn't been a major war between Gix and the Union States for centuries. The occasional skirmish at the border, yes—small, inconsequential spats that hardly merited attention. But a full-blown war? That seemed far-fetched. I chalked it up to nothing more than idle speculation, the kind of rumors that small towns tend to breed in the absence of real news. Still, I couldn’t shake the nagging thought that I might be wrong, and the consequences if I were wrong would be disastrous.

A war between Gix and the Union States would decimate our expedition before we even reached our destination, as the Graylands were right on the border. Going anywhere near the border while a war is going on would not be the greatest idea. I could only hope that these rumors would die as quickly as they had arisen.

-5/08/2988-

Today, we made our way through a stretch of dense woodland, the trees towering overhead and casting long shadows across the road. Yet, despite the change in scenery, nothing of real interest occurred. The day passed in a sort of dull haze, my mind more occupied with avoiding the insufferable company of Tom than with the surrounding landscape. His incessant chatter was like the persistent drone of a fly, always hovering on the edge of my awareness, but I managed to keep my distance, retreating into the pages of the book I’d been reading to maintain some semblance of peace.

In truth, the monotony has settled in fully now. There’s little worth documenting—just the endless road ahead and the tedious crawl of time. Unless something of note happens in the coming days, I see little reason to continue updating this journal for the time being. For now, I’ll leave these entries in silence, waiting for something—anything—of worth to record.

-5/11/2988-

Our route brought us near the towering presence of Everflow Mountain, a sight that never fails to inspire awe, no matter how many times one encounters it. The sheer magnitude of the mountain is beyond description—a monolithic titan that seems to defy reason. As we traveled along the road, its vast form dominated the western horizon, its peak piercing the sky, veiled in the mist like some ancient deity watching over the land.

Even though this marks the third time in my life that I’ve laid eyes upon Everflow Mountain, its majesty remains undiminished. Each time feels like the first, the overwhelming scale of it stirring something within me—a mix of wonder and insignificance. No matter how familiar I become with its silhouette, I find myself captivated by its immensity, its rugged cliffs and sprawling ridges stretching out as far as I can see. It is the kind of sight that humbles you, reminding you that, in the grand scheme of things, you are but a fleeting speck against the backdrop of something timeless and enduring.

It still boggles my mind that such a colossal and imposing mountain as the Everflow is not the tallest on the continent, but rather the second. Its sheer size and majesty would make one assume it held the top position, yet the title of the highest peak still belongs to the distant, snow-laden giants of the Toegorea Mountain Range, far to the east in the Union States.

Even knowing this fact doesn’t make it any easier to accept. Standing in Everflow's shadow, with its massive slopes stretching endlessly upward, it feels impossible that there could be something grander, something towering even higher. The mountains of Toegorea must truly be beyond comprehension if they dwarf Everflow, for I can scarcely imagine anything more awe-inspiring than what now looms before me.

It dawned on me today that, for all the times I’ve marveled at Everflow Mountain, I have never truly beheld its southern side—the place where its famed waters cascade from hidden heights, forming those colossal waterfalls that give birth to the Everflow River. That mighty river, winding its way through the landscape, nourishes the fertile lands of Harvest Valley, turning the region into one of the most abundant farmlands on the continent.

It’s a wonder I’ve never made the journey to witness such a site with my own eyes. To see those waterfalls plunging from the mountain's heights, to stand at the source of the river that sustains so many lives. The thought stirs something within me—a longing to explore more of this great mountain than the glimpses I’ve been afforded over the years.

Once this expedition is behind me, I believe I shall make it a priority to travel southward and take in those sights for myself.

-5/12/2988-

I cannot help but feel like an utter fool. Why I ever gave Tom the benefit of the doubt remains a mystery to me now, a lapse in judgment I should have known better than to make.

Today, after the long, wearisome drive that seemed to stretch on endlessly throughout the day, Tom approached me with that same irritating persistence. He was full of questions—questions about the Graywalkers. His curiosity appeared genuine enough on the surface at the time.

The notes I had provided to Sam and his men about the Graylands offered little in the way of explanation concerning those enigmatic beings themselves. At the time, I hadn't felt it necessary to burden them with such knowledge. After all, there seemed no reason to believe we would encounter them on this expedition.

Tom, in his usual curiosity, asked me about the Graywalkers—how they acted and what they looked like.

Being asked questions about Graywalkers sparked my passion as a scholar of these strange beings. And, I began to explain wholeheartedly about them.

I described the Graywalkers to him, attempting to paint a vivid picture of their appearance. I told them they were something akin to a giant-kin in stature—towering but with long, thin limbs. Their skin, though, was a smooth, pallid gray, like ash or stone, devoid of any hair. What truly set them apart, however, were their eyes—large and obsidian black, with no visible pupils, vast and expressionless.

Their heads were large and bulbous, almost disproportionate to the rest of their frame, giving them an alien and unnerving appearance. Three elongated fingers extended from each hand, and their feet, similarly, had only three toes. They stood upright, but unlike any human—they moved on digitigrade legs, similar to some beasts.

The mere memory of seeing the sole Greywalker specimen preserved and encased in amber beneath the Obsidian Towers still sends a chill through me. There was something so strange about these beings.

From there, I began to share what scant knowledge we had gathered of the Graywalkers' culture—a subject that fascinated me, even if the details were elusive and fragmented. I had barely scratched the surface when Tom interrupted with a question so arrogant and shortsighted that it made my blood pressure spike. He asked, with a smugness that only the ignorant can provide, how one would go about killing a Graywalker, as if they were mere beasts to be hunted.

The question stirred a deep sense of frustration and anger within me, a surge of indignation I struggled to contain. It was infuriating to think that this inbred, unhuman, unthinking fool had shown even a moment’s interest in my field of study! His inquiry wasn’t born from curiosity or a desire to understand these ancient beings. No, it was the kind of brutish, instinctual thought that disregarded the mystery and complexity of their existence in favor of base violence.

He attempted to justify his question, claiming he merely wanted to know how we could better defend ourselves against the Graywalkers, but I wasn't having it. His defense was flimsy, nothing more than a poor excuse for his ignorant bloodlust. The truth is, the Graywalkers have never posed a threat to anyone—if anything, the opposite is closer to reality. Humans, with our fear of the unknown and our tendency to destroy what we cannot understand, are far more dangerous to the Graywalkers than they have ever been to us.

For a moment, I felt ashamed that I had even entertained the notion that he might be capable of genuine interest in my work, that beneath his vacant stares and crude comments there might be some flicker of intelligence. But this—this arrogant question—only confirmed what I had suspected all along: that Tom was an unworthy mind, the result of being from bad blood. The thought of discussing the Graywalkers any further with him made me feel as though I were wasting my breath.

I made it abundantly clear to both Tom and Sam that, on the off chance—one in a million—that we ever cross paths with a Greywalker, under no circumstances are we to harm it.

-5/13/2988-

Another day of endless driving, with the road stretching ahead in the same monotonous fashion. My irritation with Tom still simmers from yesterday’s conversation, and it seems even he has sensed the tension. He’s been keeping his distance, a fact I welcome wholeheartedly. Honestly, I’d be quite content if I never had to exchange another word with him for the remainder of this journey. His absence, however slight, is a relief.

We’re about three days from reaching our destination now, drawing closer to the border of the Graylands with every mile. The anticipation of what lies ahead grows heavier, but for now, the journey remains uneventful. Unless something of note happens over the next few days, I see little reason to update this journal again until we reach the edge of the Graylands—where the true journey will begin. Until then, I’ll savor the silence and keep my thoughts focused on the task ahead.

-5/16/2988-

We have finally arrived at our destination: the Irioa Grasslands. Stretching endlessly before us was a vast expanse of vibrant green, the grasslands rolling and undulating in gentle waves beneath the sky. The sheer openness of the landscape was overwhelming—a seemingly infinite sea of emerald, unmarred by even a single tree for miles in any direction.

The air here feels different—cleaner, crisper, as if untouched by the hand of man. The horizon blends seamlessly with the sky, where the land meets the heavens in a hazy, shimmering line. It's a strange contrast to the claustrophobic forests and craggy mountains we’ve passed, and the sheer emptiness has a power all its own, like an ancient, forgotten realm unbothered by the passage of time. There's a sense of quiet isolation here, as though the grasslands have been waiting, undisturbed, for centuries for someone to set foot upon them.

As I write this, I find myself utterly surrounded by nature, with not a single structure in sight—save for the imposing gray stone that looms directly in front of me. It stands as a silent sentinel.

I turn my gaze to the right and left, and I can see more of these stones scattered throughout the landscape. They form a line, marking the border of the Graylands.

In my studies of the Graywalkers, I have traveled here to examine these formidable stones many times. Known as the Gray Monoliths, these colossal structures rise majestically to a height of twenty feet (6 meters), their surfaces smooth and cold. Each one is ten feet wide (3 meters), and their dimensions are rectangular, casting long shadows across the vibrant grasslands.

On the surface of the towering monolith before me lies a script with the same phrase repeating, intricately carved, and wholly visible to the eyes. Though I cannot decipher its language, I know what it says. Every monolith has the same thing written on it, but each one is written in a different tongue from a diverse array of cultures. As if to ensure whoever came across these stones could understand what was written upon them, regardless of what nation one hails from.

The inscription upon stones reads: “There is no truth, and there is no falsehood. There are only shades of gray.”

Even now, I cannot shake the feeling that these words hold a profound significance—cryptic wisdom that transcends mere language. The phrase suggests a world of ambiguity, where absolutes crumble under the weight of perspective and perception.

I have often pondered the meaning behind these cryptic words and why they were chosen to adorn the monoliths that mark the boundary of the Graylands. Were they intended as a warning? Perhaps a final message left by the Graywalkers—some last piece of wisdom they wished to impart before retreating into their mysterious domain?

These monoliths themselves also present an array of perplexing questions. How is it possible for the same phrase to be inscribed on them in multiple languages? What mechanism lies behind the uncanny phenomenon that occurs when one of these gray monoliths is removed from its place—only for another to seemingly materialize out of thin air when no one is looking? And who, or what, placed them here in the first place? Were they the work of the Graywalkers, or is there something else at play?

So many inquiries swirl in my mind, each one adding to the mysteries that surround me. Yet, I am keenly aware that the answers may remain out of reach during this expedition. The Graylands are a realm steeped in secrets, and as I stand before these silent sentinels, I must accept that some truths may evade my grasp, leaving me with more questions than I can possibly hope to answer.

