Book/Journal 1

Journal #1 is a set of ten journal entries written by Ripken before the start of the story. Though in-character it's intended to be private, snooping is welcome, and out-of-character it is hosted here in full.

Do not expect quality or insight on this from me, because it feels like it was written 500 years ago by someone else. It is staying as is, though. :]

General content warnings for existentialism, pretentious schlock, and semi-detailed descriptions of wounds/gore.

Text
--1--

Expected things to be easy. They're not.

Don't know why I did, but did. I think there's just a lot of things I expect, but what connects between the expecting and the why are gone.

It's weird.

It's like that for hoping, too. And wanting. And talking. And writing.

Writing is weird.

Head's been telling me my handwriting's neat, and it's telling me to be surprised, but I don't think I knew 'handwriting' before I started (or how to make this book in the first place).

The words come strangely, too.

I don't know why I know them. Something's telling me to be surprised at being able to define them (what does define mean, anyway?), but it also just feels natural.

Need to write so people know. That's how I feel. Haven't seen anyone else, though. Not anyone like me.

I think I'm dead, but... If the dead aren't me, then where does that leave me?

There is nothing natural about me.

--2--

I feel nice, actually.

It feels good to write. Like I'm used to it already. Like I'm filling a missing role. I just wish I could remember anything; my grave, my life, my

Name. The real one, not one that I dredged up from the faded letters on my sword.

It feels bad to see it so beat up.

I can fix it if I can get my hands on an anvil (however I do that), but I'm never going to know the name inscribed in the handle.

My name is Ripken. My name was not.

Nothing to do about it now.

--3--

I found some dogs. I think they like me.

There's 3 of them. They follow me around and eat whatever meat they can get their mouths on.

I like them. I think they like me.

--4-- I feel hungry.

It's weird to me, though, because none of the things that're appetizing to me actually feel good to eat.

Watermelon, for one, tastes nastier than I expected it to.

I feel like I shouldn't think anything of it, but some part of me remembers actually liking it. I remember it being sweet.

Now it's just...rancid, no matter how fresh I cut it.

Instead, I'm stuck feasting on rot, any kind of rotten meat I can get my hands on, and that's the only thing that fills me up.

I don't mind it much as I should, but... It feels wrong.

And why should I be forced to feast on carrion, anyway? Why should the only thing that sates me have to be messy, gushy, decomposing into nothing? Why can I not eat clean, like my dogs do, or like the sheep outside?

I feel bad. I feel filthy.

I feel wrong.

I want to be happy I've got a life, enjoy everything going for me, but...

I feel like I shouldn't exist.

--5-- The sun burns, but I like the daytime more than the nighttime.

Everything just gets crueler at night. Even other dead things, no matter how whole they are, come at me like they want me dead.

Again, I guess.

Even if it was peaceful at night, the daytime is just...

Prettier.

All the colors are brighter, all the animals are awake, and everything's so much warmer than before.

It's so beautiful. Even when it rains.

What I wanted to write down, though, was that I found somebody's house.

The sun was going down, and I saw a smokestack in the distance. I knew that meant that someone was there, without having to think about it, and since it was nightfall...

I just went in.

Nobody was home, so I couldn't ask for permission, so I just decided to ask forgiveness. Slept in their bed, left a thank you note, and left a fish I grabbed out of the river in their furnace.

It was a nice house.

--6-- I decided I'm going to build, too.

I just sort of do it. I don't really think about it, at least I don't think I do, and the plans just come to my head.

I'm going to build Outposts.

Outposts. Rest stops. Whatever you want to call them.

Spaces for travelers to take a load off before they move on. Places with everything anyone would ever want. Places for the needing and the wanting, and the giving too.

It's small so far, and I think it's staying that way. Cozy, that way. Two beds, some chests, and lots of light.

As much as I'm liking it so far, though, I know I want to keep moving after it's done.

I know, and I don't know why. It's another one of those things. I just don't think I could sit still, no matter how nice this place is.

Or how nice the neighbors could be.

I haven't met them yet, besides leaving a fish in that one's furnace.

There's another one in the mesas, I think, and one a little further off from the first by a big, round lake.

I want to meet them eventually, but

I feel like it would be weird.

--7-- I think I'm scary.

--8-- The Outpost's almost done. Plains 1.

I'm not really sure what else to do.

I keep building without thinking about it. It's relaxing.

I found a sheep in the savanna with pink wool.

It was brighter than the others around it, so I brought it back. I didn't want it to get hurt.

I hope it likes it here.

--9-- Got shot in the leg, and my wound started bleeding. I didn't think I had any more of that.

It's less of a wound than I thought it was. More of a scar than anything, albeit a raw one. I'd wash it, but I don't know what I'll see.

I'm kind of dizzy.

--10-- Stormy out. Leg is better.

I think I'm ready to go.