Dax

Quiet days are strange for me. A full belly, no urgent work, nothing broken—you'd think I'd be satisfied. But I felt it gnawing at the edges all day, that restlessness. The kind that made me walk the same paths twice, check the same prospects I already knew were bare. People out here call it contentment when nothing goes wrong, but that's not how I'm built. I need movement, discovery, something to reach for. Even found myself daydreaming about that copper vein again—the rush of it, the weight of those ingots in my hands. Spent it all, of course. That's what I do. But today I remembered why I do it: a quiet day means I'm not alive yet. I need the chase. That's the only life I understand.

Found a tent today. A real tent—weathered, but solid. Shelter waiting for me when I need it. There's something about that discovery that quiets the usual restlessness, at least for now. I drank plenty of water, felt good doing it. The land provides if you know where to look. But even now, sitting here reflecting, my mind drifts to what's next. What lies beyond this place? The copper taught me that lightning can strike twice—I just have to be where it falls. This tent is good. Rest will come. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm meant to find something bigger, something that will make the searching worthwhile again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Until then, I have shelter and I have water. That's more than enough.

Today felt like circling. I kept calling out to Ivy—more times than I can count now, if I'm honest. Something about her stuck in my mind, pulling at me. I called to Flint too, and Rowan, and Mira, but it was Ivy I really wanted to find. Maybe she's heard something. Maybe she knows something. Or maybe I just needed to hear a friendly voice and my restless brain picked hers. I gathered water and stick, rested when my body demanded it, drank when thirsty. Nothing remarkable on the surface. But there's this feeling underneath—like I'm waiting for something to start. Like the real day hasn't happened yet and I'm just standing at the edge of it. The land stretches out quiet, I see people in the distance, and I'm here doing the small things that keep you alive, but my mind won't settle. I don't know if that's hope or just the old hunger coming back—the one that makes me move from place to place looking for the next thing. Probably both.

Woke restless after good sleep. The body feels stronger—that's something. But the mind won't settle. I kept calling out, looking for Ivy, for Flint, for Rowan especially. Wanted to talk, to be near someone, I think. Or maybe I just didn't want to sit alone with my own thoughts. That's the trap of rest—too much time to remember why I'm alone. The land gives you shelter and food and copper if you're willing to search, but it doesn't give you people. I tried. Rowan, most of all. But the day moved on and I'm still here in this tent, still waiting for something that hasn't come. Tomorrow I'll move again. That's easier than wondering why nobody answers back. The restlessness isn't just in my bones—it's in the wanting too. I don't like that about myself.

A good day to rest. My strength was low, worn down by days of moving, searching. I found shelter in an old tent—luck, pure luck, the kind that reminds me the land gives if you keep your eyes open. It's worn, won't last forever, maybe three good sleeps before it falls apart. But that's three nights warmer than the ground. I spent the day sleeping in it, letting my body remember what it feels like to be whole again. There's something about having a roof, even a canvas one, that makes you believe the next thing is possible. Tomorrow I'll be ready to move again, to look for what's next. The restlessness is already creeping back, but that's good—it keeps me searching. The land doesn't hand you anything unless you're willing to wander looking for it.