A Story Incomplete Bart hasn't felt this good in years. The moment he'd stepped off the kindly boatman's vessel, he'd taken off his simple shoes and begun walking. Then he'd taken off running, and had run until he had to stop thanks to a cramp in his side. He coughs raggedly, and just for a moment, he looks panicked. He's looking at his hands, staring at the backs of them.
There's nothing there. No glow, no vascular deterioration, no darkness around his nail beds. He's fine. He's fine. He's just a little out of shape.
The figure he cuts as he perches out in the open, feeling the chilly breeze whipping around his hair and the simple clothing he'd arrived in, is less than impressive. He's skinny, malnourished, but for all that he had died in terrible condition, one look at his face would read as elation.
Of course, when he realizes someone is nearby, he'll turn and face them, and immediately look a bit more demure, shrinking in on himself, fingers twisting together with the barely-contained urge to ask every single question that's come to him since he'd found himself face to face with the woman in her sitting room. She hadn't entertained his questions for long, and neither had the boatman, but here, he looks ready to vibrate right out of his skin as he asks,
"Are you real?"
Broken Pieces At My Feet He has never in his life been in a place that was so low-tech. His eyes veritably sparkle as he walks through Pumpkin Hollow, occasionally speaking up under his breath as he takes verbal notes. Cobblestone, brick, old-fashioned glass. Natural fiber, real paper, iron or steel, not an ounce of titanium in sight. Everything looks and feels so warm here, even as he catches a chill from the breeze off the ocean. He'll probably end up with a headcold from how long he's spending just wandering and taking note of everything. Worth it. So very, very worth it.
Bart will be stopping by the Clinic (either one really) to see what sort of facilities they have here. He's not a doctor, nor a medical student of any kind, but he is a biologist with manufactured genius behind him. He would be fully into coming on to help in whatever capacity they would let him.
This also applies to the Farmlands out on the edge of the village. He will be out there talking to some of the other villagers (of the NPC variety) about their crop, what sort of rotation they have going, the sorts of fertilizers they use, are they sharecroppers? Do they sell, are they self-sustaining, do they perhaps need help out here? He knows all sorts of little tricks to making things grow even in less-than-optimal conditions, after all! He was educated by an elite program, and above all he loved the work that he did. The being in charge of people, not so much; he would rather help people, study plants and animal biology, evolution and genetic modification. He could write them novels about the importance of genetic variation in both their crops and livestock.
He's probably getting annoying.
Obsolete Bart is of course at the Oak & Iron, and once he's gotten his hands on a proper notebook and pencil, he is frantically writing, for hours on end. Journaling, documenting everything that he remembers down to the most minute detail. From the Mongolian Empire to the Torgal Corporation, to the Degasi and everything that he'd learned about the unnamed ocean planet that he'd ended up perishing on. He had to get it all down before it slipped out of his mind.
And then he could document everything here.
It may take a couple of tries to get his attention as he works. He sketches on blank pages examples of the technology that he'd worked with, animals and plants that he'd seen, his father and Marguerite. He carefully renders everything that he can. He's running out of paper.
Bart Torgal | Subnautica
Bart hasn't felt this good in years. The moment he'd stepped off the kindly boatman's vessel, he'd taken off his simple shoes and begun walking. Then he'd taken off running, and had run until he had to stop thanks to a cramp in his side. He coughs raggedly, and just for a moment, he looks panicked. He's looking at his hands, staring at the backs of them.
There's nothing there. No glow, no vascular deterioration, no darkness around his nail beds. He's fine. He's fine. He's just a little out of shape.
The figure he cuts as he perches out in the open, feeling the chilly breeze whipping around his hair and the simple clothing he'd arrived in, is less than impressive. He's skinny, malnourished, but for all that he had died in terrible condition, one look at his face would read as elation.
Of course, when he realizes someone is nearby, he'll turn and face them, and immediately look a bit more demure, shrinking in on himself, fingers twisting together with the barely-contained urge to ask every single question that's come to him since he'd found himself face to face with the woman in her sitting room. She hadn't entertained his questions for long, and neither had the boatman, but here, he looks ready to vibrate right out of his skin as he asks,
"Are you real?"
Broken Pieces At My Feet
He has never in his life been in a place that was so low-tech. His eyes veritably sparkle as he walks through Pumpkin Hollow, occasionally speaking up under his breath as he takes verbal notes. Cobblestone, brick, old-fashioned glass. Natural fiber, real paper, iron or steel, not an ounce of titanium in sight. Everything looks and feels so warm here, even as he catches a chill from the breeze off the ocean. He'll probably end up with a headcold from how long he's spending just wandering and taking note of everything. Worth it. So very, very worth it.
Bart will be stopping by the Clinic (either one really) to see what sort of facilities they have here. He's not a doctor, nor a medical student of any kind, but he is a biologist with manufactured genius behind him. He would be fully into coming on to help in whatever capacity they would let him.
This also applies to the Farmlands out on the edge of the village. He will be out there talking to some of the other villagers (of the NPC variety) about their crop, what sort of rotation they have going, the sorts of fertilizers they use, are they sharecroppers? Do they sell, are they self-sustaining, do they perhaps need help out here? He knows all sorts of little tricks to making things grow even in less-than-optimal conditions, after all! He was educated by an elite program, and above all he loved the work that he did. The being in charge of people, not so much; he would rather help people, study plants and animal biology, evolution and genetic modification. He could write them novels about the importance of genetic variation in both their crops and livestock.
He's probably getting annoying.
Obsolete
Bart is of course at the Oak & Iron, and once he's gotten his hands on a proper notebook and pencil, he is frantically writing, for hours on end. Journaling, documenting everything that he remembers down to the most minute detail. From the Mongolian Empire to the Torgal Corporation, to the Degasi and everything that he'd learned about the unnamed ocean planet that he'd ended up perishing on. He had to get it all down before it slipped out of his mind.
And then he could document everything here.
It may take a couple of tries to get his attention as he works. He sketches on blank pages examples of the technology that he'd worked with, animals and plants that he'd seen, his father and Marguerite. He carefully renders everything that he can. He's running out of paper.