The Island: A New Home

The Journal of Professor Headonius Burroffski,
6th July 1930 (assumed). Mid-morning. Location: Unknown Island.

I woke early this morning. My body was stiff and sore for the beating it had taken and I was cold, but it was not this that woke me. No, what woke me from my deep, dreamless sleep was the quiet. The utter silence around me. Oh, when I listened carefully I could hear the lap of waves and the birdcalls of the nearby jungle, but the tormenting, ceaseless roar of the storm that had done it best to kill me before dumping me here had, in fact, ceased.

I opened the tent and stepped out to face a brilliant sunrise, the sky platinum bright with streaks of rose pink melting into the now calm azure sea that stretched unbroken to the horizon.In front of me bobbed what was left of The Telesto, its fires now out, its hull now mere splintered wreckage. I waded out as far as I dare (the fall off is surprisingly deep) and dragged what I could back to shore. One largeish section of the cabin I decided to use as a shelter next to my tent where it would help keep my supplies and any firewood I could salvage dry.

By mid morning, I had rescued what I could and the ocean could have the rest. My stomach complained nosily at my lack of attention and I realised I hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty fours hours. I built up the fire and routed through the supplies. In no time at all I had some fresh coffee heating in a mug and some baked beans bubbling in a pan I had rescued from what had been the galley. Without a word of a lie, that was the best meal I have ever had in my entire life.

So, here I am, sitting by the fire and writing my journal.My new home (for until I get off this island and back to you Rose my love, that’s exactly what this place is) is a small spit of sandy beach fronted by the wide open ocean and backed by a dense green jungle filled with God-knows-what wild creatures. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea if I’m on the route of any passing ships or planes. I have precious little food and water. I am, without a shadow of a doubt, in a sticky situation. I need a plan.

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To Be Continued...

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Visit The Island here and follow the story as it unfolds over the next few weeks.

Hunting Involvium: The Right Path!

Ha! I must be on the right path... I dropped down to the island I found (see the last post - it looks like an ancient volcano complete with mini-lake on the old caldera) and headed over to the first of the small wooden huts I saw. Inside, on a table by the far wall, I found these sketched plans... compare them to one of JS's latest posts and tell me I'm not on the trail to finding out more about Involvium!

Hunting Involvium: I am Involved

Could this be the dig J.S. Tomorrow writes about? I shall explore further...

Involvium... Hmmm...

EDIT (25th Aug 07): Sod it! I'm playing the game, at least it's fun and well set up (only wish I could create that sort of content for The Island and Burro posts but as I'm as artistic and techie as a brick, I'll stick to photos :D ). Pop along, read, join in - after all, why not :)

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Right. Every bugger else has blogged about them, I might as well. Involvium Energy Ventures. Where to start? Facts first, I think:

1) They appear to be a media marketing firm. I’ve no real clear idea what this is.
2) They are changing their name. I don’t know why.
3) Seemingly to promote this change they are running a multi-media viral campaign with a ‘spoof’ blog, website and YouTubes.

The blog is written by an avatar named J.S. Tomorrow where she is an embedded reporter with the Involium expedition team who are searching somewhere in SL for a certain power source first discovered in the early days of Magellen Linden*. You may have noticed the links and a feed from the blog over on the left. I’ve put that there because, well, it may be an exploration worth following. Then again, it may not. I just can’t be sure.

If, at the end of this marketing campaign, the pay off is “Here’s our new Island! Come get your free tee-shirts!” I’ll be very disappointed. Why? Because I want mystery, drama, story… not an over-blown advert for something I’d never buy or use anyway. I want them to live up to the promise of their self-created adventure, not wimp-out with a yet another corporate zombie sim no one ever goes to.

Look at this blog – ask yourself how happy you’d be if at the end of The Island, the poor shipwrecked hero set up a vendor stall selling real estate? I would hope you’d come in-world and kick my arse! What would you feel if the Backpack Burro posts were nothing but an excuse to advertise my own range of backpacks?** Cheated, I would imagine. All that time and emotions dedicated to following a story only to have someone turn round and point out that their make of double glazing is better than someone else’s.

