He worked a while in his crypt. First, of course, going over what he’d found out.

The symbol of Arratoria - he thought it’d help him locate it. He wouldn’t be able to travel as he had before with coordinates, but looking for the entity itself. Maybe not itself, he thought, and began to mess with it. A few meters away from the entity. But to make sure he wouldn’t appear in stone, or covered in sand or dirt - so maybe he should specify it was in the air, to replace the air with himself? Before he’d just switched out places now he had to make sure only he was addressed in the phrase.

The phrase got longer with each consideration. More complicated and worst of all he couldn’t test it without activating it - and to activate it he had to be sure he hadn’t messed up.

So he repeated it a dozen times, reading each step aloud to himself in his crypt, wandering around the circle of papers on the ground spelling out what he knew so far. The alchemist emphasized the opening and closing of brackets especially, made sure that everything was perfectly flowing, perfectly in order.

And then, quicker than he thought but still tedious and lengthy: The phrase was done. It laid before him perfectly. Each note, each line he had reviewed. Just one last line to place before the phrase became active.

The room got smaller before him, he felt.

Daios thought for a second that he could not breathe. This was it? The solution he had wanted, needed even. He felt himself stiffen, his chest hardly allowing breath to pass, his fingers gripping the paint far too tightly. There was no air in the room, he felt, there was no air and no space, and it all amounted to the phrase painted on the ground. It glared at him, and he refused to put down that last line. Not yet, he thought. I’m unprepared, he thought.

So he left the crypt again. Not with all the gear from before, just a brisk walk. He'll make a note, he figured. If he fails, there will be something to find. The thought eased his racing mind a little.

“Dear seeker,” he started, crossed it out again, look away from the paper, think.

It felt good to feel the wind against his skin again, as he exited the cathedral. Then it felt cold. And the way it tugged at his clothes felt irritating. And then the noise of the train reached him, and the noise of passer-by's and the electric lights all rang in his ears, and the penetrant thickness of the smog made his mind fog up on top of everything else.

“To whomever it may concern” - crossed out again, horrible - he thought. Of course, horrible, and a train honked its horrible horn in the distance. Even the way he crossed it out was horrible.

Deep breath.

Daios lowered his eyes to the note, and walked. Ignored the flickering lamps and the loud churning of machinery, the irritating buzzing of electricity, regardless of how it felt as if it itched on his skin. He tried to tune it out and start writing again.

He began to write again, “a note from-” No. “Greetings” Horrible. “Dearly-” The paper crumpled against his chest, as he crashed into something before him. A smudge of coal painted both down the page and against his red coat, and whatever it was before him let a low groan sound. Daios looked - He stared down the person before him, over their sunken eyes and cheeks, the discolourations on their face - a rash painted the left side of their neck - a dark purple underlined their eyes. How pale they looked, how chapped their lips were. He stared, until it clicked, and he stepped back.

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“Sorry.” Daios choked out, but his tone was hollow, still fixated on the condition of the person.

They stumbled forwards, past Daios and clung onto a railing, retching. Daios felt even heavier than before, even more burned up than before, but he pushed the anxious burning in his chest down into his legs. Let the fire burn the stiffness away - and rushed back to the crypt. The tired, hoarse coughs of the person haunted him. And below that horrid noise, he felt suddenly the clarity buzz to life.

He ran.

Back through the street he’d wandered before, back through the broken window, down the stairs and back to work.

The words rang clear in his head now, and committed them to paper right away. “I can fix this.”

He ignored his burning lungs and aching legs, and stared at his reason.

The written words, a reason he could hold in his hands, they melted away the last modicum of stiffness in his limbs, now he was overcome with a jittery excitement.

One last glance over the phrase he’d etched into the floor. One last reassurance. He drew a deep breath and steadied himself. His hands shook just a little as he painted the last line. Then, the gateway opened.

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This time and for the first time, it wasn’t snow being kicked up as he landed but dust and fine sand. The ground shifted softly to each movement. He lit his lantern, immediately enamoured with what he saw.

Green leaves, vines climbing up numerous pillars. Red sand trickling to new organic pillars around him. Stone pillars marked a geometric pattern, like that of the ruin. Mushrooms lined the edges of the pillars, each one again intricately carved. He could sparingly read the writing all around him - Lekuan, a language lost to time - it seemed to be numbers all of it.

He felt a rush, a spark to note and document it all. To dig at the meaning of the numbers, to take samples of the soil, of the sand, of the surrounding plants. He felt his legs as if he were on a boat, and his chest warm with the need for more and more and more. His hands itched with inactivity.

It was so beautiful it threatened to overwhelm the alchemist.

So he took one first step, toward one of the plants. It snaked its way around one of the pillars. Its leaves were green, but had a red pattern inside itself. He disregarded the shuffling of sand and dancing of the wind.

He started to document, forgot how long he’d spent there. Filled pages with little sketches and notes. He tucked them away in his bag, holding a few of them. The anxiety had started to wash away with each line made of the surrounding flora.

He turned, toward the next exciting thing, the next mushroom or plant. And there stood someone.

They towered over him. Four horns grew straight up from their head, matched with four gilded spikes coming from their chest plate. Their eyes seemed to glow back at him, a black sclera and bright green iris. Slits for pupils. They blinked once.

“Hi- I- Sorry - Uh” Daios started, dropping the papers he was holding.

They just stared further, blinked again.

Before the closeness of the pillars and the darkness of the room weighed on his mind, he tried a different approach, and in his very rusty Lekuan spoke: “Hello. You are… Arratoria?”

They winced at his words. He felt so small in their gaze. The dress they wore seemed to reach the ground, moving and writhing as if it had a mind of its own. They responded: “That is correct. What are you doing in my Atz’Dinah?”