...... Well, I've attempted making this log twelve times now, and I refuse to make another. Hopefully this works. If not, well, it's not like my life was that important. The events of today led to the most astounding of discoveries! But first, before I share all the good parts (And oh, they are so good!) I'll let you in on a little backstory up to this point. Who knows, you could be my 7th generation grandchild, hoping to learn how his ancestor destroyed herself through her own ridiculous doings. No matter! I do love story time, I do, I do. In my young sapling years, I was raised by a Rim World Hylotl colony. You can imagine the bizarre reactions my nurturers received when found harboring a 'bloodthirsty weed ready to obliterate the colony'. Surprisingly, I was allowed refuge, and, even more surprisingly, I did not devour them like the soft, marine 'meatbags' my species brands them to be. Despite my tendencies to grow a bit too enthusiastic over a raw steak (and I mean raw), the freakishly sharp teeth taking up a large capacity of my mouth, and the insistent 'sssss' that come and go due to years away from my race, I've learned to mask most of my Floran bloodline (Or should I say vascular-line? No matter, the process is the same) from being too overbearing in the few social interactions I find myself in. There's so much to learn from this world if we only communicate with each other. Damn Hylotl, corrupting my potential murderous rampages with peace. A shame, really. Regardless, the warm greeting didn't last forever: too likely to turn, they'd say, a ticking time bomb just waiting to slash your throat when you're eating a coralcreep, they'd say. So, to save my nurturers, I left the colony on my own whim. It was for the best, I know. Like all great 'running away from home' stories, you eventually run out of resources to sustain yourself. I landed on an icy wonderland of snow and slush. Unpractical for a Floran? Yes. Would my Hylotl nurturers be disappointed in my lack of common sense and reason? Most likely. So, in protest of this likelihood, I started a farm to prove my own self-worth. Now we shall see who gets the last laugh! After a thriving season, I grew closer to my work. So close, one might say I am in fact a plant. Oh wait - I am. Just caught myself doing that thing where I laugh madly at my mediocre attempts at humor. Seems to become more frequent nowadays. No matter, I'm sure it's typical of solo travelers. Most recently, I have come accustomed to the denizens of Ragnarok - lovely people, they are. I am charged with running the agricultural sector of the colony, Proudspire Farms, in hopes the community will flourish easier with immediate access to food. A majority of the populace is - to my surprise and perplexity - native Floran and Glitch, so most of the crops are aimed towards these diets. However, I've come to do more than just farm the land; I've become aware of it's unusual environment, and the interactions the varying species have with different toxicities and water intake. I find myself studying each cycle for hours, even days, on end. Is this irony? A Floran botanist raised by Hylotl? My humor is, as one can tell, lacking. After my first harvest on Ragnarok, I wondered at the thought of how to increase my productivity. The colony would only growing, leaving even less room and more mouths to feed; I needed a solution. So, after days of deliberation, I decided on how to proceed. I would need to construct a research facility, as the typical farm would never do for true research, in.... ..an asteroid field. This is the point where I'm sure you're thinking, "Oh yesss, thisss isss how great-great-great-great-great-great-grandleaf tossed away her life. Mad, ssshe wasss." Despite the reality of it (which I disregard completely, because where's the adventure in that?), I began sketches. The local pub had the most exquisite charcoal rods for parchment rubbings, so I frequented there. A friendly human female, I believe her name was Sarah, discussed the project with me. At the time of our encounter, the plans were young and immature; I was almost embarrassed to even speak about them. Further revisions of the plans led to my stronger conviction that this might work. And finally, this is the exciting part and the reason I intended to even begin this log, I met a brilliant Novakid by the name of Scout and, the oddly quiet but strongly-presented Glitch companion, Ser Willhelm. She shared with me the most tantalizing experiment in the making of a crystal - more of an explosive - with peculiar properties and bonding. Now, what if the station had departments for more than just agriculture? Engineering? Possibly medicines or new energies to follow! This could be the biggest revolution in science and education this side of the sector has ever seen! I intend to show the two the system in our next encounter. It gets my phloem running rampant just thinking about it. ...... I have a sudden urge for a juicy steak. ... I'll report my findings at a later date. -Nora
..... The land around Ragnarok is quite beautiful in its purest forms: the gentle rain coaxing down the tilled fields, the comforting rays of sun that bake the thatch over my head, and the warm smiles shared around a table. Despite these simple beauties, everything has been so scattered, so misdirected lately. I feel as if I am progressing yet going nowhere. For example, today I found a hidden stash of jungle mice living in my hay field, eating my hard work and labor. Instinct said they die; my heart, against its primal nature, spared their lives. I took them over to the pastures beyond the hill, letting them pounce off together. It was a beautiful sight. My future lineages, if you are in fact reading this, mind my words: our race has become pent on aggression, on quick-wits and mischief, that we've lost sense of love and compassion. I understand now how this 'maddening', or what I supposed to be madness, of producing an orbital station was more than just a plan or an ideal I wanted to see flourish; it was love in the most barren of forms. When the rain came today, as it always does precisely on predicted times according to my recent studies, I was researching the beginning stages of mitosis in premature reefpod. Before I could attain satisfactory notes, I turned to find my pack and its contents soaked and ruined beyond repair! While the bag itself held no meaning, the parchment I have diligently prepared for the asteroid station was destroyed, all recollections of the site were washed away as were my hopes of this becoming a reality. I felt the most peculiar oddity I've ever experienced: it was like a deep cut in the lower abdomen, producing pain but not of a physical nature. I retreated to the shack, where I found hot water, unrelated to the rain to be streaming down my facial foliage, dripping onto the hard ground. Any discomforts I had dissipated shortly after. Is this the human concept of grief? I went to the pub to save as much of the parchment as I could, drying them near the warm embers downstairs. It was all in vain, for the charcoal had smeared, leaving little resemblance to its predecessor. As I look over them, even now, I am grieving the possible future of these hopeless blueprints. A friendly human provided me with enough fuel to make the return to the asteroid field, if my heart so chooses this love to continue. But my mind wanders far and constantly, and I'm concerned if whatever higher being, if there is one, has chosen for me not to pursue this. What if there is a different pursuit, an unfamiliar love I have yet to discover over the horizon. Speaking of which, I'm watching the vibrant orange rays graze the hillside as a day ends and the future begins. -Nora