So JS and Involium, I’ll read your blog*** and follow the expedition, but Hell’s Teeth it better be worth it!

HeadBurro Antfarm… waiting…
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* If this point means nothing to you, you may want to check out some of SL’s rich history and some other blogs:

• SL Insider: What is Invovium?
• SL Insider: Involvium Unearthed.
• SL Record: Involved
• Magella Linden History
• Involvium’s History

** Don’t worry, I’m not – I’m not selling anything, I’m doing it for fun.
*** I’m enjoying the blog but I think that JS Tomorrow, as an embedded reporter, needs to give us more reportage. It’s all a little disjointed at the moment. Let’s meet the other team members on the exploration. Let’s read about a typical day with them. Tell us about the land around you. Don’t just draw a tree with pod things hanging out and then not try to draw some conclusions about what the chuff it is. I’m hungry – feed me!

Backpacking Burro: Cowell, Part 1

The fire, now dead at my feet, was all the proof that remained of the strange events of the previous night. Well, that and the fact I was quite clearly part gazelle. The sooner I found some kind of clue to help me stop this blessed war-in-waiting, the sooner I could go back to being human again. I stiffened my resolve and began to explore.

I stood at the base of the elegant white lighthouse and surveyed my surroundings. The lighthouse itself stood at the end of a sandy spit of land with the open ocean to one side and the main body of Cowell Village to the other separated by a narrow canal. The spit extended quite a way from the lighthouse, past some squat, white buildings to a grey stone bridge that arced gracefully over the canal. I decided the best place to start would be the lighthouse itself, after all the doors were open…

Inside, the lighthouse looked as though the owner had just popped out: the computer was on, work was spread out on the desk seemingly left mid flow, hell! there was even a half painted lump of wood with the paint still tacky on its surface on the desk!

Looking around the room I seemed to be in the home of an inventor, or collector, or builder or businessman. Photographs showed the same tall blue figure again and again and declared his name was Salazar Jack. I made a mental note and vowed to contact him to see if he could shed any light on my predicament.

For now I started at the maps on the wall, one seemingly ancient and one new, and wondered what they had in common. The older map (I did not recognise the landmass – was it from this world? If so, could it be from before the last Shamanic war led to the downfall off all that had gone before?) seemed to have symbols written over it, although what they said I could not make out. I’ve never been great with codes, I couldn’t even make out the simple one that lay next to the computer…

Behind me there was an ingenious brass lift (or elevator, I believe some people have been known to call them) and I surmised it would take me to the very top of the lighthouse – all the better for gaining a good view of Cowell and the forest beyond. I stepped in and pressed the button. Somewhere behind, below and above me, gears shifted, machinery whirred and a steam engine began to labour. I rose smoothly into the belly of the lighthouse. I passed through private chambers and up into an ante-room that, via an opening in the wall and a walkway bolted onto the outside of the lighthouse, led up to the very top of the structure.

The winds, fanning the powerful flames that burned in the large central fire as a warning to passing ships, buffeted me and I held on to the handrail as I cast my gaze over the immense serenity of Kahruvel forest. Trees, tall and proud, circled rocky outcrops like an ocean around tiny atolls. They marooned buildings and cut off pathways like floodwaters let loose in a city. I could see from here that my previous day’s explorations had only shown me a fraction of the forest’s majesty and I found myself itching the return. Later, I told myself, first let’s explore the village.

I retraced my steps back through the lighthouse and emerged once more onto the sand spit. Next stop, the small white building, which, upon closer examination, seemed to belong to a fellow called Champie.

Inside I found an array of objects, from a broken vase to a small electronic gizmo of indeterminate use called a GINI. I couldn’t make head nor tail of any of the things on display so I wandered away...

