Idorgaf here. Chieftain of Whitetusk Tribe.
When: Day who knows, I was too busy being eaten by dinosaurs to keep a calendar.
Where: Dodo Island, colloquially know as the ARK.
Somewhere on this god forsaken island is a little thatch hut with a bed across from a quaint one story wood house and workshop at the mouth of a river. If you ever come across it, feel free to move in. It’s all yours.
That’s where I began this journey. That beach. That megapiranha-infested cesspool of a river and bay. “The south is pretty safe” they said. Live your life on the beach, they said. Psh. Real estate agents. The land is cheap for a reason.
Once I stopped shitting myself every time I saw a new gigantic prehistoric lizard, I gathered up the early members of my tribe, such as my dear stupid dodo, Dildo, and headed north up the beach. (I still shit myself, it just isn’t out of fear anymore. Most of the time. The somatic limitations embedded in the programming of this implant really suck for those of us used to indoor plumbing.)
The going was rough, in spite of beach travel. Dinosaurs, it turns out, probably went extinct because they’re so ridiculously loyal to their owners that they can’t go around rocks or knock down sapling palm trees. It’s convenient at times, usually when they’re trying to eat your face or you want a natural cage for taming new buddies, (see Mastodons), but usually I get so much exercise running back and forth to make them it’s no wonder I’m built like fucking Adonis.
There’s a gorgeous spot up the beach, on a lagoon with some fantastic rock formations. Visit sometime. I charge reasonable rates for a night’s stay in a beautiful wooden fortress with piranha-free swimming and industrial era amenities like a smithy and a fabricator.
Skipping ahead. Exploration. Death. Revival. Exploration. Death. Revival. Whoever’s in charge of this experiment (I have learned that I am a “specimen”), is a complete jackwagon.
Homestead three. Tiny cabin in a lovely meadow. I have grand plans for a house across the top of a waterfall. I’m a Pacific Northwest boy, so I feel really at home.
But I’m also a nomad, so when Prometheus the brontosaurus showed up and seriously threatened to wipe out my peaceful little cabin with a single swipe of his tail, I shot arrows into his face until he was sleepy, and fed him mejoberries until I won over his loyalty. My marathon beach runs really paid off, as being chased by a brontosaurus through a forest is not really a light workout. Quite aerobic, really. I don’t recommend it.
I gather up my ever increasing tribe (horde) of dinosaurs once Prometheus’ mobile duplex is finished (also available for holiday rentals) and head to a different beach. It turns out this northwestern beach is slightly more dangerous, so I head across the river to the south of it to a nice defensible cliff full of herbivores and park my dinoback pre-fab home there.
This is where I live. Great views of the ocean. A quick flight on Air Argentavis to easy pearls and oil, a reasonable trip to Mt. Volcano, and a slow, painful trip to everywhere else.
More recent and interesting details tomorrow. I promise valuable advice is coming soon. And more bizarre, non sequitur adventures.
Signing Off,
Idorgaf
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