As I gazed beyond the imposing monoliths into the depths of the Graylands, I noticed nothing overtly peculiar about the landscape. It appeared as if the vibrant grasslands simply continued their sprawling embrace, stretching endlessly into the distance. Yet, if the accounts I have read hold any truth, there is an unsettling transformation that occurs the farther one ventures from the monoliths. As you distance yourself from these ancient sentinels, the world around you gradually begins to dissolve into an eerie palette of gray, where vibrant colors fade and the very essence of reality seems to blur. The thought of traversing that ambiguous terrain sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a mixture of dread and fascination within me.

At present, the team of engineers we brought along is hard at work assembling the machine designed to deploy and reel in the silter cable. The machine itself is an imposing piece of equipment, nearly the size of one of the vehicles we drove in on, its complex array of gears and mechanical parts giving it a hulking, industrial appearance. Thick exhaust pipes protrude from its body, and when activated, it will no doubt bellow out great plumes of black smoke, choking the air with the scent of burning oil and metal. The engineers move with precision and focus, their hands deftly navigating the tangle of machinery, knowing full well that any malfunction in this contraption could spell disaster for the expedition.

Once fully assembled, the machine will be securely anchored in place, its massive frame rooted into the ground to prevent any movement. The plan is to split our caravan into two groups—one half will remain behind, tasked with operating the machine and ensuring the cable feeds smoothly as we press onward.

The silter cable will be attached to one of our heavy-duty vehicles, and from there, we will begin our journey into the heart of the Graylands—dragging the cable behind us like a lifeline tethered to the outside world. Should we locate what we’re searching for in this mysterious land, the cable will be our guide, reeling us back toward safety and out of the Graylands' disorienting grasp.

Given that time will become difficult to keep track of within the Graylands, I have instructed the team remaining behind to initiate the reeling process once five days have elapsed. This calculated strategy will provide a semblance of structure amid the chaos, ensuring that we don’t accidentally spend too much time there.

In the meantime, we will remain here for at least two days, ensuring that both the team and our equipment are fully prepared before we embark on the journey ahead.

-5/17/2988-

Sam approached me today, once again asking questions about the Graylands—questions I had already answered long ago. His inquiries were the same tired ones, the kind made by someone searching for reassurance rather than knowledge. Yet, there was something different about Sam this time—something unsettling in his demeanor. His usual jovialness seemed diminished, replaced by a palpable sense of unease that he could no longer hide. It was fear, plain and simple, bubbling to the surface, despite his earlier attempts to mask it.

I suspect Sam had been putting on a brave face, trying to conceal his growing anxiety about the expedition. But now, standing at the very edge of the Graylands—where the tension was at a high—his unease had become undeniable.

I can’t say I blame him. The Graylands is not a normal place, and as much as I try to keep a rational mind about this task, I even feel the unease that this land instills. Sam, however, seems more vulnerable to it. He’s been hiding his fear behind hollow questions and nervous laughter, but now that we’re on the brink of crossing into the unknown, it’s clear that the facade is beginning to crumble.

I offered him what reassurance I could, though I knew that words alone would not calm his nerves. The Graylands test everyone differently, and Sam will have to confront his fears soon enough. Whether he can face them or not remains to be seen, but fear is a dangerous companion in a place like this.

Still, I have faith in Sam. A man hailing from good stock will often reveal the nobility of his bloodline under pressure, and I trust that when the time comes, Sam will rise to the occasion. What concerns me more is Tom. The Graylands have a way of unraveling even the sturdiest minds, and I cannot imagine that the strange, shifting nature of this place will have a positive effect on that fool’s already questionable mental capabilities.

I pulled Sam aside and asked him to keep a close watch on Tom during the expedition. I suggested, in no uncertain terms, that it might be wiser to leave Tom behind with the team staying outside the Graylands, where his ineptitude could do less harm. But Sam, ever loyal, pushed back. I could see it in his eyes—he was defending his friend, refusing to entertain the idea that Tom might be a liability to us all.

I wish Sam would see reason. His loyalty, though admirable, is misplaced in this instance. Tom’s presence could become a burden we may not be able to afford once we cross the threshold into the Graylands. The pressure of navigating such a perilous and alien environment requires clear heads and calm resolve, neither of which I can count on from Tom.

Yet Sam would not listen, his stubbornness matching my own. I can only hope that his loyalty to Tom does not cloud his judgment in more critical moments. For now, I must trust in Sam’s ability to keep Tom in check, but a deep sense of unease lingers. If we are not careful, Tom’s weakness may become a crack in our expedition—one that could widen into a chasm of regret. I fear we may regret the decision not to leave him behind.

-5/18/2988-

Today, we finally departed into the Graylands. The moment had come, and despite the looming apprehension, everything seemed to be working as intended. The engineers, ever diligent, assured me that the machinery was in perfect working order, with each component thoroughly checked and double-checked. Their confidence gave me a measure of comfort.

With a vehicle pulling the silter cable leading our convoy, we ventured cautiously into the Graylands proper. The moment we crossed the threshold marked by the towering monoliths, there was a palpable shift in the air—a strange stillness that seemed to cling to us, as if the very land itself were watching.

As we traveled deeper into the Graylands, every one of us, myself included, was adorned in the most colorful, flamboyant clothing imaginable. Our group moved like a living rainbow, a myriad of colors. The vehicles, too, were painted similarly, splashed with vibrant hues that seemed absurd. Some of Sam’s men grumbled about how ridiculous they looked, their pride wounded by the spectacle we made of ourselves. I’ll admit, part of me agreed—there was something undeniably comical about our appearance, like a troupe of wandering clowns in a strange land.

But this was no act of vanity or frivolity. This was required. I reminded those who complained that the bright colors were a necessity, not a choice. "The Graying is a slow and insidious process," I told them, "and the more we surround ourselves with vivid hues, the better chance we have of delaying its effects." It was better for our clothing and equipment to turn gray than ourselves.

These vibrant colors were our defense against the creeping effects of this land from overtaking us. The logic was simple enough: the Graylands would drain the bright color of our clothing first, before ourselves. Why it works this way, I do not know. The fact remained that the colorful clothing and painted vehicles slowed the graying.

Even as I spoke to the men, I could see the doubt lingering in their eyes, but none dared voice further objections. They knew as I did. The Graylands had claimed many before us, and if we were to avoid joining them, we needed every advantage we could muster—even if that advantage meant dressing ourselves in the garb of jesters.

As we continued our journey across the grasslands, the surrounding landscape looked much the same as the Irioa Grasslands we had left behind. Endless rolling hills of vibrant emerald green stretched out in every direction, blending seamlessly with the clear, cloudless blue skies above. At a glance, it felt as though we hadn’t crossed any threshold at all, as if the Graylands were merely an extension of the world we already knew.

The air was still, unnervingly so, with no wind to stir the grass. Only the hum of the engines of the vehicles we traveled in pierced the silence. The place was serene, almost unnaturally calm, but that calmness was not comforting. Instead, it wrapped around us like a shroud, lulling the mind into a false sense of peace. There was something insidious in the stillness, something that gnawed at the edges of my awareness.

Even as I gazed out at the familiar scenery—the same bright hues of grass, the same vast skies—I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was beginning to slip. And my suspicions were confirmed as we continued our advance.

Slowly, I began to notice the subtle change in the surrounding landscape. The once-vibrant green of the grass, so full of life and energy near the Gray Monoliths, had started to dull. What had been a brilliant emerald hue now appeared muted, as though someone had drained the richness from it, leaving it looking washed out.

The sky, too, had lost some of its former brilliance. The vivid blue that had once stretched above us like an endless expanse of crystal-clear water now appeared faded, as if the color were being leached from the very fabric of the heavens.

It wasn’t something that happened all at once; it was gradual, a slow and creeping transformation, as though the Graylands were subtly erasing the vibrancy of the world, one shade at a time.

The further we ventured, the more pronounced the effect became. The colors of the surrounding environment, once so bold and full of contrast, now seemed to be fading into one another, blending into a dull palette of grays and muted tones. There was no sharp line marking the shift, no sudden change to signal we had crossed into the heart of the Graylands. It was like we were traveling on a giant gradient from bright colors to various shades of gray.

I found myself glancing nervously at the others in the caravan, wondering if they noticed it too—the slow unraveling of the world’s color, the subtle warping of reality around us. Some of the men squinted at the horizon with puzzled expressions on their faces, but no one spoke. Perhaps they were trying to convince themselves it was all in their heads, just a trick of the light or the effects of fatigue. But I knew better. This was no illusion, no mere figment of imagination. This was the Graylands at work.

We continued traveling for some time before some of Sam's men expressed fatigue. We decided to find a place to make camp for the day.

-5/19/2988?-

A day has passed since we entered the Graylands, at least, I think it’s been a day?

Before we entered the Graylands, as part of an experiment, I made sure to bring two watches and synchronize them perfectly together. But examining them when I woke up, they both had completely different times on them. At least a four-hour difference.

I had known this would happen, of course, but witnessing it firsthand was an entirely different experience. The records I have read speak of how keeping track of time in the Graylands was said to be impossible. Mechanical tools were unreliable here, particularly those designed to measure things like time. They would unexpectedly give back bad information or suddenly break down due to some strange influence of the Graylands.

Even some of the vehicles in our caravan were not safe from these inexplicable mechanical failures. Engines that had been perfectly functional before we crossed the border into the Graylands now sputtered and choked as Sam’s men had trouble starting them this morning. The team of engineers we had brought along—a precaution I now realized was more essential than I had initially believed—were busy diagnosing and repairing the problems. They worked diligently, hunching over the machines, their faces etched with concern as they wrestled with malfunctions they couldn’t fully explain.

I could see that even more unease was beginning to spread among the crew. Some of the men exchanged worried glances as they watched the mechanics work. The vehicles that had once seemed sturdy, built to withstand the harshest environments, now appeared vulnerable—susceptible to forces we do not understand.

And as if the mechanical failures weren’t enough, tracking time in the Graylands proved utterly futile. Days? Hours? It was all meaningless here. At some point during our journey, I realized the sun had vanished entirely from the sky—slipped away without any warning. There had been no sunset, no fading light to signal its departure. One moment it was there, and the next, the heavens above us had transformed into a uniform expanse of gray, an endless stretch of dull monochrome that swallowed the horizon.

