Field Log — Day 113
Planet: Virellia III
Star System: Cynos Array
Galaxy: NGC-7241
I touched down just after dawn, when the mist still clung to the ravines like memory to old stone. Virellia III spins lazily beneath a bloated gas giant, which looms impossibly large on the horizon—an ancient sentinel with storms older than our species. The gravity here feels slightly off: 0.86 Earth standard. It gives each step a sense of hesitation, as though the planet itself is questioning my presence.
These structures—twin platforms forged of an alloy I can't identify—rise from the bedrock like crownless thrones. Their symmetry is unsettling, as if they were designed by a mind more patient than human. No signs of habitation remain, but something tells me they weren’t always abandoned. Scans reveal no energy signatures, but I swear I heard a low hum when I passed beneath one of the pillars.
I walked for two hours through dust the color of dried blood. The minerals here glisten oddly in the low light, some of them reacting faintly to proximity—either photo-reactive, or resonant. If I’d had a proper geology unit, I might have pulled a sample. But my suit’s cooling system is still unreliable. It seized halfway across a ridge, and I had to perform an emergency reset while lying on my back, watching the smaller moon eclipse the sun like a glowing eyelid blinking shut.
There's no wildlife. Not even wind. Only the mist moves—slow, deliberate, alive in its own quiet rhythm.
According to the data logs from Harland's Folly, the old research cruiser that passed through here ninety-two years ago, this world was marked as “culturally silent.” But I disagree. There’s a voice here. It's just speaking on a scale we don't yet understand.
A carved inscription—half-buried near the base of one of the towers—carries a single glyph. I’ve cross-referenced it with the Argosy Archives, and it resembles a character used by the vanished Arkeni—once believed to be a myth. If that’s true, then I may be standing on one of their forgotten outposts.
Funny. The moment you begin to feel small enough, the universe leans in and whispers something you can’t quite make out.
If anyone finds this log… know that Virellia is not empty. It’s listening.
— Commander Eli Marrin,
Exploration Vessel “Second Silence”
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