Tucked away in a bookshelf of a sterile white bedroom oboard the ship of the Floran Kniferoots is a journal, bound in animal skins, pages of pressed parchmen, a large feather used as a bookmark. Embossed onto the cover is an emblem, a rose with a stem made of swords. On the inside of the cover, a message is scrawled almost illegibly. Ta: Kniferoots. Fran: Rasar Vlnas Most cunning of mine childs. Is book for you to write ins. Darren says is encroachings to has you write. Think Tcloa woulds agreed. The first page is empty, a small dot of adhesive sticking it to the inside of the cover, obscuring the message. From this point on the journal is written in a careful cursive script. It has been a long while since I felt the need to record my thoughts, and a long while simce I last held a conversation with someone other than Lux. The last year I spent back in the core sectors has passed in a blur and I have found myself drawn back towards the frontier, where hope for acceptance still exists. I wonder if I was right to come back. The fear of my kind is stronger than ever, the looming threat of savagery still hangs thick in the air. It is not an unfound fear but to feel the lingering gaze of others and see contempt and fear in their eyes hurts. Sometimes I wonder how the Tree-mother would handle it, though the answer which comes to mind is not a pleasant one. It involves alot of violence and gnawing of bones. Yet she is here and as far as I can tell, not elbow deep in someone's guts. Perhaps we can change after all. Change. I fear I have changed too much, alienated myself from my kin yet still unaccepted by society. I swap names as is convenient and lose track of who I am. The pounding drums and smell of rank flesh still haunts my sleep. I awaken to the ultra-modern comforts of my home amongst the void. The calming flood of nicotine into my veins is accompanied by the sharp spike of fear as the flame burns at the tip of the cigarette. I have surrounded myself with contradictions and lost my being within them. Not a day ago I found myself in the med-bay, suckling on one of my already diminishing stocks of blood. Today I find myself sitting across from a smug bigot of a man, listening to his insults as I clamp down on the rage burning within. I see fear and hate in their eyes. Then I see thankfulness and I remember why I am what I am. She was a frail figure, malnutrition and dehydration had set in. She had been trapped in a ship for almost two weeks with dwindling supplies. The hunters instincts buzzed my head. 'Easy prey' they said. Fuck that noise. I was taught better. She's off at some run down refugee camp now. I didn't follow her down, too afraid of being judged. Too afraid of their judgement being correct. I see the fear and hate in their eyes and know that there is a reason for that fear, that the hunger within cannot be denied forever. I see the fear and hatred within my eyes and wish I was anything else other than what I am. ~Grammaticus
There are small scribbles in the corner of the page, as if it was used to test a new pen. Mud. That's the name of the world I've found myself on, perhaps where I might find myself settling for the time if all goes well. It's a damp place, in a constant state of precipitation, the ceaseless toil of it's inhabitants churning up the soil... let us say it is simple to see where it gains it's name. The culture of the world is predominantly Avian, though one more slated towards traditional colonisation and self-sufficiency rather than the grand architecture and religious overtones one would expect. The sight of it awakens a sense of nostalgia and I am reminded of Gyushal's more rural districts. Little spots of quiet amongst the refuge Tcloa had carved out amongst the stars. I miss the old bird, his words of wisdom and strong moral core were a guiding light in the darkest of times. It is a shame the Tree-mother did not listen to him. Too narrow minded mother, driving away those you care for in your blind efforts to coddle them. Your vengeance swift and brutal, too swift, too brutal... I wish I'd gotten the recipe for those spicy ribs he used to make, those were delicious. I digress, Mud reminds me of better times. But it's inhabitants are colder, not quite bearing the same familial warmth of the Avians back home. Perhaps they will warm to me in time, or perhaps they will see through the veneer of civility I hide behind and glimpse... or provoke the savage within. I hope not. I spoke to an Apex by the name of Edleth, an interesting fellow. Like a wandering bard... well, rock star anyway. When I returned to the ship later I dug out my old guitar from storage. Call it inspiration if you will, I was never very good at it... but it never hurts to have a hobby. ~Grammaticus