Yet, curiously, despite the absence of the sun, the world around us remained illuminated. It wasn’t the soft glow of dusk or the dimness of twilight. It was a strange, pervasive brightness, as though the sky itself had taken on the role of the sun. There were no shadows, no variance in the light. It was as if the Graylands had created their own unsettling version of daylight—a flat, artificial illumination that stripped the land of depth and contrast.

I couldn’t help, but wonder if what we were seeing—or, more accurately, not seeing—was the result of some vast illusion. Perhaps the entire Graylands were shrouded in a strange, omnipresent veil that masked the sun from view, hiding it behind an endless curtain of gray. Was this some natural phenomenon, a quirk of the land itself, or was it something entirely else?

Whatever the case, the effects were disorienting. Without the sun to mark the passage of time, we were left in a kind of limbo, unsure of how many hours had passed or how many more lay ahead.

It was unsettling to think that this was only the beginning. How much stranger would things become the further we ventured into the heart of the Graylands?

I will update the journal if anything of interest happens.

-2nd Rest-

I have resorted to a crude method of tracking our time here—counting the number of times we stop to sleep. It is far from accurate, as the duration of our rest periods has become increasingly difficult to gauge. Without the sun to mark the passage of hours and with our clocks rendered useless, there is no longer any meaningful way to grasp the flow of time. We sleep when we feel the need, wake when we are able, and continue onward, all while the gray sky hangs over us, static and unmoving.

I believe that, at the time I am writing this, we are fully In the Graylands now.

The further we ventured, the last traces of color drained from the world around us. At first, there had still been faint hints of green in the grass, though muted and washed-out, as if struggling to cling to its former vibrancy. But now, where we stand, all color has vanished entirely. The grass beneath our feet is a uniform shade of gray, blending seamlessly into a rolling hill of grassy gray. It is as though the very essence of life has been leached from the land, leaving behind nothing but a desolate monochrome.

It feels as if we’ve stepped into an old black-and-white film, one of those reels where the world exists only in shades of shadow and light. The effect is uncanny and disorienting. There is no vibrancy left here—no warmth—only an endless, oppressive grayscale that stretches in every direction. The sky, the ground, and even the air itself seem to have adopted this dull, lifeless pallor.

With the vibrant colors we wear, we stand out in stark, almost painful contrast against the background of gray. We look like foreign objects in an alien landscape, loud and jarring against the subdued world around us. As if we are a disruption, an anomaly in a place where life has long since surrendered to the slow, creeping decay of time and hue.

I can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the vibrant, brightly colored clothing we’ve donned. Even if the graying wasn't a threat to us, I suspect that being immersed in this endless expanse of gray would have taken its toll on our minds. There is something profoundly unsettling about the sheer monotony of this landscape—an oppressive uniformity that weighs on the soul. Without the bold hues of our caravan breaking the bleakness, I wonder how long it would take for the Graylands to dull not only our surroundings but also our very spirits.

Thankfully we didn’t have any trouble with the engines of our vehicles and were able to depart right away after we rested.

I sincerely hope we find the gray flowers soon and can leave this place behind. Already, I feel as though I've had more than my fill of the Graylands.

-3nd Rest-

I…had a very strange dream last night. In it, I found myself as a child once more, standing in my Meemaw's kitchen—the warm, familiar smell of baking filling the air. The old kitchen looked exactly as I remembered it—wooden cabinets, the floral-patterned curtains swaying slightly as if from a breeze, though the windows were closed. The warmth of the oven wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, and there she stood, my Meemaw, as real as the day she passed.

She greeted me with a smile that seemed to light up the entire room—the kind of smile only she could give, full of love and understanding. Without a word, she handed me one of her famous oatmeal cookies, still warm, whose scent was a mix of cinnamon and vanilla. I could almost taste the cookie before I bit into it—sweet, soft, and perfectly baked, just as I remembered from countless afternoons spent in that kitchen.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would keep such personal musings to myself, but this experience was so peculiar that I felt compelled to document it. I haven't thought about my meemaw in years—her memory, though cherished, had receded into the background of my mind, overshadowed by the demands of adulthood and the burdens of the current expedition. Yet, this dream was unlike anything I have ever encountered; it was the most vivid dream I can recall, rich with detail and emotion.

When I woke, I found myself grappling with a strange uncertainty. For a brief, disorienting moment, I questioned whether I had actually just been there in that kitchen, experiencing those cherished moments seconds ago—that was how real it felt. I couldn’t tell if it was a memory, a dream, or something that just happened.

But what unsettled me most about this dream was that I experienced it in monochrome. The vibrant colors of my childhood, the warm browns of my meemaw's kitchen, the golden hues of the sunlight filtering through the window—everything was stripped away, leaving behind a stark palette of grays.

Initially, I harbored concerns that I might already be succumbing to the graying effect of this strange land. However, a glance at my brightly colored tent and the vibrant hues of my clothing offered a moment of reassurance. The bold reds and blues stood in stark contrast to the encroaching grayness that surrounded us, providing a small sanctuary of color amid the desolation.

From what I had read, the onset of the graying process typically required a more extended exposure to the Graylands than we had endured thus far. It was said to creep upon a person slowly, like a fog rolling in from the sea, dulling senses and spirits alike.

What could this all mean? Is it simply a manifestation of my own psyche, a way to escape the relentless grayness that now surrounds me? Or is it a harbinger of something more sinister?

-4th Rest-

As the caravan continued its slow, deliberate crawl through the rolling hills of muted gray, I noticed that everyone in the group was scanning the desolate landscape with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Their eyes darted from one stretch of the bleak, colorless grass to another, searching for the elusive prize that had brought us to this forsaken land—the gray flowers.

Somewhere, hidden among the uniform monotony of this strange place, these mysterious blooms were said to grow. Their reputation as a rare and powerful alchemical ingredient for life extension was what lured us here, yet we were having no luck.

Some of the men had resorted to scanning the bleak horizon through binoculars, their eyes fixed on the endless waves of gray grass in the hope of spotting even the faintest hint of a gray flower. I could sense their growing unease, a quiet desperation tightening its grip on the group.

I understood their urgency all too well. The Graylands had a way of unsettling even the strongest of us. My own resolve had been shaken after the vivid, monochrome dream I experienced during our last rest. The lingering memory of it clung to my thoughts, casting a shadow over my every step. Like them, I wanted nothing more than to find the flowers and be done with this place. The moment we discovered even a single bloom, we could make our retreat, following along the silter cable we dragged behind us and out of this place.

Sam and I came to a decision earlier today—our next rest would be our last before we begin the journey back out of the Graylands. It was difficult to say exactly how long we had been in this colorless place. Time, like everything else here, seemed to lose its meaning. But, judging by the number of rests we had taken, we could safely assume it had been close to five days. Soon, the crew waiting beyond the Graylands would start the slow process of reeling the silter cable back, whether we had found what we came for or not.

The knowledge that time was running out sharpened everyone’s resolve, especially since failure meant that we'd have to plunge back into this forsaken land once we regrouped. The thought weighed heavily on us all, and I could see it in the faces of the men. They redoubled their efforts, tirelessly scanning the landscape for any sign of the elusive gray flower. Every hill and every patch of grass was scrutinized with heightened desperation as if the flower might be hiding just beyond the next ridge.

For all our sakes, I pray someone finds it soon. I’ve had my fill of this place—its unnatural stillness, its eerie monochrome, and the strange dreams that linger like a fog in the corners of my mind. Once we escape the Graylands, I hope it will be for the last time. Whatever scholarly curiosity first brought me here had long been satisfied. Now, the only desire that remained was to leave and never return.

-5th Rest-

Blast it all! No luck, no trace of the gray flowers we came so far to find. We spent the entirety of yesterday traveling—hours upon hours across those endless, monotonous hills of gray, each looking the same as the last. For every rise we crested, I hoped we might find something—some sign of the flowers hiding in the landscape, or anything else—but all we encountered was more of the same: barren, gray grassy hills stretching into infinity.

As I write this, we are retracing our path, following the silter cable we laid down to guide us out of the Graylands. Judging by the number of times we’ve rested—about five so far—we estimate it will take another five rests to fully exit this color-drained wasteland.

Once we’re free of these lands, the plan is to return to the nearest town. There, we’ll resupply, rest, and regroup for at least a week or two before even considering another expedition into the Graylands. I had prepared myself mentally for the possibility of multiple trips into this eerie place, knowing the elusive gray flowers might not be found on the first attempt. But now that I’ve actually been here and felt the unsettling strangeness that permeates the air, I’m far less eager to return.

Even so, I cling to the hope that we might stumble upon a gray flower on our way back. Just one. That’s all we need to fulfill our contract with Gibber. Just one flower, and we can escape this bleak landscape without looking back. Perhaps fate will take pity on us—on me—and deliver this small mercy before we reach the border again.

-6th Rest-

I had…that dream again—about my meemaw. Everything unfolded exactly as it had before: the same familiar scene of her baking cookies, the same warm greeting, the same vividness, all experienced in monochrome.

But this time, the dream didn't end as it had previously. Just before I woke, my meemaw turned to me, her face with a warm smile, and asked, "Are you leaving so soon?" There was something off about her voice—something unsettling. I couldn’t respond. The words lodged in my throat as I struggled to answer, but before I could, the dream dissolved, and I awoke in my tent, disoriented and uneasy.

That one question echoed in my mind long after I’d opened my eyes. It wasn’t just the eeriness of the question itself, but the timing. Why now? Why, when we’re about to leave the Graylands, would this dream take on such a strange twist? It’s probably just nerves, a manifestation of the unease I’ve been feeling since we crossed into this forsaken place. Yet, I can't shake the feeling that this dream—this monochrome memory of my meemaw—was a sign of something terrible.

-7th Rest-

We still hadn’t spotted any gray flowers, and last night brought even more trouble. We were all jolted from our sleep by the sharp crack of gunshots. Instantly, everyone scrambled out of their tents, myself included, trying to make sense of the chaos. Sam’s men, ever-well-trained, quickly fell into defensive positions, surrounding the camp with weapons drawn, ready to fend off whatever threat might be out there.

I couldn’t fathom who—or what—would be attacking us. Nothing I knew about the Graylands suggested that there was a dangerous creature here. The thought of some unknown hostile force out there stalking us in this already unsettling land chilled me to the bone.

When we finally emerged into the open, the truth of the situation was both a relief and a frustration. The source of the gunfire was none other than one of Sam’s men, a patrol guard who had been making his rounds while the rest of us slept. He stood there, still clutching his rifle, visibly shaken. He claimed to have seen movement in the distance, just beyond the perimeter of our camp. It was some strange person he saw that had spooked him enough to fire off a few rounds at it.

