-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.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

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.