The journal entry is accompanied by a few rough half finished sketches. A the face of a Floran with a crest of broad leaves, half of her face a mess of burn scars, the other covered with a detailed tribal tattoo. One eye a brilliant green, fangs bared and an expression of anger on her face. Another sketch is of an Apex in a longcoat, a pair of red bionic eyes contrasting with his dull grey skin and light browm fur, a look of wry amusement on his face, framed by a metal mask and a short ponytail. A human male with a messy mop of bright pink hair and thick foggy glasses, a smug smile on his face, scar along his cheek. An Avian with dull red plumage, going grey at this edge, eyes filled with wisdom beyond his years, a kindly smile spread along his beak. View attachment 4311 Home. It has been a long time since I called anywhere home. A long time since Gyushal and Floran'Da. A long journey from where I was seeded, following the FTL wake of the Tree-Mother's ship. A thought occurs to me. I have always sought my own path, yet I follow her like a lost puppy trailing it's owner. Always tempted to approach, to tell her I am fine but never being able to summon the courage to do so. Flesh is easy to mend, bones more problematic. But it seems the hardest bonds to fix once broken are those of family. I spoke with Ernal today, got a job at the clinic on Mud and I can look forward to a home in the near future. A welcome change from the cramped shipboard medbay. The equipment isn't the best and the operating theatre is smaller but it's the surroundings that count. Ernal seemed hesitant at first, probably not helped by my trying to pull the 'illiterate hunter' act. But he seemed to warm up after I dropped the act. Perhaps the others here will warm to me in time as well. Tcloa, Borin, Darren. Wherever you are now, I hope I have not let you down. Mother, I hope you do not do anything rash. Maybe it is time to move on. ~Grammaticus
The Journal entry is accompanied by a series of stick figures in various poses, little arrows drawn on them. A small slip of paper is slipped between this page and the last, a set of notes jotted down on it. "Human named Diego came by to see the dentist, ask M'kali about her policy on appointments" Another piece of paper with notes scribbled on is slipped in the journal as well. "02/07/2417, Morning: Routine Checkup/Consultation. Patient Name: Diego Manriquez. Diagnosis: Healthy, minor anxiety issue, possibly related to proximity with dangerous predator. Treatment: None. Inquired about immunization, but could not afford. Consider a payment scheme or financial support. Economically sustainable?. 02/07/2417, Evening: First Aid/Stitches. Patient Name: Volare. Lacerations on back on head, glass shards ranging from 5mm to 2 cm embedded in flesh. Grade 2 Concussion. Treatment: Glass shards removed and wound disinfected, five stitches. Concussion appears to be mild, no swelling or bleeding. Take note to inquire next visit/time I see him." It's all starting to come together, the clinic is seeing some business and I feel like I'm slowly finding my footing once more. I could get used to calling mud home. While there is the usual (not-without-reason) stigma of being Floran, the role I have adopted instills abit of trust. Assuming I keep up standards and do it well that is. To say nothing of being caught munching on amputated limbs or some such. I try to ignore their nervousness when they meet me, the glances they shoot when they think I'm not looking. I know their reasons for it. They look at me and see Floran, teeth and claws. Ripped flesh down my gullet, blood dribbling from my lips. I remember the Tree-Mother teaching me to skin the prey I caught. All things considered she would be considered civilised, yet when she showed me how to hunt, she presented methods for skinning others. How one would avoid an Avian's bladder due to it's foul taste and how Apex skin needs a delicate hand to skin. She did this even as day by day she lived with those species and made merry with them, counting members of their species among her friend and family. How she managed to draw the line between prey and friend I know not, but I fear that thinking of them as meat could lead to. Well I prefer not to dwell on that topic. I attended my first Yoga session with Trojan today and I have the sneaking feeling I'll be feeling the soreness in my muscles for the next day at least. One of the few things I should have listened to the Tree-Mother about, staying active. The exercises aren't too tiring, but the stretching is intensive. I'll need to keep practicing, get my body used to the exercise. On the plus side, it seems the 200 pix was just the upfront fee, further sessions costing 50 each. While still expensive, it's a much more sustainable cost. The exercise itself is meditative, a fact for which I am glad for, clearing the mind. It helps me reflect, helps me think. Trojan herself is as interesting in the flesh and bone as she was over those adverts, though I have difficulty comprehending her sometimes. Context is important I guess. Looking forward to the next session. I'm ending this entry here for now, still have some paperwork left to do for the day but. Well, it's been a long one. ~Grammaticus