I was on the verge of erupting in rage. My mind raced with horrifying possibilities—what if the patrol guard had seen a Graywalker? This was the first sighting in hundreds of years, and this brute had fired blindly at it. I could hardly believe the recklessness of it. To think that such a monumental moment could have been ruined by a trigger-happy fool!

As the mercenary elaborated, it became clear that what he had witnessed didn’t match any description of a Graywalker. Instead, he spoke of a shadowy figure—a "shadow man," as he called it—cloaked in darkness, silently stalking the edges of our camp. According to him, the figure didn’t respond when he called out, remaining unnervingly still. The figure then raised its arm in a strange, deliberate motion, which the guard took as a provocation. Acting on instinct and fear, he opened fire.

However, the accounts of two other guards who had witnessed the entire incident told a different story. They claimed that there had been nothing there at all, nothing tangible to shoot at. They swore that the first guard had been firing at thin air, at shadows that didn’t even exist.

Everyone stared at the guard who had fired, a tense silence hanging in the air, before someone broke it with a shout. “The graying’s gotten to him! He’s losing his mind already!” The accusation spread quickly through the group, sparking a wave of murmurs and nervous chatter. The guard at the center of it all looked genuinely terrified, his face pale as he shifted under the weight of the accusing stares.

Sam, his expression grim and serious, made his way over to me. His stern voice cut through the noise. "Is this what you warned us about—the graying?" His question was direct, and I could see the concern in his eyes, mingled with the fear that had begun to creep into all of us.

I asked to examine the guard first before I confirmed everyone's suspicion.

I went through the standard physical check of the guard, examining his vitals as best as I could in the strangeness of the Graylands. His temperature reading seemed off, but I couldn’t trust the thermometer completely in this bizarre place. What I did notice, however, were the slight tremors in his hands and the bloodshot state of his eyes. Dark bags sagged beneath them, evidence of exhaustion.

I asked if he had been getting enough sleep, and after a brief hesitation, he admitted he’d been having trouble. There was a nervous edge to his voice, and that immediately caught my attention.

Curious, I pressed him about the nature of his dreams. At first, he dismissed them as simply "strange," but I could sense there was more to it. I urged him to explain further, and after a reluctant pause, he opened up.

“It’s always the same dream,” he began. “I’m a kid again, back when I used to go swimming with my family. But, there’s something off about it. It’s hard to say what exactly, but it leaves me feeling uneasy every time I wake up. I feel like something’s wrong, and I can’t figure out what."

The way he described the dream struck me. That vague sense of unease, that something familiar, felt out of place—he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

A chill crept over me as he spoke, and it dawned on me that I might not be the only one experiencing these peculiar dreams. I had brushed off my own dream of my meemaw, but hearing this guard describe his unsettling memory made me wonder if there was more to it—something connected to this place. The idea that the Graylands might be influencing not just our perceptions, but our very dreams sent a shiver down my spine.

As far as I know, there are no records of this particular phenomenon—at least none that I’ve encountered in all my research. I’ll have to compile my own findings, documenting the kinds of dreams people are experiencing once we return to civilization. If nothing else, this strange and unsettling expedition may lead to a significant breakthrough in my field.

The psychological effects of the Graylands, particularly how they manifest in dreams, could open up entirely new lines of inquiry. I might be the first to officially record these shared experiences. Though our primary objective was to find the elusive gray flowers, this unforeseen discovery might turn out to be just as important.

I wanted to question this guard more at the time, but the arrogant Tom butted in and asked if the guardsmen would be OK. I told everyone that there was nothing to worry about. The man wasn't suffering from the graying. It was just not getting enough sleep.

And of course, that arrogant fool had the nerve to doubt me! He had the audacity to ask if I was sure. I lost my temper right then and there and snapped, “I’m not a doctor, so no, I don’t know for sure! But, I do know enough to tell you it’s not the graying, you unhuman filth!”

It was uncultured of me, I’ll admit that much, but it felt strangely satisfying to put that half-blood, unhuman mongrel in his place. He didn’t even have the decency to respond, just turned and walked away, his tail tucked between his legs.

I knew it wasn’t the most professional reaction, but after enduring his constant disrespect and insufferable arrogance, I couldn’t help but take some small satisfaction in seeing him silenced, even if only for a moment. Sometimes, when you're faced with that level of ignorance, there’s a limit to how much restraint you can muster.

Hopefully, this will be the last time Tom will try to interact with me.

-8th Rest-

That outburst I had at Tom seems to have backfired. When we stopped to rest, I attempted to collect accounts of people’s dreams, hoping to understand the nature of these strange visions and perhaps even uncover some underlying meaning. Those in the caravan, who weren’t part of the mercenary group, were cooperative enough. However, Sam’s men were a different story entirely.

It was painfully clear that some of the mercenaries were struggling with the same uneasy dreams as I was. The dark circles under their eyes and their sluggish demeanor betrayed their lack of sleep. But when I approached them, they clammed up, denying everything. "I don’t know what you're talking about," or "I’m not experiencing any dreams," they said—blatant lies. It was obvious, but no one would admit to it.

I couldn’t help but connect their sudden refusal to cooperate with my earlier outburst. Everyone had witnessed me berate that unhuman filth, Tom, calling him all manner of names and slinging insults. It had left an impression, one I suspect turned the mercenaries against me. They’re sticking together, protecting one of their own, no matter how foolish. It seems my inability to hold my tongue may have cost me valuable insight into what’s happening to us out here.

Such a useless group, I wish I had pushed back harder on taking them with us.

However, the lack of cooperation in gathering dream accounts is now the least of my concerns. A more pressing issue has emerged, one that has me deeply unsettled. I hesitate to put it into writing just yet, as I’m hoping it will resolve itself. For now, I will refrain from commenting on it further, but if there are no signs of improvement by tomorrow, I’ll have no choice but to address the matter directly.

-9th Rest-

My worst fears from my last entry have been confirmed. When we first ventured into the Graylands, there was a slow but noticeable transition from vibrant colors to the bleak, dismal monochrome that now surrounds us. I had assumed that as we retraced our steps and made our way out, the color would gradually begin to return. It only seemed reasonable that the further we traveled from the heart of this place, the more life would seep back into the landscape. But that hasn’t happened. Not even a flicker of color has reappeared in the world around us.

Everything remains in complete monochrome—still, lifeless, and unnerving. And though it's difficult to tell under this oppressive gray light, I think some of our clothing and equipment are losing their vibrancy too. What was once a necessary safeguard against graying now seems less effective, as the very essence of color is being drained from us. The cheerful, bright hues we wore as protection have begun to dull. Slowly, and subtly—just enough to notice if you pay close attention.

I don’t know what this means, but it's becoming harder to shake the feeling that we might be in greater danger than I initially anticipated.

I think I will keep this information to myself for now, to avoid causing panic in the group.

-10th Rest-

It took us five rests to plunge deep into the Graylands, so logically, I assumed it would take us the same—five rests—to leave. It made perfect sense, at least at the time. But now, another rest period later, everything still looks as gray as ever. There’s been no change, no hint of color returning to the landscape, no sign of the vibrant world we left behind. The same monotonous, oppressive gray surrounds us, and the realization is beginning to sink in: something’s wrong.

What is happening?

Are we somehow moving slower on our way out? Are the Graylands warping our perspective? I can’t say for certain, but the thoughts gnaw at me.

Thankfully, no one else seems to have noticed the predicament we’re in, or if they have, they’re keeping it to themselves. Sam and Tom, for their part, haven’t been speaking to me, which is something of a relief. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my own unease hidden, and the last thing I need is their doubts or questions adding to the pressure. But how long can this continue before someone—perhaps even I—cracks?

-11th Rest-

I'm growing increasingly concerned about the mercenaries we brought along. They've started giving me strange, unsettling looks, and I no longer feel secure in their presence. They were hired to protect us, and their payment is directly tied to my safety. But as the mind-eroding effects of this land begin to seep into us all, I fear they may be the most vulnerable. These kinds of men—hardened by violence and accustomed to power—are prone to acting out in violence. And, of course, they’re the ones carrying the most firepower. We’ve already witnessed one of them fired his weapon at nothing, a clear sign that their mental state is fraying.

My concerns about Tom have deepened as well. I've kept an extra close eye on him, certain that if anyone is going to snap and turn violent, it will be him. His inferior blood makes him the weakest link in this group. Sam may trust him, but I know better. It’s only a matter of time before the Graylands drive him over the edge.

I find myself praying that we’re close to leaving this cursed place. I’ve made the decision that, once we’re out of here, I’ll abandon my contract with Gibber. I don’t care if I return empty-handed. No amount of money or academic interest is worth coming back here. This land has a way of twisting reality, of making you doubt your own senses, and I’ve had enough. Once we’re free of the Graylands, I will never return.

-12th Rest-

People are beginning to notice. The uneasy whispers have started spreading through the caravan. Some of them have realized what I’ve been dreading—by now, we should’ve already emerged from the Graylands. The realization hung over us like a heavy fog, and it was only made worse by the sight of our equipment slowly turning gray. The once-vibrant colors of our vehicles, clothing, and gear are fading, piece by piece, inch by inch. It's an undeniable sign that the graying is creeping closer. If we don’t escape soon, it won’t just be the equipment that succumbs to this dreadful change.

I’ve tried to keep those fears at bay, but they're becoming harder to ignore. If the graying starts affecting us physically—our bodies, our very selves—I don’t want to imagine what will happen. I’m not even sure if we’ll remain the same people once that process starts. The Graylands have already taken a toll on our minds. I can feel it in myself, and I can see it in the others. We’re unraveling, fraying at the edges like a well-worn rope, and the longer we remain in this place, the harder it becomes to hold on to reason, to sanity.

Once the graying takes hold of us, if it does, I fear there won’t be much of our minds left to save. We’ll be hollowed out, shadows of who we once were.

Whatever misgivings Tom and Sam had with me, they set aside for now. They both approached me, their faces grim and voices low, asking the question I’d been dreading—why hadn’t we left the Graylands yet? I didn’t have an answer. I could feel their eyes boring into me, demanding some kind of explanation. Desperation hung between us, but I couldn’t admit that I was just as lost as they were. So, I came up with an excuse, one that seemed plausible enough: since the Graylands interfere with our equipment, perhaps we’re moving slower on our way out than we did on our way in. It’s possible, I reasoned aloud, that without reliable readings, we can’t accurately gauge our speed.

