Day One

It is I, Yorke, that writes this chronicle, feigning to record Merchand's nightful boasts for “posterity,” and I have not the ink, the parchment, nor patience for all of Merchand's rambling. It is fortunate he cannot read this chronicle, for writing the truth of his adventures is one of the sole joys of his company. It is plain to see he and the fellows have some regret for striking out for the “Azoth Tree” (a fool's errand – what manner of tree suddenly sprouts from the earth, and why would one risk crossing deity or devil for it, esp. seeing what Azoth has done elsewhere!). Laying sight upon it, they seemed not driven for fame at cutting down the tree, but confusion as to how they might set about dismantling and hauling it away. None had thought to bring a wagon big enough for the task. I, for one, do not like camping here. I find the coincidence of the Night of Blue Lanterns and the sudden appearance of this tree to be a warning most clear, not another feat fit for a rabble who playact at a “task worthy of Hercules.” As night fell, the Blue Lanterns of the highway seemed to glow brighter, and even the ones in the distance seemed most sharp to my eyes. I write these final lines as Merchand has gone off to slumber, and I'll make up words “worthy of the myth” tomorrow… unless he decided to tear up the parchment in anger, like he has for half of our expeditions that fortune did not favor. - “The Great Merchand” (i.e., Chronicler Yorke)