...and up some steps and found myself on a small veranda with chairs arranged around a table on which lay three maps. I took a seat and studied them closely. They satellite and photo maps of the surrounding area and the close up on Cowell boasted helpful tagged pins pointing out each major location. I memorised each and moved on.
As I rounded the building and headed to the bridge, the sun framed the small bell tower and I found myself rooted to the spot at its beauty.

It took a drifting cloud to move me on and at last I crossed the bridge that led over the harbour and into Cowell proper...

But as I stood on the bridge, gazing at the boats gently bobbing below me, I noticed a large monolith behind the buildings I was now heading away from. I double back and went to look.

The stone needle had been carved into an octagon design I had seen in the shape of the lighthouse and there was a similar pattern inlaid into the floor around me. What could this mean? A simple design the architect liked, or was the a significance to it I had yet to uncover. Whilst pondering this, I rose and walked slowly back to the bridge to explore the other half of Cowell.

To Be Continued...

The Island: Marooned

The Journal of Professor Headonius Burroffski,

5th July 1930 (assumed). Mid-morning. Unknown Island Location.

I survived. I don’t know how, but Dear God I survived!

It has now been at least a day since I awoke, although how long I lay face down in the sand unconscious to the world around me I can not say. But wake up I did; stiff, sore, blooded and bruised but otherwise mercifully intact with all my limbs in place and all my senses functioning.

I remember, as if in a drunken stupor, crawling my way further up the beach. Lightning frozen scenes constitute the totality of that time. Trees bending all but double in the fierce wind, frozen like white claws reaching to grab and tear at me. Various parts of the Telesto picked out in monochrome moments as they smashed themselves on rocks or cartwheeled overhead. The storm raged. I drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware, numb, lost.

I awoke yesterday morning (I will take a guess that was the 4th July – I should have been in Key West celebrating with friends, not face down in sand god knows where!). It was early with the sun’s rays just edging over a now calm sea. My eyes gazed upward on a sky where platinum-edged clouds shone like white fire burning away the darkness of night. Shortly after I awoke, so did the various parts of my body that were hurting… and they awoke with a vengeance! I half-crawled, half-staggered up the beach, the sea broke gently on the rocks behind me and the palm trees of the jungle in front of me swayed in the breeze. Around me lay the wreckage of the storm; the flotsam of the jungle, torn palm leaves and splintered branches, and the jetsam of my boat, smashed hull and tossed supplies.

I had no idea where I was, I was in agony and my boat was so much matchwood bobbing in the sea in front of me or half buried in the sand around me. I was marooned.

I sat as the sun rose high above me, my mind numb to all around me. On the horizon, clouds began to gather and rise high into the blue sky. I found myself watching the small fireflies that played inside them with fascination whilst a small voice in my head, at first quiet, got louder and louder. ”Strom”, it whispered. “Storm” it said. “Storm” it shouted. Somewhere, deep in my terrified mind, something switched on and I awoke to the approaching danger.

I struggled to my feet and began to search the wreckage; I needed shelter, water, food and (as my throbbing head and body kept on reminding me) medicine. All of these things could be found on the Telesto… if they had survived.

As though moving through molasses I moved to the water’s edge and began hauling what I could onto the beach; crates with food and water, a small tent and (miracles of miracles) the boat’s first aid kit. I even found my journal half buried in the sand close to where I had come round earlier, it was a little worse for wear but, as you can see, still functional. The Telesto itself was smashed beyond all hope of repair. Its hull had been sheared in two and large sections of it had been punched through by the rocks. The mast was splintered and jammed up between two jagged boulders so that it pointed to the sky in a cruel mockery of its former life. The cabin, or rather what was left of the cabin, smouldered and smoked as it bobbed in the water, presumably ignited by a lighting bolt.