To my relief, they seemed to accept it. They weren’t entirely convinced—I could see doubt lingering in their eyes—but they nodded and moved on. Sam and Tom started discussing how we could speed up our departure. They decided to lighten the load, dumping some of the supplies we no longer needed, so the caravan could move faster. It was a gamble, but at this point, any idea that promised even the slightest chance of escape was worth pursuing.

I know it’s just a guess, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control. But I hope this increase in our pace makes a difference.

-13th Rest-

By the light! I was right, though how I wish I had been wrong. I had suspected that the mercenaries would be the most volatile members of our group, and this morning, my fears were confirmed in the worst possible way. It started like any other rest, with everyone going through the motions, packing up our camp, and preparing for another grueling leg of our journey out of this forsaken place. But the fragile calm shattered when one of Sam’s men suddenly let out a blood-curdling scream, yelling about some "evil shadow" stalking him.

Before anyone could react, the man wildly fired his weapon into the air, then toward the camp. The crack of gunfire echoed across the empty, gray hills, sending a wave of panic through the group. The chaos that followed was pure madness. The bullet struck one of his comrades, piercing his shoulder, and the injured man crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain. In the confusion, everyone scrambled, not knowing whether we were under attack by something real—or whether this was yet another cruel trick of the Graylands.

Sam’s remaining men reacted swiftly. With grim determination, they opened fire on the panicking man. The look in his eyes was wild and terrified as if he truly believed some dark presence was haunting him. It was as if the Graylands had finally sunk its claws deep into his mind, twisting reality until he could no longer distinguish it from a nightmare for a brief moment before his life was snuffed out by a barrage of bullets.

The others put down their own quickly and without ceremony. There was no mercy in their actions, only the cold necessity of survival. Sam looked pale but resolute, his face a mask of determination. He gave a quick order to have the wounded man treated, but the damage had already been done. I could see it in everyone’s faces—the fear, the uncertainty.

The Graylands were eating away at us.

It was the first time I had ever witnessed a man die before my eyes, and the experience was nothing short of harrowing. The weight of it sat heavily in my chest, a grotesque knot of shock and disbelief. Yet, to my amazement, the mercenaries—those hardened men—picked themselves up and went back to their duties as if the grim event hadn’t occurred at all. One of their own had been put down like a rabid animal, and still, they continued their work without a word, moving with a cold efficiency that felt almost inhuman.

At first glance, I found their indifference disturbing. How could they remain so composed after something so horrific? How could they return to their routines with such detachment? But when I looked more closely, I realized the truth was far more complex. Under the stoic expressions, something was simmering. Their faces, though hard, betrayed the slightest flickers of tension—jawlines clenched a bit too tightly, eyes darting nervously when they thought no one was watching. They were troubled. They had to be. It was clear now that they were hiding their fear, burying it deep under layers of training and discipline, but it was there.

Sam approached me and asked if this was the effect of the graying.

I explained that the graying typically didn’t manifest in the form of sudden panic or violent outbursts like we had just witnessed. Its effects were usually more subtle, leading to emotional detachment and an eerie numbness as the afflicted slowly disconnected from their surroundings. However, I also acknowledged that we couldn’t rule out the possibility that it might affect different individuals in varying ways.

I pointed out that the man’s skin had shown no visible signs of turning gray yet. If the graying had begun to take hold of him, it was in its earliest stages, barely perceptible. Still, I couldn’t ignore the fact that something was terribly wrong. Whether it was the graying or the psychological strain of being in this forsaken land, I couldn’t say for certain. But if the panic overtook the caravan, the chance of escape would evaporate.

Sam agreed. We both decided to try to placate everyone and keep people calm. Sam would handle his men and placate everyone else. I hope Sam can keep his men under control.

I noticed Tom was giving me strange looks while I was talking to Sam. I’m worried about him.

-14th Rest-

We had now rested fourteen times since entering the Graylands. If each rest roughly equated to a day, then we had been wandering through this strange land for nearly two weeks. The thought filled me with unease. If this timeline were correct, it meant something had gone terribly wrong with the team I left outside the Graylands.

As we journeyed back, we followed the cable that we had laid behind us, a lifeline meant to guide us out of this place. It had been our one constant amidst the changing, gray landscape. But as we set up camp once again, I took a closer look at the cable, and a deep sense of dread set in. I distinctly remember instructing the outside team to begin reeling in the cable slowly after five days. They should have started by now. Yet, as I examined the cable, I realized with a growing alarm that it wasn’t moving at all.

It lay completely still as if the team outside had abandoned their task or—worse—forgotten us entirely. That simple observation sent a chill down my spine. What could have caused such a failure? Has something happened to the team on the outside? Or, more horrifyingly, had we somehow become disconnected from them? If the cable had been severed somewhere, then we were adrift in the Graylands with no guarantee of finding our way out.

Tom had been giving me odd, lingering stares, and each one made my skin crawl. I knew the Graylands were eroding his mind, just as they were gnawing away at everyone else in the caravan. But with Tom, it felt different—more personal. There was a tension between us that had been simmering long before we entered this accursed place, and I could sense that it was beginning to reach a boiling point.

I had exposed the truth about his inferior bloodline, something he had no doubt been stewing over since the moment the words left my mouth. That sort of insult, one that cut deep into a man’s very identity, wasn’t easily forgotten. And now, in this land where reality seemed to warp and fray at the edges, I feared that Tom's resentment was festering into something dangerous.

His eyes, sharp and accusatory, would follow me during our stops, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was planning something—waiting for the right moment to act. Dangerous situations like this have an uncanny way of amplifying the worst parts of a person’s nature. Tom, though, was different. His anger wasn’t a product of fear or hallucinations. No, it was rooted in a much older grudge, and I suspected that the Graylands were only fueling it further.

I had to stay vigilant. Tom’s pride had been wounded, and wounded pride could make men irrational, even violent. I knew his kind—half-blood, full of resentment and rage, always looking for someone to blame for their inadequacies. And now, with the Graylands chipping away at whatever mental fortitude he had left, I feared he might decide that I was the one responsible for his suffering.

He was planning something. I could feel it in every glance he threw my way. He might be planning to take me out like they did with the panic man before. If that’s the case maybe I need to get to him fir—No! What am I saying?

FOCUS JIN! Don’t let your rational mind slip away like those brutes. You are better than them. I will not succumb to base violence like them. I will keep an eye on Tom, but I will not be reduced to their level.

On my name, Jin von— wait? My name is not Jin. It’s Robert Evans. How…did I mix up my own name?

-???-

I…I…I should be… dead? I… don’t understand what’s going on anymore.

T-To start from the beginning, we continued traveling as we always had, through the bleakness of the Graylands. We stopped to rest, as was our routine, but this time was different. Tension hung in the air like a thick fog. The entire time, I kept my eyes on Tom. I was certain that if anyone were to snap and have a sudden violent outburst, it would be him. Every suspicious glance he cast my way made my skin prickle with anticipation. I was so sure that it would be him—Tom, with his festering grudge and eroding mind.

But, to my shock, it wasn’t Tom who lost control. It was Sam.

It happened without warning. One moment, we were setting up camp like usual, everyone weary but maintaining some semblance of order. Next, Sam’s voice ripped through the silence, screaming about monsters. His face was twisted in sheer terror, his eyes wide and unseeing, as though some unspeakable horror had gripped him from the shadows.

Before anyone could even react, Sam raised his weapon and began firing wildly into the caravan. Bullets flew, ripping through tents. The caravan was thrown into chaos as everyone scrambled for cover, shouting and diving to the ground, trying to make sense of what was happening. The look on Sam’s face... it was as though he was seeing something that the rest of us couldn't—a monster, a nightmare, something born of this cursed land.

He screamed again, louder this time, his voice cracking with hysteria as he spun around, searching for the imaginary foe. "They're everywhere! Monsters! Can't you see them?! They're here!" he would scream.

His gunshots were wild and erratic, but they found their marks in human flesh. The first to fall was one of the caravan members, a young man, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Blood sprayed across the gray earth.

To Tom's credit, he acted swiftly. Before anyone else could process the chaos, he lunged at Sam, tackling him to the ground. Amidst the screaming and confusion, Tom wrestled with him, trying to pin him down, while others scrambled to help. Sam fought back with the wild strength of someone completely unhinged, thrashing, and yelling about monsters that only he could see.

In the struggle, a shot went off.

I had been hit… in my head. I…felt…it. I felt the bullet pierce my skull and into my brain with a quick, sharp, agonizing amount of pain, and then nothing. That was death… or a dream? No…But it felt so real.

When…I woke, I found myself lying on the cold, gray earth of the Graylands, utterly alone. There was no Sam, no Tom, no mercenaries, and no caravan in sight.

I felt disoriented, my thoughts muddled by the lingering pain from the gunshot. I instinctively reached for my head, somehow expecting to find a gunshot wound, but there was nothing. There was no blood, no bandages—nothing to suggest that I had been shot at all.

But strangely, everything I had on me before the incident was still there. My journal was tucked safely in my pack, along with my notes and supplies. The pen I’d used to record our journey was still clipped to my shirt. It was as though I had simply... woke up here.

I’m still not sure what’s happening anymore. I’m writing this down in an attempt to make sense of my thoughts, and to find some clarity in the chaos, but the more I write, the more confused I become. Everything feels disjointed as if the reality I knew has started to unravel. I’ve tried piecing together the events—how I woke up, how the others vanished without a trace—but nothing adds up.

Was it real? Was I truly shot, or was that some kind of hallucination, another cruel trick played by this place?

But, one thing is for sure: I’m now alone.

-16th Rest-

I’ve…continued to date these entries based on the number of rests I’ve taken, though I can’t say how accurate that is anymore. Time has become a vague concept, lost in this endless gray, but I need some sense of order, some way to measure my days, however false it may be.

After the distress I experienced during my last entry, I’ve come to the grim conclusion I won’t be able to make sense of it all. Not of the disappearance of the caravan, not of Sam’s madness, nor of…my death. But, I’m still breathing. I’m still writing, which means, for now, I’m alive. That has to count for something.

I managed to pull myself together, forcing myself up from the dust and confusion, knowing that if I wanted to survive, I couldn’t just sit here waiting for death to claim me. If there’s any hope of escaping the Graylands, I have to keep moving.