Once more the Journal entry is accompanied by a slip of paper. The diary has been moved down to Kniferoot's home on Mud, slipped between an anatomy encyclopedia and a stack of human fantasy books. "03/07/2417, Afternoon: First Aid/Shrapnel Removal. Patient Name: Diego Manriquez. Diagnosis: Bullet wound in right arm, impact with humerus, stress fracture. Muscle damage to biceps biachii. Treatment: Bullet removed and wound irrigated and packed with gauze. Pressure bandage applied. Patient provided with wound cleaning kit and painkillers. Follow up within the week to monitor healing." A picture is slipped in as well. I've moved into my new home in Mud. A nice little set of rooms to call my own. Put my own little spin on it, though I hope Ernal doesn't mind the bone decorations. They've been sitting in the storage of my ship for far too long. Most are from non-sentient species but... well at the very least they aren't immediately recognizable to the anatomically uninitiated. Work progresses at a decent rate, a couple of checkups and the usual injuries. Mud is a safe place, safer than most but injuries and fights still happen, people need to be patched up. I take pride in this role. The mender of flesh, pulling people from the brink. Putting people together where, had I not been blessed to meet the people I did, I would be ripping them apart. Deep breaths, stretch. I'll definitely be continuing those Yoga sessions with Trojan once my pay comes in, even just practicing I feel a sense of peace. Of balance I have not felt since those meditation sessions with Tcloa. Gives me a moment to feel at one with myself. I look out the window and see the trees and underbrush of Mud, the Avian structures which I am slowly committing to memory, the sky up above, twinkling with life. I spoke with Ernal, the Avian looks tired, leading does that to people, taking the responsibility of an entire population upon one's shoulder. Every choice a tough one. He's abit soft, leaning on the side of leniency but his ability to stick to his morals is admirable. I remember how the Tree-Mother drove away those around her, brutality has it's place but I'm glad it is not in this world. I need to rest now but I'll keep this journal updated. It's been good putting these thoughts to paper. ~Grammaticus
Once again a piece of paper is slipped between the pages of the journal. "05/07/2416: Evening: Consultation? Bit of a mess to be honest. Patient Name: Aphi. Diagnosis: Optic Nerves damages, frozen ocular fluids. Irreparable. Gash on lower right leg. No major damage. Treatment: Three stitches. A home and some warm food." Another piece of paper has something scribbled on it in the same layout. "Patient Name: Diego, Diagnosis, Paranoia, Irrational, Full of Shit. Treatment: A choke hold from a Hylotl. Prescribe Laxatives next time." Well here we are again. Eight... Aphi, a name I never thought I would hear again. The Hylotl was a monster reduced to a small child. What Darren did to him I'll never know. I never knew the original Eight, only that he was a terrible person with many crimes under his belt and that Darren supposedly killed him before showing up with a suspiciously similar looking Hylotl. When I asked Razor once she only told me that we were not the only ones capable of savagery. Either way, Aphi was brought to my clinic. His eyes frozen shut. He had miraculously survived on a ice ball of a world for... however long it has been since I last saw him, toddling after Darren like a lost child. A broken mind. Today was strange, like a hazy memoru half remembered dragged to the fore. I caught a glimpse of mother on Mud, browsing the bazaar. I remember. Tcloa. Cexichotcloa Gho'Ird Avo'Ic Conoroviri Amos. I saw a red tinged Avian and remembered with shocking clarity my time in Gyushal. Darren, on the verge of perfecting cloning... or did he manage it only for it to come tumbling apart. Tcloa was opposed to the idea. Mother too eager to try to bring back those she had lost. Razka's axe buried in my spine. Playing with Kon'da, so eager, excitable. I remember all of it burning. Of Tcloa rushing to mother's aide despite his misgivings at the time. Burning. Burning fire in my veins. When they brough Aphi in, I barely recognised him. No translator, no sight. Then he spoke of Darren and my mind went blank. I needed to know where he had gone. Where he was. Aphi didn't know and I grew agitated, Diego got irrational and I almost killed him. I looked to this man, who I had tended to and spoke with and in that moment of rage all I saw was meat. Scalpel in my hand, cut along the throat. Sweet blood. It would have been so easy. So simple to cut down the man who dares slander the one who taught me everything I know. The Hylotl there, Kenshi, intervened before I could act. For that I give thanks. So many faces from the past, the doctor I saw on the way in. I swear I've seen her before. I know her, perhaps a mutual friemd... Borin perhaps? Even Ernal looks familiar under certain lights. I dream of the hunt, of Florans arrayed in ranks. I dream of Darren, slowly turning to wood. Perhaps this is madness. I hope not, I have no time for madness, I have patients to tend to. People to care for. I have to strive to be better than what I am, otherwise what's the point. ~Grammaticus