The tent, easy for a well and able man to erect, almost proved the undoing of me. I set it up as far from the shore as possible, but not within the jungle for who knew what dangers lay beyond that green and leafy border. I wanted to anchor the canvas down and it was the effort I placed into blow after blow on the pegs with a rock I unearthed from the sand that nearly saw me collapse and expire. Eventually it was up and solid, or at least as solid as I could achieve in my state. I dragged what supplies I could next to the tent, took the first aid kit and crawled inside, just as the first rumble of thunder drew near and first heavy drops fell on to the beach. I fastened myself in and rifled through the kit for pain killers. Soon, with their aid, I fell into black, dreamless sleep while once more the world around me was sucked into a maelstrom of noise and light…

Visit The Island here and follow the story as it unfolds over the next few weeks.

The Island: Shipwrecked

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Visit The Island here and follow the story as it unfolds over the next few weeks.

The Island: Into The Storm

The Journal of Professor Headonius Burroffski, 1st July 1930.

10am. Miami, Bojean’s Boatyard.

Lovely day. Went to the marina to pick up the Telesto. She’s even more beautiful than I remember. 30 feet long. Glides like a fish. I’m going to enjoy taking her out for a spin.

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2:30pm. Miami, Bojean’s Boatyard.

She handled like a dream! I feel as if I know her already. I’ve never sailed a craft so responsive, so… part of me before. I need to take her out again, this time further than the bay. She – no!, we need a good test to see what we can do together.

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The Journal of Professor Headonius Burroffski, 2nd July 1930.

6pm. Miami, Bojean’s Boatyard.

The supplies are being loaded now. Spent all day preparing the trip. Bojean think’s I’m mad to take her out so far. Key West isn’t that far I tell him, besides, plenty of places to head for in between if I need to. No. The Telesto needs a good run and I’ve been stuck in that dusty old University for far too long; I need some sea air in my lungs. There’s a fair wind, the sky is clear. If I set off at first light tomorrow, I should be there by sundown.

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The Journal of Professor Headonius Burroffski, 3rd July 1930,

5am. 25d 33.5m N, 80d 7.3mW (12 miles southeast of Miami). The Telesto.

She’s perfect! She slices through waves like they weren’t even there. She moves over the water as if flying. The tip of Biscayne Island, one of the ancient coral keys that eventually lead pearl-like down to Key West, is just visible to starboard.

10:20am. 24d 52m N, 79d 40m W. The Telesto.

I’ve looped out wide. I know I should stick nearer to land, but this sea is too good to waste; perfect wind, perfect water. Just wonderful!

2:44pm. 24d 41m N, 80d 3.8m W. The Telesto.

Spoke too soon! Damn weather front closing in from the southeast. Great anvils on the horizon. One hell of a storm brewing and no mistake. Still, it’s far off and I have the wind to get me back towards land – we’ll out run it, the Telesto and I.

3:26pm. 24d 3.1m N, 80d 22m W. The Telesto.

It has me. Dragged south. Maybe southwest.

4:17pm. Location unknown.

Good God. This storm is terrible. Sails gone. Have to ride this out. Must be somewhere near Cuba.

9:11pm.

Still as strong. Oh God, I don’t think she can take much more of this. I love you Rose. I’m sorry you’ll never read these words but I love you with every breath in my body and every beat of my heart.

No idea of the time. My watch has stopped. The compass has gone crazy. The storm is as strong as before; the rain is hammering down and the wind is ripping at the mast and rigging. Everything is lit by this damn queer lighting. Strange green sparks leap of any exposed metal and I’m all but deafened by a hideous sound like hundreds of train wheels screaming on rails. Jesus! Where am I?

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Visit The Island here and follow the story as it unfolds over the next few weeks.

In Other News: A Magnificent Expedition...

Here's a great read (or series of reads) for all you SL exploring fans - a volcano (semi-affectionately nicknamed Phillip) has reared its smoking head and spouting maw above the waves off the coast of Caledon. A group of intrepid explorers have launched a scientific (and fame/bounty/thrill hungry) expedition to it's shores. You can read more over on Baron Bardhaven's blog here, as well as keeping abreast of the latest reports on Darkling Rose's blog here.

p.s. A big thanks to Darkling Rose for sending me the main link for the interactive adventure - follow it all here!