I’ve been wandering aimlessly, with no sense of direction, no landmarks to guide me, just the hope that somewhere—if I keep walking—I’ll find the border. The cursed land can’t stretch on forever, can it? I keep telling myself that there’s an edge to this forsaken place, a point where the color will return, and I’ll know I’ve escaped. But, with no cable to follow and no markers to gauge my progress, I fear I may be walking in circles, endlessly looping through this monochrome landscape.

When I awoke after being shot, I still had my rucksack, thankfully. Inside, I’ve got a tent and a few essential supplies. So after walking to the point of near collapse, I can at least set up a small camp, rest for a few hours, and regain enough strength to continue. The problem is, I’m running out of time. I have enough food to last maybe two or three days if I ration it carefully. After that, starvation will become a very real threat. But, I suspect that lack of food won’t be the thing that kills me.

What concerns me more is the graying. My clothing, my supplies—everything has slowly turned gray. My shirt is dull and colorless, my boots and tent are losing their vibrancy, and I know that soon enough, the graying will set in on me too. I’ve read about the signs. First the external, then it spreads inward, creeping into the mind. And when it does, when it takes hold, I’ll lose myself completely.

I’ve been praying to the Light, hoping that I’m close to the border and that salvation is just over the next hill or beyond the next stretch of gray. But there’s no way to know. I have no compass, no map. The land looks the same in every direction—bleak, lifeless, a landscape that offers no clues, no mercy.

Still, I walk. Every step takes more effort than the last, but I push forward, telling myself that survival is still possible. That I’ll find a way out.

-17th Rest-

I had the dream with my meemaw again. At least, I think it was a dream? It’s becoming harder and harder to tell the difference between sleep and waking anymore. The lines between them are blurring. In this dream, my meemaw looked at me with concern, the way she always did when I was a child. She said I looked tired—so tired—and she told me to stay and rest. Her voice was so gentle and comforting, and I wanted nothing more than to obey, to lay down and close my eyes, to let the weight of exhaustion melt away. I could feel the pull—the temptation to stay with her, to rest as she urged.

But then, as before, the dream ended abruptly, like a door slamming shut. I woke up in the same dismal, gray world as before, the same lifeless landscape stretching endlessly before me.

Everything I have on me now is completely gray—my clothes, my rucksack, even the tent I carry. The transformation happened gradually, and now there’s no denying it. But what’s worse—when I lifted my shirt today to check myself, I saw it. A small patch of gray skin on my side.

It’s not much yet, just a spot about the size of a coin, but I know what it means. It’s spreading, and once it starts, there’s no stopping it unless you leave the Graylands. Soon, it will spread further, inch by inch, until it claims my whole body. And then… my mind, if it hasn't already.

I can feel that detachment already setting in—a dullness in my thoughts, a fog settling over my mind. I try to push it away, to stay focused on survival, but it’s harder with each passing hour. The exhaustion isn’t just physical anymore—it’s in my soul.

I don’t know how much time I have left. The patch of gray skin is a countdown, a silent reminder that my days—or maybe hours—are numbered. I have to find the edge of this place soon, before it’s too late.

-18th Rest-

“There is no truth, and there is no falsehood. There are only shades of gray.” I think I’m beginning to understand the meaning of those words.

I keep having dreams about my childhood—bright, happy memories from a time when the world was full of warmth. The laughter of friends, the sound of running through fields, and the sun shining overhead. But each time I wake, I feel a pang of confusion, wondering if those moments were ever real at all. I can’t tell anymore if those dreams of my past are actual memories, or if this gray, endless landscape is the true reality. Or maybe… maybe this is the dream—a nightmare I can’t wake from.

The lines between the two have blurred so much that I no longer know which world is real. The dreams are so vivid, so full of life, that for fleeting moments, I can almost believe I’m back there, living in those memories. But when I wake to the desolate hills and cold, monochrome sky, the contrast is unbearable.

I know exactly what this is. I’m experiencing a dissociative disorder caused by the graying. My mind is slowly unraveling, losing touch with reality, and detaching from everything that once felt solid and true. The lines between what’s real and what’s imagined are becoming impossible to distinguish, and I fear I’m slipping further with each passing rest.

More patches of gray have spread across my body, creeping along my skin like a slow, inevitable decay. At this rate, I can only assume that as more of me succumbs to the graying, these dissociative episodes will only worsen.

-19th Rest-

I stumbled upon… a lake? At first, I thought it might be another symptom of the graying—maybe a hallucination brought on by dehydration or my unraveling mind—but hallucinations aren’t typically part of the graying process, or at least they’ve never been recorded. So, this has to be real. Yet, I’m deeply unsettled by it. The few who ventured into the Graylands before me never mentioned a lake, only endless stretches of gray grasslands and rolling hills. Nothing even remotely like this.

The lake is vast, its gray waters stretching far enough that I could barely make out the opposite shore from where I stood. Its gray water slowly rippled. The entire area around the lake was surrounded by large clusters of gray flowers—the very thing we had been searching for all this time.

It was the first time I had ever seen one in person—a gray flower. Up close, it looked eerily similar to a rose, though entirely stripped of its natural beauty. There were no thorns, no vibrant hues—just an unsettling palette of dull, lifeless grays, as if all the color had been drained away, leaving behind only the ghost of what it once was. The petals seemed fragile, almost brittle, yet perfectly intact. It was both haunting and mesmerizing, a symbol of everything the Graylands represented—beauty twisted into something hollow.

I wasted no time and pocketed as many flowers as I could, though I could hardly feel any sense of victory in finding them now, not after everything.

I also filled my canteen with the lake’s water. I’m not exactly thrilled about the prospect of drinking it—I imagined it would be tainted just by being here—but I’m running dangerously low on supplies. Without this, I won’t last much longer. At least now, with the water, I should be able to last a little longer than I first expected.

But still, the lake’s presence gnaws at me. Why hasn’t it ever been mentioned? Is it truly real, or just another sign that I’m slipping further into the gray? I’ll set up camp near it and then continue my journey on my next waking. I have no other choice.

-20th Rest-

Maybe hallucinations are part of the graying? When I awoke, the lake had vanished—gone as if it had never existed. I hadn’t moved. I was still in the same place, yet there was no trace of water, no shoreline, nothing but the endless expanse of gray hills stretching out before me. Lakes don’t just disappear.

The rational part of my mind screamed that it must have been an illusion, a hallucination conjured up by the graying. That’s the only explanation that made sense. But then, I looked down at my canteen, which was filled to the brim with water. And my pockets—bulging with the gray flowers I had carefully gathered by the lake’s edge.

Those things were real. I collected them with my own hands. So if the lake wasn’t real, how did I get this water? How did I pluck those flowers? Where did the lake go? If it was all in my head, then what parts of my reality can I even trust anymore?

-21th Rest-

I pressed on, trudging through this seemingly endless expanse of gray. The graying continued its slow, creeping advance over my body. More of my skin had turned a dull, lifeless gray, a transformation both fascinating and horrifying. What struck me most about the graying was the absence of pain. No sharp stings, no dull aches—just the eerie, silent change of my flesh shifting from its natural color to this soulless hue.

It’s as if my body is betraying me without warning, an insidious transformation that could easily go unnoticed if it weren’t for the unsettling psychological toll. It’s terrifying how subtle the graying is. It doesn't scream or claw its way through you; it quietly takes over.

-24th Rest?-

I’ve neglected these journal entries for the last few rests, a mistake I can’t afford. This journal is my only means of keeping track of time, my only tether to some semblance of reality. Now, I’m no longer sure how much time has passed. Has it been three rests? More? Less? The uncertainty gnaws at me.

This lapse is either my own failing—an oversight born of exhaustion—or, worse, the graying slowly chipping away at my mind. I can feel it creeping in, clouding my thoughts and making it harder to hold on to anything concrete. The confusion is starting to blur not just the world around me, but my sense of time, of self. This journal, once my anchor, is slipping from my grasp, and I fear what will happen if I lose track of it completely.

I’ve decided that once I stop to set up camp again, I’ll go through my journal carefully, page by page. I need to reground myself, to piece together what’s been happening—both in this place and in my mind. These entries may be fragmented, but they are the only record of my thoughts and experiences, the only way to hold on to who I am before the graying takes everything.

The words I’ve written might help me make sense of things—a reminder that there was a time when I could think clearly when I knew what was real and what was not. If nothing else, perhaps they’ll help me remember that this nightmare has a start... and, I hope, an end.

-25th Rest?-

WHAT IS HAPPENING!?!?!?

I went through my journal and months of entries are gone!?!?

The entries in my journal—my only anchor—suddenly stop in the middle of my thoughts. No conclusion, no clarity, just a jarring halt. Then, as if nothing happened, they continue from when I first departed towards the border of the Graylands. But between those entries are random symbols, scrawled haphazardly across the pages, symbols I don’t recognize or remember writing.

Did I rip pages out of my journal? Did I scribble these strange marks in a haze of madness? The thought of it chills me. Now even the words I’ve written, the one thing I trusted to stay uncorrupted, are no longer safe from this nightmare that's overtaking me.

I must find a way out. Now. Before I lose everything. Before I lose myself.

-30th Rest?-

I believe five rests have passed—though, at this point, who can say for certain? I've stopped recording my experience for a while, unsettled by the strange symbols and erratic scrawling that have appeared in my notes. But I feel compelled to document this now before it's too late. This may very well be my final entry.

As I continued my aimless wandering through the endless gray, I encountered them again—the shadow men. The same ones that likely caused the mercenaries to panic before. They follow me now, always lingering just beyond my full view, always hovering at the edge of my vision. These shadowy figures have two dull gray dots for their eyes. At first, their presence filled me with terror, but now... I don’t care anymore. They simply watch. Silently. As if waiting for something.

My body has nearly succumbed to the graying. Only a small patch of skin remains untouched on my forearm, but I know that by the next time I wake, it will have turned too, completing the process. After that... well, I suspect I'll simply lie down and die. There's nothing left to fight for.

If, by some slim chance, someone finds this journal, heed these words: turn back. There is no treasure here, no glory, no opportunity. There is only gray here.

-???-

How long have I wandered these gray hills? Days? Months? Years? Time is meaningless here, a forgotten concept swallowed by the endless gray. I know I once declared that my last entry would truly be the final one, that I would simply lie down and let death take me. But that moment never came. I didn’t die. Instead, I kept walking, aimlessly drifting through this colorless wasteland. But why? Was I still trying to escape?

Then, I found my corpse. Lying there on the ground.

