Write a journal whenever you feel like it. It can be a character's inner monologue, an actual physical journal, a 3rd person description of the story, or whatever. If you do, you get a free upgrade to any one roll in the next session! You can't have more than one of these at a time, and it doesn't carry over if you don't use it.
I had to stay focused or we would die in there- and it would be the worst, just the dumbest death of ours, probably. If we ever remembered it, we'd wonder why the hell we thought that was a good idea.
Twelve hours of crawling is a lot of time. Maybe not for us, on the scale of things, but it sure felt long. I went over the usual stuff: Were our lives in Apex ever real? Did I make it up the Ladder? Is Apex 'Apex' now? Was it real so long ago it's pointless to remember? My followers are definitely dead, yeah. Why do we remember it then? How does it help it for me to still care about my personal brand? Why have me be me? There is something about us it can't change, even if it wants to.
But also: The others have lost me and made a wrong turn. They are going to die down here and I've just been crawling along like an idiot. Maybe just Bang. She's crawling backwards (weirdo) and it's not like she can actually keep that up for this long. I'll miss her so much, this was so stupid… They're probably sick of me talking to them but at least this way I can hear their eyes roll. Go ahead and hate me, Calvin, haha, I know you'd still show up at my party… Ughhh, that was so mean he is probably dying…
It was a long day (life?) and I'm not sure the amazing bath really undid it. But you know, if Apex-me had heard that I had crawled through a bunch of ratshit tunnels to stick it to some horrible jerk, I would have been horrified. But I also would've believed it, just a little. I pat the papers squirreled safely beneath my clothes.
The Light doesn't own me.
The Making Experiment Log
Entry #1
Date: D+37 (roughly)
Ingredients: a wooden splinter (species unknown), myself
Expected Outcome: a needle for suturing
Process: see notes
Outcome: a self-sterilizing needle
Notes:
The Making might as well be called The Unmaking.
Every alchemical concoction I’ve created starts from the rigorous, invisible truths of venturing chemists before me; is created by the physical world, in the physical world; and reaches its ultimate potential in the pit of my stomach.
But The Making, it starts in the pit of my stomach; it happens somewhere, hardly “made” somewhere, and it’s certainly not physical, or at least of any natural science I’ve studied; and then it manifests in the physical world as a new fundamental truth, invisible.
I am not certain of much with The Making, least of all my senses, of which I might have gained a few. This gravity magic appears to exert, is it really pulling? And what of light, is that “anti-gravity”? Nonsense on both accounts. That was simply my body attempting to use whichever senses it’s familiar with. And what was I doing for the entire day I spent Making this mere needle? Sure I touched the needle, but that might have been more out of habit (and a need to do more than simply stare at a twig all day, however effective).
It’s exciting, but I am drained and overwhelmed to the point of stupefied.