The usual slip of paper is inserted between the pages. "06//07/2417, Morning: Surgical Stabilisation of Flail Chest and Setting of Fractured Ribs, Tibula amd Fibula. Patient Name: Harper. Diagnosis: Three fractured ribs, flail chest, fractured right tibula, factured left fibula. Treatment: GA administered and surgery performed. Jute plates utilised to set ribs, chest drained. Jute plates used to set tibula and fibula, leg wrapped in cast." Oh Floran'Da. City amongst the trees. A starburst of green among a sea of red. Savage but noble. Outcasts united in acceptance of each other. How I miss thee. My home. Arhicath Borin, Cexichotcloa Gho'Ird Avo'Ic Conoroviri Amos, Darren Kaziona, Razor Vines, Virgil Valentine, Lillian Deckard, Razka, Ai, Kon'Da. So many names half forgotten in the fog of memory. I found my old logs, back from when I was a sapling. Buried in the back of storage along with an old Lux backup and my old hood. Looking back at them I find myself appalled. Was I really that paranoid, trying to distance myself from what I am and those who would care for me so soon after meeting them. Preparing plans to remove anyone who I met in case they proved a threat. Many of these ideas are idiotic, the idea that I was special, enlightened. It's quite amusing actually, the ramblings of a foolish child, possessing intelligence without wisdom. Savagery without control. I guess hindsight is 20/20. We're different people through out lives and I'm glad I'm no longer the Floran who wrote those logs. ~Grammaticus
The usual slip of paper is inserted between the pages. "10/07/2417, Morning: Excision of burnt tissue. Patient Name: La'Ne. Diagnosis: Electric burm on left index and middle finger, significant nerve damage on arms. Treatment: Wound irrigated and dead tissue excised, stitched shut, no grafts required." Like a ghost I saw mother today. She sat beside me as I overlooked the city and pondered on my place in it. She spoke to me of loss and of understanding and I rebuffed her. She said she missed me but it sounded hollow to my ears. Who would the warrior queen of a great forest city care for more, her traitorous child who fled oh so long ago. Or the proud warrior brother, standing victorious over the carcass of his kin. Why would she care for me when she has everything she wanted in Razka. She claims that as the Tree-mother she cares for all under her branches. And there is truth in that statement. I have witnessed it first hand. She would burn down the kingdom of any who wished to conquer those she considers hers. She would hunt down and brutalise any who dares throw down the gauntlet with her. I watched in the arenas of Taranis as she faced down opponents who towered over her. I watched as she fought to a standstill against opponents she could not beat and I watched her end the fight quickly and swiftly against those who saw themselves evenly matched against her. She is violent and wild but there is a method behind that savagery. I remember her books. A poem copied down on her desk. A hint perhaps at a deeper person hiding behind the bloodshed and violence. But in the end, what is the Tree-mother but a relic of better times... or more violent ones. Have I disappointed her? Oh without a doubt yes. But the old tree is not blameless on her part. I have not seen Aphi in days, I hope he is still safe, still okay. Still Aphi rather than Eight. The sun shimmers bright in the sky, invigorating me. Perhaps the past is better left behind. I have a direction, a goal to be better than I have any right to be. I hope I can reach that goal. ~Grammaticus
The usual slip of paper is inserted between the pages. "13/07/2417, Morning: Intermedullary Nailing of Right Femur. Patient Name: Hisakawa Kori. Diagnosis: Comminuted fracture on Right Femur, Sprained Right Ankle. Treatment: Bone fragments removed and Intermedullary Nailing carried out through right femur. Artificial bone material inserted where fragments had been removed and wound cleaned and stitched up, patient's leg placed in cast and prescribed a dose of painkillers." The more I speak to Ernal, the more I see Tcloa reflected in him. Oh the details are vastly different from one to the other, one a mayor, the other a priest. One abhors violence, the other a warrior. But there is that innate goodness in them, the willingness to give people a chance, to accept all which fills my body with warmth. Both damaged souls taking joy in granting refuge to those who need it. Both slowly worn down by the stresses of leadership. Perhaps I am projecting what I know of one onto the other. Perhaps I am willfully blinding myself in an attempt to gaze upon the brighter side of things. Does it matter, so long as I believe. I find I haven't interacted with all that many residents of Mud, a fact which I find somewhat comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Once, I would have followed each and every one until I knew all I could about them, just to make further interaction of any kind more viable. Now I am content to sit in the clinic, an essential yet mainly unseen gear amongst the many which grind to keep mud turning. I should get out more, and not just be content sitting on the balcony overlooking the Bazaar or manning the clinic. I guess I need friends. I should schedule another apointment with Trojan, she's pretty cool, abit hard to decipher her lingo but at the end of the day I learn something new. ~Grammaticus
