The Sailor lay perfectly still, utterly quiet, stretched out among the black-and-white tall grass, imagining himself already a real corpse.
The wind blew chaotically from all directions, pushing the withered grass across the plain.
Amid the rolling waves of grass, sounds seemed to be forming — distant whispers, faint conversations, muffled sighs, and an ethereal melody like music.
The Sailor closed his eyes and let the calm of the dead wash over him, immersing himself in that endless wasteland.
Agatha held her staff and walked slowly around the Sailor three times.
The runes on the ground lit under her footsteps; the pale flames flared brighter.
She paused again near the Sailor’s head, thrust the staff into the earth, and slowly spread her arms.
For an instant the wind became even more chaotic and violent.
Those voices carried on the wind sharpened, but just as Duncan thought the Gatekeeper on this side had been roused, the wind began to die down, and all the sounds vanished.
“... Huh?” Agatha opened her eyes in puzzlement, her brow knitting.
“What’s wrong?” Duncan immediately asked, curious.
The Sailor on the ground couldn’t help but open his eyes too.