There have been many times in the history of Terriel when soldiers who returned from the reclamation project have been deemed mentally unfit. These individuals were carted away to mental health institutions (asylums) at exactly the same point: The moment they began to insist that the “Forest has a mind of its own.” Any scholarly mind would discredit these delusions to be merely the fevered ramblings of a madman; however, due to some personal experiences, I am starting to question if this is truly a testament to insanity, or just a difficult to believe factuality. Allow me to explain.

It began only hours after my most recent entry, which was perhaps twenty-four hours ago. As I lay down to try and get some sleep for the trying day ahead, I was not going to find much rest at all. The time I spent asleep was mostly unsettling, as the dreams I had were unlike any others I’ve experienced before. I will admit to being one of those individuals who does not remember their own dreams the following morning (some say this is due to nerve damage – unrelated), but this would be the first time that I can accurately recall the entirety of my night’s visions. The one, or series of dreams (it is difficult to create dividing lines) I recall most clearly involved an unfamiliar voice that spoke to me. In fact, it was not one voice, but many. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of different voices all whispered and chimed in unison with each other.

They spoke of inconsequential things at first and asked so many simple questions. Who am I? Where was I from? Am I a monster? They told me I was safe, that I was welcome, and that I was on my path. My path to what was never said, but what am I to expect from disembodied voices? They could have told me the answer to life was peanut brittle, and it would have about as much rhyme or reason as the rest of their nonsense.

There were other dreams that happened to be more visual in nature. The ones that stand out most clearly to me were the dreams of him: Of Markus Prodder. Many times before, on the Stratus, I had encountered archived photos and bios of him that had been publicized due to his act of martyrdom three years ago. All kinds of news articles had surfaced about it. A few fan websites, and hell, even a conspiracy blog about him faking the whole thing had all received a fair bit of attention along the way. It makes sense to me that I would know his face well enough to fabricate him in a dream, but there was still an eerie sense of familiarity when I viewed him this time that never came to me when I viewed the posts and photos. I remember seeing him sitting at a bar, drinking cheap whiskey out of a mug, and speaking to a uniquely nondescript bartender about a story from his past. The tale recalled the origins of the fearsome steam-driven mechanical leg that protruded from his right hip. He said that it had been ripped clean from him here on the reclamation project... so he had not died in the reclamation project like my mother had told me? Of course this should no longer be a shock to me, but it does bring me back to a question that has itched and burned at my thoughts for these past years: Why did she lie to me?

There was nothing else noteworthy before I finally stirred awake, daylight having somehow found its way through the blanket-thick canopy of leaves above me.

I can now swear that I am being led on a path of some sorts. Upon all of the trees, a creeping, parasitic moss has bloomed flowers in this season. As remarkable as it is to see so many flowers at once, one disconcerting aspect behind them is their placement and coloring. The most prominent color I can find is a vibrant purple on this moss: A tiny budding flower with four elongated petals curled outwards. They are grouped by the hundreds together on the trunks of these trees, except where they are interrupted by the presence of large, rose-like, white blossoms, which are arranged in a line from a single point of view to create what appears to be a path. I have done my best to discredit this suspicion, such as ensuring that they were not growing on the northern side of the trees like moss is commonly said to do, but each time I go in a new direction I find that the blossoms once again create a guiding line which leads me back to the original path they highlighted. Could this be the forest trying to lead me to something? Is it perhaps helping me? Or could this be a trap of sorts, leading the wandering eye into a clever pit or the maw of a carnivorous plant.

I just took a moment to review my thoughts above, and I must revise one of my own statements. I believe I am going crazy. Lucid dreams and botanical anomalies do not amount to plant sentience or divine planning. I’ve just been alone too long is all. This being my first time away from people for more than the hours spent locked away in my room surfing the Stratus, it is not surprising that I am letting the seclusion get the better of me. It would be best for me to just calm down, collect my thoughts, and continue objectively with this documentation.

I am very fortunate to have installed so many helpful programs to my CCMI before embarking on this trip: A pedometer to mark my distances traveled, a compass to keep me oriented in my directions, and I have been able to draw basic maps on a few spare pages in the back of my journal. I also installed a mathematical assistance tool (cheating, as my old algebra teacher Mr. Wagerwise would call it) to give me at least some bearing of my position on this immense planet. I’ve had to make a lot of vague estimates when calculating my position within this forest in relation to the position of Terriel, so I doubt others could find me were I to transmit them these coordinates, but it is still a helpful reference to make sure I am not walking in circles or heading straight towards an ocean or anything. I’ve done my best to stay with the edge of Terriel floating above me since I am currently placing my faith in the stories of Markus Prodder’s demise: The ones that state he used a supposed teleportation matrix to throw both he and Agent Omega from the edge of the continent to the planet below. I will admit to fearing that this is only speculation and I am just inhibiting my search by doing this, but it is the only real lead I have aside from aimless wandering.

This will be yet another night spent up in a tree to avoid the nocturnal life stirring for their evening meals below me. While writing up here, however, I have seen something within the canopy that I was barely able to make out through the dense forestry. From the few glimpses I can catch, it appears to be a dilapidated structure crafted of stone; certainly a prominent structure out here in the forest. It looks like the perfect place to venture to tomorrow, since lying on the wood of tree branches is getting very old, very fast. That building could make a great base camp for me to set up as I’m searching. Better yet, who knows what is inside of it! Perhaps this could be one of the greatest archeological finds of my generation! Amongst the wood, the refuse, and the savagery of this planet, have I come across a remnant of the civilization and culture that once lived here? I am genuinely trembling now at the thought! If I could find just one document, just one scrap of evidence to see who they were or what happened here, I could easily become famous beyond what I ever thought possible for myself! They might even forgive me stowing away onto this planet and neglecting an oath of silence regarding this place. Or I might be executed by swift cardiovascular arrest administered via my CCMI. Both are possible. I’m going to be an optimist and say that I may become famous from this. I will just have to stuff the rational part of my mind in a box and stow it in a corner of my conscience, to be forgotten until I eventually find myself gasping my last breath from a stopped heart hearing the painful wails of “I told you so”.

Why must I make sleeping impossible for myself? Eventually I’ll learn to think of happy things like magic and butterflies instead of how I’m going to be a victim of capital punishment.