One would think I should feel horror, seeing my own body sprawled across the field, a bullet lodged in my skull. But in this place, nothing makes sense. Horror has no place here. It was my body—unmistakably mine. With a face full of terror. But am I the real one? Or is that lifeless shell the true me, and I am just a copy? A clone?

I remember now. I never wrote about what happened before... Perhaps I am too far gone to care.

While wandering the Graylands, there came a point when the weight of it all—the isolation, the endless walking, the gray gnawing at my mind—became unbearable. Sam had given me a gun for protection, though it offered little comfort in this land. I remember raising it to my own head and pulling the trigger. The crack of the gun echoed across the hills, and I felt the bullet enter my skull. I thought that was the end of my torment.

But I didn’t die.

I woke up again, just as before, whole and unharmed. It was as if nothing had happened. I was trapped in this endless cycle. And so I kept wandering, kept pushing forward until starvation claimed me. But even then, I didn’t die. I collapsed, weak and empty, but woke again, revived as if nothing had ever happened.

I don’t know if I can die in this place. Or maybe I’m already dead. Is this the place of darkness that the church speaks of? The burning abyss where souls are trapped forever, wandering in their sins and regrets? Whatever this place is, there is no escape from it. There is no peace. Only gray.

-???-

I finally came face-to-face with the shadow men—the ones that had been trailing me ever since my transformation was complete, my entire body now fully consumed by the gray. At first, I thought they were just hallucinations, fragments of my deteriorating mind brought on by the graying. But in this cursed place, who can truly say what's real anymore?

They didn't speak or move with purpose. They simply stood at a distance, watching. Silent, featureless figures with only those two gray dots for eyes, always observing. One of them came closer today—so close I could almost reach out and touch it. Yet, even then, it did nothing. It just loomed near me, quiet as ever. I thought, perhaps, they were waiting for something—waiting for me to complete my transformation, to fully succumb to the gray. But that wasn't it. Even though I’m entirely gray now, they still do nothing but watch. I tried reaching out to it, just to see if it was truly there, but the moment my hand neared, it recoiled like a shadow fleeing from the light.

Maybe these beings aren’t just figments of my imagination after all. Maybe they're my jailers, sent to make sure I never leave this place. To monitor my torment and see that I remain trapped in this endless purgatory. They do nothing, say nothing, but their presence is constant. It doesn't matter if they're real or not, though. None of it matters anymore.

I’m so tired. More tired than I’ve ever been. The idea of rest—true rest—feels like a distant memory, something just out of reach. All I want is to fall asleep and stay there. To never wake again. To dream about my childhood, about my meemaw and those simple, happy days, where life still made sense. I want to drift back to that place, to stay with her forever, and never have to wake up to this gray, meaningless existence again.

-???-

In my endless wandering through this bleak, colorless wasteland, I’ve had more time to reflect on my life than I ever wanted. There’s nothing out here to distract from the gnawing thoughts that circle in my mind. And in that reflection, I’ve realized something—I was unfair to Tom. More than unfair, really. I was cruel.

I treated him with disdain, judged him for something as arbitrary as his bloodline, and held onto my superiority like a shield against my own insecurities. I see that now. All my arrogance, my outbursts, they were born from fear—fear of the other. I took it out on him, an easy target, because he wasn’t like me, he was a mutant. That difference, in my mind, somehow made him lesser. But it didn’t. It never did.

If I could go back, I would apologize to him. I would tell him I was wrong. But time, like everything else, seems meaningless in this cursed place. Tom is probably long gone—maybe he escaped, or maybe he’s wondering these same gray hills, trapped in his own torment. On the off chance he stumbles upon one of my corpses, lying in the dirt with this journal by its side, I hope he reads these words.

Tom, if you ever find this, I’m sorry. Truly. I was wrong about you. You didn’t deserve the way I treated you, and I hope you made it out of here. I hope you’re free, wherever you are. Maybe there’s still a chance for redemption in this hellish place, even if it’s just a sliver of human decency left behind in the form of a few written words. Maybe that’s all I can offer in the end—an acknowledgment of my faults, my regrets, and the hope that somehow, in the endless gray, it means something.

Maybe that’s all I have left to give.

-???-

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-???-

I dreamt of my meemaw again, but this time it was different—different from all the countless other times she’s appeared in my dreams. This time, she said, “goodbye.” It was the first time the dream had ever ended with her saying that. Normally, my dreams of her are comforting, and repetitive, a small but welcome reprieve from the Graylands. But when the dream shifts like that, when it deviates from its familiar course, something always happens in the waking world. At least, that’s how it was before.

But this was a while ago, and since then... nothing. Nothing has changed. I still wander these cursed lands, trudging through this endless sea of gray with no end in sight. I keep moving forward, hoping for something—anything—that might signal a way out, but all I find is more of the same desolate landscape.

I suppose the only real change is that I no longer even have the small comfort of my grandmother’s dreams to offer me respite. The one solace I had, has been taken away. Now, I don’t even get to dream. I just wake up to the same relentless, suffocating gray, without even the illusion of warmth or familiarity to keep me going. It feels like a final severing of something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on to. That “goodbye” feels more horrible than it should have been.

-5/18/2988?-

I…I can’t believe I’m…writing…this. I escaped!!!!!!

I cannot adequately describe the overwhelming sensation of seeing color again after so long—any color other than the endless, soul-draining gray. The first hint of it was a subtle shift in the grassy hills before me, a flicker of green. At first, I thought it was just another trick of my mind, another hallucination brought on by the graying. But all the illusions I’d endured until now had been in shades of gray, never vibrant hues like this. Green. Actual green.

I didn’t even stop to think. I ran—ran faster than I thought possible, fueled by a desperate hope that I hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. As I bolted forward, the world around me responded. The hills that had once been bleak and lifeless burst into vibrant color, like a canvas suddenly painted with the greens of lush grass. Above me, the sky shifted from its dull, oppressive gray to a deep, endless blue. It was as though life itself had returned, breathing back into the world that had been suffocating me for so long.

I reached the top of one of the large grassy hills, panting, heart pounding in my chest, and that’s when I saw them—the gray monoliths in the distance. Those tall, towering markers that separated the Graylands from the world beyond. They loomed on the horizon, silent but unmistakable. A gateway to freedom. My pulse quickened, and I ran harder, my legs burning with every stride, but I didn’t care. I had to reach them. I had to cross that border and leave this nightmare behind.

With every step, the surrounding colors intensified, filling me with a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in ages. I wasn’t going to stop now, not when I was so close to escaping this hellish place. The monoliths were my salvation, and I was going to reach them—no matter what it took.

It only dawned on me now, as I write this, how strange it was that I could leave the Graylands so quickly. When we first entered, it took what felt like days before we even noticed the subtle, creeping shift from color to that relentless gray. It was a slow, almost imperceptible descent into that bleak world, but my escape? It happened in a matter of minutes—a frantic sprint, and suddenly, I was free.

I should’ve found that odd, unsettling even, but I didn't stop to question it then. I was too consumed by the euphoria of seeing color again, too desperate to escape the nightmarish grasp of that land. Now, though, as I sit here trying to piece everything together, the swiftness of my departure feels... wrong. How could the transition happen so fast?

Still, what’s the point of trying to make sense of that accursed place?

The moment I crossed those monoliths, my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the vibrant, sunlit ground. I couldn’t help myself—I rolled across the grass like a madman, clutching handfuls of it, desperate to soak in every hue that the Graylands had denied me for what felt like an eternity. The lush green beneath me, the golden warmth of the sun, the endless blue sky—all of it overwhelmed my senses. It was as though I had forgotten what the world truly looked like, what it felt like to see real color.

I’m not sure how long I laid there, completely overwhelmed by the colors and sensations I had been starved of for so long. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning to me back in the Graylands, and it still felt slippery now. Eventually, though, I forced myself to sit up, then stand, though my legs wobbled beneath me, weak from both exhaustion and disbelief.

As I stood, I took a moment to drink in my surroundings. The familiar landscape of rolling hills, now fully vibrant and alive, stretched out before me. And then, off in the distance, something caught my eye—something that made my heart skip a beat. I could see it clearly—a small encampment, nestled among the hills. The encampment. The one we had set up just before entering the Graylands.

As soon as I spotted the encampment, my body moved on instinct. I sprinted toward it with haste.

As I approached the encampment, I was met with looks of shock and horror. The people who had once known me now recoiled as if I were some kind of apparition. The mercenaries, ever on edge, quickly raised their weapons, aiming them at me with suspicion and fear. Some shouted, calling me a ghost.

I hadn't considered at the time how terrifying my appearance must have been. My skin, my clothes, my gear—everything was drained of color, a uniform gray, like I had been pulled straight from the very land they feared. Only now, in retrospect, do I fully understand their reaction. I was the embodiment of the Graylands, a walking nightmare that had suddenly appeared before them.

I spent what felt like an eternity trying to convince them that it was truly me—Robert Evan. My voice cracked as I pleaded, desperately explaining who I was, repeating details only I would know, recounting memories, names. Eventually, after minutes of tense standoff, they began to lower their weapons. Their eyes were still filled with doubt, but they believed me enough to stop pointing guns at my chest.

Once they accepted it was me, I started recounting what had happened—how I had wandered the Graylands for what felt like days, possibly even weeks, lost in that gray wasteland, trapped in a waking nightmare. But as I spoke, I noticed their expressions shift again, not to understanding, but to confusion.

Then came the words that sent a chill down my spine. One of the mercenaries, still eyeing me warily, said, “You only left two hours ago. How can you claim to have been in there for weeks?”

The world seemed to tilt beneath me when I heard that. Two hours? How could that be possible? I had felt time stretch out endlessly, had experienced countless days of exhaustion, fear, and survival. My mind reeled. The first pangs of true fear I have felt in a while since tuning completely gray washed over me.

I expected my perception of time to be distorted in the Graylands, but to this extent? Could it really have been only two hours? The idea gnawed at my mind. Had my own sense of time stretched and warped so much, or was it something far more sinister? Was it merely my perception that was fractured, or had time itself bent and twisted in that accursed place?

I stood there, speechless, as the weight of those two words—"two hours"—crushed me under their impossible reality.

I shook off the confusion surrounding my explanation of time in the Graylands and forced myself to focus. There was no time to dwell on the bizarre nature of my experience—others had ventured into that cursed place with me. I wasn’t the only one trapped in that gray wasteland. My mind snapped back to the silter cable machine, the lifeline we had used to guide us in and, hopefully, back out.