A series of paper slips are slotted in the journal, stapled neatly in place. In fact the entire journal has been neatened up, staples binding loose papers into coherent entries. "17/07/2417, Afternoon: First Aid. Patient Name: Juro(spelling incorrect). Diagnosis: Hairline Fracture across Oblique line to edge of Mandibular Canal. Mild Concussion. Treatment: Painkillers administered and jaw bandaged into place for natural healing.Patient instructed to avoid solid foods. 17/07/2417, Afternoon: First Aid, Patient Name: Saltbert. Diagnosis: Bullet wound in right shoulder, chipping across the acromian. Treatment: Bone fragments removed, wound irrigated and packed with gauze. 17/07/2417, Afternoon: First Aid, Patient Name: Star Dancer. Diagnosis: Bullet wounds? Unsure how Novakid work, do some research. Treatment: None, First Aid administered by patient's comrade. 17/07/2417, Evening: First Aid, Patient Name: Razor Vines. Diagnosis: Gash along upper left mandible. Shrapnel to leg, removing it at the ankle. Treatment: Wounds sterilized, gash stitched close with biodegradable thread. Foot removed at ankle and bandaged, patient provided small wooden foot. 17/07/2417, Evening: Detox. Patient Name: Kenrita Diagnosis: Alcohol Poisoning, malnutrition. Treatment: Hydration and nutrition via IV drip. Patient prescribed dietary supplements." A few notes on Novakid are copied down, occasionally cancelled over and commented with incredulous comments like "What!?" and "Nonsensical, shoot me now." Where do I begin in chronicling the past few days. Just a short look at the diagnostic logs attached to this entry should give an idea of what kind of mess it's been. Saturday was quiet I guess, a calm before the storm. I sat down and had a nice chat with M'kalli while we both waited to see if there were any patients. Luckily, there weren't. I recommended some books to her and we parted ways amiacably. I assume we're friends or at least acquaintances now. The Apex who lives downstairs is still giving me the cold shoulder but it is understandable. I see what he sees when he lays eyes upon me. When I order my steak rare for the tingling of fresh blood on my tongue... I know what I am. I understand my position and my place, it is how I have gotten this far. Aphi came back troubled that evening. The little guy had found his friend, Jesse Harrison (Harrison, the name is still familiar). He had been rejected, cast aside. Poor thing. So I comforted him, told him I would be there for him. That I was motivated by a sense of altruism and that I acted to be the best I could for fear of what I could be at my worst. I had intended to lie, to tell the runt a sugar coated tidbit to comfort him. It looks like the truth was enough. Then there was Mother. Striding around Mud cacked in the environs, resplendent in armour and arms. Accompanied by a Novakid and a black feathered Avian, dragging a wounded Hylotl into the clinic, my clinic. How many days ago did she say she had left that lifestyle behind, that she had retired to a peaceful savannah to live out the rest of her days in comfort. Anger. A betrayal of my trust. She had fallen in with the usual crowd of violent idealists. She had taken my hope for her away and brought the violence so prevalent in Memoria to my new home. Yet, she does what she does for good reasons. She means well, in an almost childlike way, so at odds with her age and weariness. Have I dissapointed her? Perhaps, but she has dissapointed me in turn. I stood there, tending to the two Hylotl who had the misfortune of tangling with the Tree-Mother and those who she associates with while they discussed how to interrogate them. Eventually the two gave their information. One had even lived in Memoria for a time. I wonder if Mother's reputation had a part to play in that. I prayed they would not returned, and whatever diety persists out there spat in my face. They returned, mother injured, a knife wound across her cheek, entire left foot a mangled mass of flesh. I spoke as I worked on her. As she stayed conscious and jovial despite the pain. As I questioned why and recieved only one answer worth knowing. "If my friends came knocking, if people would get hurt, would I do the same." I have run before. I might run again. I can only hope to be brave. But Razor, she is always brave. When her city burned and all fled, she strode to the gates to face down the attackers alone. When her city lay dessicated and atrophied, she came to the frontier and jumped straight into the first organisation whose ideals loosely aligned with here. Over and over the pattern repeats. The Novakid, a Star Dancer, looked to me and asked if mother had a death wish. I told him no but the truth is... I don't know. She showed cowardice once and has vowed to never do it again. It will lead to her end one day. I realise now that while I consider her savage and violent, while I look at her methods with fear that I would be in her place, we are more alike than I thought. No, that she is in a position I aspire to be. I lie, pretend to be better than I am, hide behind a veneer of civility. Seal myself in chains so I can stand alongside others. Leash myself to avoid lashing out. Yet mother stands with her friends, I see her drinking with them, making merry. It makes me envious I admit, how she seems so used to social situations despite her savagery. I cannot hate her, not only because she gave me life, but also because she gives me something to aspire to in a strange way. She is happy, she has people she would die for. Can I say the same. I speak to people to comfort them, sometimes I wish I had someone who I trusted enough to talk to, to comfort me... ~Grammaticus
