Hello there! It is a pleasure to see you, not that I am of course. Seeing you that is. But courtesy costs nothing, right?

I suppose this is my journal. A private and personal log of my thoughts and experiences. In which you honestly should not be snooping. Unless you should. Then by all means, snoop away!

Though I'm not entirely sure what sort of person would feel required or obliged to snoop through someone else's private things. Some sort of creep or snoop I would suspect.

Creeps, stay out!

Moving on, who am I? Who is this, writing these words?

I ,uh, I don't know. Simple, right? Just woke up you see, no idea who I am, where I am, or what I'm doing here. It’s a rather strange feeling really. I seem to know how to read and write, and a few other things, but I have absolutely no context for how I know these things.

Well, I doubt worrying about it will help matters, and whenever I think on it too long I get a rather nasty headache. So, lets catalogue what I do know.

First of all, what can I discover about who I am? I'm dirty. Absolutely filthy really. Slathered in a sticky mixture of dirt, blood, and some kind of dimly glowing sludge. Smells pretty terrible. I worry that some of this dirt isn't really dirt at all. The 'dirts' various browns mixed with the sticky crusty red-black blood all over my hands and chest, and the sludge, an actually rather pretty purplish orange, coats most of my left side and lower body in a thick gooey yet surprisingly springy mass.

I have two arms and two legs, with two hands and two feet attached at the ends. Five fingers or toes extend from my hands and feet respectively. All of this is extending from a torso with a bit of hair on it, and some dangly bits. Along with a neck and a head popped on top for good measure. Everything seems proper and correct, besides the terrible mess. My feet feel a bit bruised, and there are some raw scrapes along my arms and on the palms of my hands, but I can’t see anything that would explain the sheer amount of blood on me.

Must not be mine then.

I am also very much naked, and it's cold and drafty here, which is probably what woke me up.

Speaking of here, where is here? Here is dark, but from what I can see from the light coming off of my sludge it appears to be a small crevice or cave of some kind. The floor is covered in a thin layer of sandy dirt over rock, and a sheer semi-smooth rock wall rises around me on, meeting just over head to form a low rock ceiling.

There is a bit of dim light coming from a narrow opening in one of the walls, more than likely how I got in here in the first place. I’m not sure why I crawled into here before losing all my memories, but I bet I had a good reason. I seem like a reasonable sort of person to me.

The only things in here besides myself are a satchel, this journal, and this writing tool thing I am currently using.

The satchel is suspiciously nondescript. Made of a uniform dull and uninteresting beige material, with the only piece of ornamentation being a tarnished silver clasp decorated with a stylized swirl. The inside of the satchel is oddly dark, even for the insides of a bag in an unlit cave, and I feel a bit leery about putting my hand in it for some reason. It has a slightly padded strap attached to it, made of the same beige material, and its weight is quite unnoticeable.

This journal is quite nice. Leather bound, with little silver bits on the corners of the cover, and a sturdy strap and buckle to keep it closed when I am done writing in it. The pages inside are all blank, and the creamy crisp paper was perfectly unblemished before I started writing. I notice that the pages stay clean too. My very filthy fingers have brushed against them on occasion, but they leave no stain behind. Only the lines from my writing remain to be seen.

My writing tool is comprised solely of some sort of shiny stone or metal. It feels perfectly comfortable to hold between my fingers, and when I touch the smoothly tapered point at its end to the paper it leaves behind a beautiful clear crisp black marking. I have no idea how any of these work, but it certainly is convenient.

Third what am I doing here? How did I get here? Why am I covered in all sorts of nastiness? Why am I naked? Why do I have nothing but a blank book, bag, and writing tool? Where even is here?

No clue.

Well, sitting around and writing isn’t going to answer any of those questions. Not to mention, I’m cold, hungry, and bored. Time to venture into the unknown.

Should be fun!