Then I turned to the others, urgency rising in my voice as I demanded they activate the machine. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving those people to aimlessly wander the endless gray, as I had. They needed a chance to return. They needed to escape that nightmare, just like I had. I wouldn't let anyone else be lost to the Graylands.

They followed my command without hesitation. The machine sputtered to life, its engine groaning and belching out thick smoke. Slowly, the wheels began to turn, grinding with a metallic whine as the silter cable started its slow, deliberate journey back.

Each turn of the reel felt like pulling hope from the Graylands itself, as if the machine were tugging at the very edge of that cursed place, attempting to free those still trapped within its monochrome grasp. I stood there, watching the cable inch its way forward, knowing that each passing second carried the weight of lives, of sanity, hanging by the thinnest thread. The surrounding air was thick with tension, the rhythmic clanking of the reel the only sound as we waited, hoping to see movement on the other end of the line.

Hours went by before the hope of rescue of the others was shattered.

When the cable finally returned, it wasn’t accompanied by the sight we had hoped for. Instead, it came back severed, the end frayed and dangling, as though it had been violently torn from whatever it was supposed to be attached to.

When the severed end appeared, my blood froze. There was no vehicle attached, no caravan, no sign of those lost souls who had ventured with me into that abyss. Only the jagged, twisted metal remained, as though some unfathomable force had gnawed through it—had consumed it, and all it once connected. It dangled limp and dead, a grim parody of hope, cut loose from whatever cursed fate had claimed the rest.

The sight of that mangled end was not a simple mechanical failure—no, this was far worse. This was evidence, incontrovertible and final, of something deeper, something monstrous and unknowable lurking just beyond the veil of reality. Something had severed it, but what? The Graylands themselves, or some presence—some ancient, maleficent force whose very nature defies comprehension?

I felt it then—that subtle shift in the air, as if the world itself recoiled at the knowledge of what we had unleashed by venturing into that desolate, accursed place. A cold sweat broke over my brow, and the shadows seemed to deepen, lengthening unnaturally, as though they too were retreating from the silent horror that gripped my mind.

The cable, still swaying from the motion, seemed to mock us with its terrible silence, as if whatever lay beyond the gray hills had severed not only the physical connection but any hope of return, of sanity. I understood with sickening clarity—those who had ventured into the Graylands were beyond saving. They were beyond the reach of our world, swallowed by a place where the rules of nature, of time and reason, twisted into gray.

-9/13/2989-

A little over a year has passed since my last entry. I had intended never to write in this cursed journal again, believing that sealing it away would help me forget the horrors it contained. Yet, as I was going through my things in the study, I stumbled upon it—forgotten in a drawer, hidden beneath layers of papers, yet still there, waiting. The moment I saw it, I felt an undeniable pull, as though the journal itself demanded one final entry before I consigned it to oblivion. So, here I am, compelled to put pen to paper once more, if only to summarize the events that transpired after I escaped from the Graylands.

After it became clear that there was no hope of rescuing the others, those of us who remained made the grim decision to leave the Graylands behind and begin the long journey back to where it had all started—Gibber’s estate. The weight of the loss hung heavy in the air, but there was nothing more we could do. The cable had been severed, and the others were lost to that cursed place.

When we finally returned, the sight of Gibber’s sprawling estate, with its manicured gardens and towering mansion, felt strangely out of place, almost dreamlike after the bleakness of the Graylands. The estate’s opulence seemed obscene in contrast to the horrors I had experienced. Yet, as we approached, it became clear that nothing had changed in Gibber’s world. He was the same opportunistic man as always.

The moment he laid eyes on me, his face twisted into something between shock and revulsion. I must have been a ghastly sight—my skin still a sickly, ashen gray from the Graylands’ touch, my eyes hollow from exhaustion, and the weight of all I had seen. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes, a human reaction to the horror of what had happened to us. But it was fleeting. Gibber was a man driven by self-interest, and that impulse quickly overwhelmed any sympathy he might have had.

His gaze shifted from my face to the contents of my pack—the gray flowers I had gathered from the mysterious lake, still vibrant in their dull, lifeless hues. It was as if the very sight of them made him salivate, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of avarice. He hardly seemed to care about the ordeal I had endured or the fate of those who had been lost. All he saw were the rare and valuable specimens I had brought back. In his eyes, I was not a survivor returning from the brink of madness—I was a successful investment, something to be exploited.

He pushed aside any lingering thoughts of my well-being, his focus narrowing on the flowers. His fingers twitched with anticipation as he examined them, his mouth almost visibly watering as he considered the life-extending potions that might come from these strange, colorless blooms.

I stood there, numb, watching him drool over the very things that had nearly driven me to madness. His greed was palpable, and his excitement was almost grotesque. It was a stark reminder of the world I had returned to—a world just as indifferent and cold as the Graylands, but in a different way. Where the Graylands stripped away your sense of self with its gray void, men like Gibber did the same, but with the glint of coin in their eyes.

I felt a strange sense of detachment as he prattled on about how the flowers could be analyzed, sold to collectors, and the fortune it would bring us. A single flower was enough to leave me extraordinarily wealthy, and I had managed to bring back forty flowers.

But at that moment, standing before Gibber and his insatiable greed, I realized that even though I had escaped the Graylands, it had not truly left me. The gray had seeped into my very soul, and no amount of wealth could ever change that. Gibber, for all his riches and ambitions, could not understand the price I had paid to return.

I handed over every last one of the gray flowers I had collected, each petal a haunting reminder of the nightmare I had survived. Gibber, practically salivating over his newfound treasure, eagerly began the process of transferring a large sum of money into my account. His face beamed with the satisfaction of a man who had just struck gold, while I stood there, hollow and detached from the whole exchange. It felt meaningless to me—those flowers, that money—none of it could erase the horrors I had seen or bring back the people who had been lost.

Within the first few days of receiving the money, I knew I couldn’t keep it all. So, I gave more than half of it away without hesitation. The bulk of the funds went to the families of the caravan members—the ones who had accompanied me on that ill-fated journey and who had placed their trust in me.

I gave an even larger portion to the families of those who had never made it out of the Graylands, the ones whose names would forever be whispered in sorrow and uncertainty. I owed them that much, at the very least. While their loved ones would never return, the money was my way of acknowledging the price they had paid—a price that went far beyond anything that could be measured in currency.

The remainder of the money went toward my own treatments, as I desperately needed help managing the lingering effects of my exposure to the Graylands. The graying had taken a toll on both my body and mind, in ways I was only beginning to understand. I sought out every expert I could find—doctors, psychologists, even obscure scholars who specialized in rare afflictions.

A year into my treatment, I can cautiously say that some measure of normalcy has returned. The color in my skin has slowly been restored. The intense bouts of dissociation that once haunted me day and night have lessened, though they still linger at the edges of my mind, like shadows waiting to creep back in. I’ve learned to manage the constant feeling of being disconnected from reality, but it’s a slow, agonizing process. Some days, it feels as though I’ve made progress; other days, the Graylands still seem to stretch before me, endless and inescapable.

I do experience panic attacks from time to time, especially when the sky grows overcast. The oppressive, muted gray of those clouds brings me right back to the Graylands, to that suffocating feeling of being trapped in a world drained of life and color. On those days, I’ve learned to take precautions. I stay inside, make sure all the blinds are drawn, and avoid any glimpse of the sky. Even the faintest touch of gray in the clouds can send me spiraling into a state of dread.

And then, there are the dreams. Every night, without fail, I find myself once again wandering through those desolate, gray hills—an endless, barren landscape. It's as though I’m still wandering through the Graylands. I wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. It’s always the same, night after night. I’ve tried everything, but nothing stops the nightmares. The only relief I’ve found is in a cocktail of drugs that prevents me from dreaming altogether. It’s not a perfect solution, but at least I wake up to silence instead of terror.

The shadow men, though... they're still here. Watching. Even as I write this, I can see one through the window, just standing there, motionless, those two dull gray dots for eyes staring at me. I know I should be terrified—I was at first—but now? I’ve gotten used to them. Their presence has become almost routine, a constant companion that no longer sends shivers down my spine. They don’t bother me, really. They just watch. Always watching.

My doctor insists they aren’t real. He tells me they’re figments of my imagination, lingering effects of the graying. He’s put me on an experimental treatment, hoping the new drugs will help me stop seeing them. I nod along to his explanations, but a part of me wonders: What if they are real? What if the Graylands left more than just scars on my mind and body?

While I can’t claim to be fully healed—perhaps I never will be—there is a flicker of hope now, however faint. I’ve come to realize that whatever happened to me in that desolate place may never fully be undone, but I can at least learn to live with it. Maybe, in time, I’ll be able to truly move forward. Until then, I’ll keep seeking answers, and with each passing day, I’ll try to put just a little more distance between myself and the color gray.

-10/31/2997-

I’ve come to a horrifying realization—one that chills me to my very core. I never left the Graylands. Even now, as I sit here writing this, I’m not in my study, I’m still wandering those cursed, colorless hills. The truth hit me with such dreadful clarity: the dreams... they aren’t dreams at all. They’re real. Every time I think I’m asleep, safe in the waking world, I’m actually still there, still lost in that endless gray expanse.

I don’t dream about wandering the Graylands—I am wandering the Graylands. Every night when I close my eyes, I’m drawn back, and in those moments, my body walks those bleak hills as if I had never left. It isn’t my mind playing tricks on me—it’s my reality.

If I try to explain this to my doctors, they’ll think I’m spiraling, that I’m having some kind of manic episode, just another psychological break from the trauma. But I know the truth now. I see it so clearly. I’m not the same person who entered the Graylands.

I am me, but not me.

“There is no truth, and there is no falsehood. There are only shades of gray.”

Those are the words written on the gray monolith. They are the answer to everything! The monolith... it knew. It always knew. That silent, brooding stone carried the answer the entire time, hidden in plain sight.

I died in the Graylands. Then I started wandering the Graylands, but it wasn't me, because I was dead, but it was me. It’s all because it’s gray! It is obscured because it is all gray. IT’S ALWAYS BEEN GRAY!

I know how this must sound. Like the ravings of a madman, and perhaps I am. But I swear to you—it’s true. The Graylands don't just drain the color from the world around you; it obscures what is and isn't. Everything becomes gray, both literally and metaphysically.

The Graylands doesn’t just swallow color; it consumes meaning.

And, so. I never left and still wander it now. But… If I never left the Graylands, then who did?