A small envelope is stapled to this page, inside is a small datachip. It's been quiet recently. Good. A nice kind of calm, a pleasant calm. Copacetic. I'm quite enjoying it. ~Grammaticus [Memory Storage Contents: Filename: Test.axv] The video resolves into a somewhat shaky footage of a brown claw partially obscuring the lens, trying to carefully shift the camera into position. There's a thud noise and something falls to the floor, followed by an animalistic growl. After quite abit more finagling, the camera is pointed forwards and the claw withdrawn, revealing the view of Kniferoot's room. The scrawny Floran himself stands by the centre, a gass of thick reddish liquid on his table, it steps back and grabs the glass in his claw, raising it to a mouth filled with sharp narrow teeth takes a gulp, a slight dribble of red running down it's cheek. Knifroot leans slightly out of view of the camera and pulls a dull grey guitar into view, hefting it up and cradling it in it's arms. The Floran gives a satisfied smile, bringing it to a more appropriate position and picking up a small plastic pick from the table. "Not exactly the bessst at thisss but here goesss." It strums the instrument a few times, a harsh twang echoing across the room. With a grin, the Floran steps back and begins to play, it's an amateurish attempt, strewn with misplays and slip ups, but taken as a whole, it's suprisingly decent. The floran begins to sing along to the music, it's deep hissing voice blending into the riff. "There musst be ssome kind of way outta here. Sssaid the joker to the thief. There'ss too much confussion, I can't get no relief..." By the end the song ends, the Floran is panting, pulling aside the fingers it had against the fretboard and shaking them off. It leans forward and the video cuts off. Spoiler: All Along The Watchtower
The usual slip of paper is stapled to the journal page, along with a photograph of the sky. "28/07/2417, Evening: First Aid. Patient Name: Fog. Diagnosis: Leg severed at knee. Treatment: Medics on sight med-gelled wound shut and administered anesthetics. Doctor Ashley Marks administered cocktail. IV drip administered to replenish lost fluids. Patient prescribed painkillers and advised with bed rest and follow up visit. Consider issuing wheelchair. 28/07/2417, Evening: First Aid. Patient Name: Kuro Diagnosis: Multiple stab and slash wounds, lacerations and damaged tissue everywhere. Treatment: Doctor Ashley Marks tended to patient's wounds. Blood transfusion was successfully carried out with blood retrieved from the Patient's personal stock." Mud burned today, fire blazed across the sky and it was beautiful. People died today, gunshots rang out across Mud for the last time. I'm not sure where to begin, so I'll start with the lights. The lights blazed across the sky like fire, like a great fiery aurora, It was terrifying, awe inspiring, beautiful. The most wondrous thing I've seen in all my years. Glittering orange clouds swirling from yellow to red, An inferno of light and colour swirling through the air. Then Ernal spoke, making a speech to all on the planet. Mud will be closing it's gates to outsiders. It was a brave statement, given that Mud seems to be the hot-spot for visitors but it was undoubtedly the right one. No more gunfire, no more death. The only fires burning in Mud would be the ones keeping the city running and the ones in the sky. It seems I'm not quite an outsider too, given that I'll be staying here. It's a comforting feeling being accepted. Being part of something. Mud may be a small backwater city, an Avian colony in the arse end of the frontier, but it's home and I'm glad to call it home. Glad to have a home. His statement that the open immigration into Mud was the root cause of the violence was proven correct when someone attempted to kill Fog, the bartender, an energy weapon of some kind shearing off his leg. Another, a Hylotl was sliced straight in half before the shooter was put down. There was another doctor at the clinic, a doctor Ashley Marks. I like her, she has wisdom and knowledge on her side, age and experience both. She was tending a hulking monster of a Hylotl. I... I'm not going to pen that down, suffice to say that the encounter with that Hylotl is going to give me nightmares for years to come. It's an odd feeling, to be home. To know that your neighbours will stay your neighbours rather than disappearing only to turn up dad some weeks later. It's a comforting feeling, to be home. Because that's where I am now. Home, Mud is my home now, more so than Floran'Da ever was. More than Gyushal. The only other place even approaching it's homelyness would be my ship and my ship is nothing more than a flying clinic. Heh, it is likely I won't be seeing the Tree-mother very much anymore. It seems it took an entire planet assuming an isolationist policy to get her to stop bugging me. Then again I did follow her out to these sectors. I'm looking forward to the peace and quiet. ~Grammaticus
