It's easy to get lost along the many, winding walkways above the Marsh, and comparatively difficult to find your way back again. The mist becomes thick, and this branch of the path you've chosen seems to go on forever. There's no way to know how long you've been separated from the others. The light of the Marsh is always dim, and the scenery hardly seems to change.
More visible than anything else, though, even through all this mist, are those same bright orange flowers. They sway in place, as if you are the sun they are constantly seeking to face. Their petals seem almost upturned, as if smiling. Then, they begin to speak:
"Art thou lost, Thara Celehar? Didst thou step the wrong way? Didst thou make the wrong choice?"
It is the same voice, coming from all of them, overlapping in an eerie doppler effect. It is high-pitched, feminine, and laughing.
"I can help! Thou need only ask. What else of thine precious things must thou lose?"
Eventually, though, the voices quiet. The Ferryman emerges from the mist — which itself burns away, as if by their very presence. They hold out their hand.
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More visible than anything else, though, even through all this mist, are those same bright orange flowers. They sway in place, as if you are the sun they are constantly seeking to face. Their petals seem almost upturned, as if smiling. Then, they begin to speak:
"Art thou lost, Thara Celehar? Didst thou step the wrong way? Didst thou make the wrong choice?"
It is the same voice, coming from all of them, overlapping in an eerie doppler effect. It is high-pitched, feminine, and laughing.
"I can help! Thou need only ask. What else of thine precious things must thou lose?"
Eventually, though, the voices quiet. The Ferryman emerges from the mist — which itself burns away, as if by their very presence. They hold out their hand.
"Found you. C'mon, kid, it's this way."