Backapcking Burro: The Journey Begins

The morning sun rose over the white stone roofs of Cowell. I emerged from a dream laden sleep in which I had been pursued by wolves, torn apart by slavering jaws and fused back together by tongues of green fire. I knew before I opened my eyes that the events of the previous day were not part of some fevered hallucination, but I felt my face and head all the same, groaning as I found the hard, smooth horns exactly where they had been the night before.

“Good morning,” said the old shaman, “You slept fitfully, I’m afraid. You seemed troubled by dream spirits, but I sang them away in the end. Breakfast? How do you like your eggs? Scrambled I hope?”

I turned and sat, blinking across the fire, my stomach suddenly very aware of the smells my nose had picked up a long time ago. The shaman was expertly cooking a meal of baked beans and eggs in one tin, whilst boiling tea in another and toasting thick slices of bread on improvised twig skewers. Baked beans. God, how long had it been since I had tasted them? Nothing like them seem to exist in this new world and I felt my mouth water in anticipation at their simple pleasure.

He finished and handing me the hot tin to eat directly out of. As hungry as I was (and I was) I made a mental note that if I were to be dining alfresco more often, then I would need some plates and cutlery to at least appear civilised!

The old man watched me eat with a self-satisfied smile, laughing out loud when I paused nervously, my lips hovering at the tea cup’s rim. “Drink. It is not drugged, I assure you.” After a second’s further pause, I decided to take my chances and gulped the tea down. All too soon the meal was finished and I sat back, looking at the old shaman.

“Yes?” he asked

“Well… What now?”

“Now?”

“Yes. What do I do next.”

“I thought you had decided to explore the village and the forest some more.”

“What, I just go? No idea what I’m looking for? No clue? No map?”

“You worry too much, young one. The backpack will guide you, as you will guide it. Give yourself to adventure.”

As I thought about this, I idly pulled my bedroll up to ward off the morning chill that bit at me despite the small campfire.

“Cold?” he asked, “Well, we will have to do something about that, although in time you will become accustomed to wearing fewer clothes; after all, when did you last see a gazelle in a waterproof jacket?” he teased. “Have a look in your backpack.”

“My…? I did, yesterday. It was empty, more or less.” The shaman just smiled at me so I pulled the pack onto my lap and opened it. There, inside, I was amazed to see a neatly folded shirt and pair of trousers. Underneath, as I pulled them out, sat a rugged pair of walking boots. I gawped at the old man, “But… but… how? These weren’t here before!”

“Ahh,” he laughed, “The Elemental looks after its chosen. You will find that the backpack holds a good many things you never imagined possible. But you’ll discover that yourself; for now, why not get dressed and begin your journey.”

I nodded, dropping the bedroll as I stood and pulled my new clothes over my naked fur. They fitted perfectly, as did the boots which hugged my feet and instantly felt as though I had worn them for years. One last item was missing. At my feet sat the backpack, the start of all this insanity. Bending, I repacked it, strapping the bedroll away and fastening it tight, before, with a deliberately exaggerated motion, I slung it over my shoulders onto my back and stood, no longer just HeadBurro Antfarm, but now HeadBurro Antfarm The Chosen. HeadBurro Antfarm The Seeker. HeadBurro Antfarm The Last Hope. HeadBurro Antfarm The Terminally Confused. HeadBurro Antfarm The Hopelessly Lost. Oh God!

I turned to gaze into the forest behind me, its tall trees soaring into a beautifully clear sky, birds and insects calling in its depths, the same depths that held (I hoped) the first clues to my task. “I best make a start then,” I said turning to the old man. He was gone! I spun round, searching for him between the buildings of Cowell, but there was no trace he had ever been with me at all.

Running my hand over my furred head, I kicked dirt on to the embers of the dying fire and headed off to explore Cowell further…