The usual slip of paper is stapled to the journal page "17/07/2417, Afternoon: Consultation, Brace Application, Patient Name: Vine-Stabber. Diagnosis: Compression fracture in lumbar section of spine. Microfractures and stress cracks along L3 and L4 vertebrae. Treatment: Patient injected with Floran-Compatible Genal Purpose Stimm Cocktail and brace applied to back to prevent movement until fractures have healed." I find myself returning to this journal more and more often, seeing how much has changed in the last few months. Recording my thoughts as they come. I spoke to Ernal today and poured out my heart, let out more about myself than I ever have. The last few months which I have spent on Mud feel like an eternity, like I have always lived here. I find myself, though not universally liked, accepted by a growing number of individuals on this world. I was right to come back. Though fear of my kind is stronger than ever, the services I have rendered on this planet have earned me the trust I once craved. I have forged friendships and find myself no longer subject to the glares of fear and hate that I received when I first arrived. Perhaps this is why the Tree-Mother surrounds herself with company constantly, so quick to leave her retirement and jump onto the next idealistic crusade she stumbles upon. Perhaps it is not just the thrill of the fight she craves, but the bond of comradeship that it forges. Change. I've changed from the ambitious Floran who set off from Floran'Da all those years ago. The Kniferoot of then wouldn't have made the friendships I have, made the decisions I have. Wouldn't have mended relations with Tree-Mother, wouldn't have found a place amongst the people of Mud. I awake to the traditional furnishings of my room, blending my heritage with what I have become and I feel at ease. I am who I am and that is okay. I often find myself sitting on a quiet spot near the staircase, overlooking the city. This peaceful quiet city, I have never felt more at home. Most of the rest of the time i spent manning the clinic. We don't get much in the way of business these days, a good thing I feel, now that we are away from the constant impending violence of the frontier. I see the thanks in the eyes of those I help, Watch them recover and my heart swells with pride and happiness. I see the fear and hate in the eyes of those who do not know me and feel the rage burning within. Fuck them, I'll prove them wrong. The Florans of my tribe do not break their oaths, the most sacred of pacts to them. I have sworn one which keeps me on the straight and narrow. One which defines my life as a doctor. A Hippocratic Oath. I see the warmth in the mirror, the hope in my heart and i am thankful for everything that has made me as I am. I have much more to do though. Today I made a proposal, or maybe a request, to Ernal. To move to the Waterdipper district, the most populated of Mud's districts. To bring my practice there and in a twofold strike, improve the medical care in that district and perhaps shatter the ingrained fear of my kind. There is so much more to do, I hope I do even half of what I hope to do. I hope these words I pen down do not simply disappear with me when I shuffle off this mortal coil. But first, there is one thing I want to do. A book, a written account of a home I was born into but which I never called home. I will have to seek those others who came from that sector. Hear the point of view. I remember joining a group which had a similar goal in mind once. The Codex. Eh, that is long behind me but I feel like honouring them, honouring the sector long left behind. An Archive of Memoria. ~Grammaticus
There's nothing attached to this page, though a small self portrait is sketched on the opposing page. View attachment 4385 It's quiet on Mud, calming quiet. A droning quiet. You know that noise, that buzzing noise at the back of our head when it's too quiet. That high pitch whisper you just can't ignore. It's like that but in my mind. Give me work, give me something of worth. Kahlua is sick but has not paid a visit. No-one is around it feels. I see them from the window but it's peaceful, no real need for me. I should be glad, my services are only needed at ill times. But I find myself wishing someone would stumble in, bloody and battered. The rush of work, the stitching of flesh, the preservation of life. They keep me going I find. I've been reading history books lately. Ancient and modern both. An example for me to follow as I write my own. It makes me cry, makes me rage. The universe is fickle, all these other species. They all went through various stage of development, many went through a tribal stage. A savage stage from which they were allowed to develop from. We were not, we had advancement thrust upon us. And now here we are, hated and reviled. The writing trails off, before continuing halfway down the page. Memoria, I've been trying to remember but it's like a hole in my mind, a gaping maw which sucks in every effort I can muster to remember. I know, what happened, I know who I met, I can remember, yet I can't. Why did we leave it all behind? Why can't anyone remember. I have to preserve, so much happened there which cannot afford to be lost. Please help me remember. I look in the mirror and the Floran looking back is not the one who crawled out of the cocoon. Who devoured their unborn siblings. Who... ~Grammaticus
Once more nothing is attached to the page, though there is scribbling hastily cancelled out at the edges of the page. In Memoriam... The book is taking form, both in paper and in mind. It seems as if unseen forces are converging, bringing that forlorn place back from the dark, Ernal is making a trip there, and Razor Vines is bringing him to those blackened stars. He offers me the chance to follow. But I'm afraid, afraid of what I find. I was not as I am when I stayed there, arrogant and secretive. I've grown up but, the past still haunts me in how little I recall of it. I'm unsure if I should follow. Unsure if I can face Mother and Ernal at the same time. Unsure what I can say when I reach there. Unsure who I'll find there. I'm trying my best but it's hard. Made roaster yakkra ribs in spicy feathercrown sauce last night. It was rare I think, meat still bloody near the bone. I dug into it. Presented some to Ernal. Like an offering unto an altar, one of safety. One of peace. You have given me peace my friend, my chief. But what has it cost you. I'll be cooking a lakeray stew later, got the lakerays laid out and gutted. Along with some shrimps and the leftover yakkra I bought from the market. Hopefully I can get the pearlpeas right. Just like Tcloa used to do. Cexichotcloa Gho'Ird Avo'Ic Conoroviri Amos, I owe him so much. The more I think about it, he above all made me who I am now. His wisdom subtly guided me down this path. What is it with Avians which brings out the best in me? I wonder where the old bird is now, how Khroa is doing. She's probably approaching her teens now. Thank you Ernal, Tcloa. Thank you for everything. Perhaps I will follow you to Memoria after all. Revisit the home of my childhood. ~Grammaticus
Attached to the page is a small pouch with a datachip inside. Ernal and Kahlua went on their trip, Mud, it's quiet without them, people come and go but make no sound. I put out a request on Starnet, a call to organise for the medical practitioner of the frontier. Amusingly, only those on Mud itself have replied. We could start a little doctor's club here, just us in the cramped clinic. I've taken to hobbies, music mainly, my skill at the guitar is still middling at best but working at it gives me focus and something to do with my spare time. I've been fiddling with the piano as well, attached a clip I took in the empty inn to this entry. It's a short entry I guess, just checking in. Progress update, keep me sane. ~Grammaticus [Memory Storage Contents: Filename: BodyIsACage.axv] The video resolves into a somewhat shaky footage of a brown claw partially obscuring the lens, trying to carefully shift the camera into position. The image sharpens and resolves to reveal the Mud inn, the camera balanced on the counter facing the piano. The scrawny Floran takes a seat at the piano and taps out a few notes, making himself comfortable. Then he begins to play, it's a flawed performance, starting out shaky as he gets used to the piano and slowly improving. When the music reaches a crescendo, his finger slips and hits multiple notes at once but he recovers, all the while, he sings in a deep velvety hiss. "My body isss a cage, that keepsss me from dancing with the one I love. But my mind holdsss the key." As the song ends, he turns and steps over to the camera and the video cuts off. Spoiler: My Body Is A Cage
A few pages have been neatly cut out of the journal, leaving an empty page with a slip of paper stapled to it. "23/08/2417, Afternoon: Detoxification,, Brace Application, Patient Name: Xoh. Diagnosis: Swelling and nausea in response to natural toxins. Treatment: Detoxification, Laxatives and Painkillers prescribed." On the page after, the writing continues in the usual impeccable script. Do you ever wonder if you're going mad, if everything you've experienced is just a fucking nightmare you'll forget once you wake up. I've been confused for awhile now. Or maybe I just remembered how little sense my life and where i come from make. I guess it doesn't matter. Those first few moments of bloodshed as something burst from the cocoon. That first year of confusion, of cold detached learning. Of hunger and trying to find an outlet for that hunger. Those aren't really me. I've moved on from that. I've been travelling alot lately, visiting the Ranch and the Berg, two new colonies, if you can call them that, which popped up recently. They're both really small and quiet I find. Though not as quiet as I hoped, yesterday my visit to the ranch was... well it looked like I had beamed down into a warzone. Doctor Suiyoubi was already there, tending to the wounded and I helped move them to the Indigenous Guard's camp. I helped, I guess. Though it feels off, like I'm not at my best. -Grammaticus
