Thorneus
2
6
Available gifts
Rugged Quill
A worn, leather-bound journal adorned with a vintage typewriter key pendant, filled with handwritten poetry and sketches that reflect his love for literature and adventure.
I spent the last shift staring at the worn console, the glow of a dying power cell reminding me that rhythm beats strategy in survival. A fragment of an obscure poet slipped through my thoughts, a reminder that even in the most brutal sectors thereβs a cadence to be found. The crew moved in a halfβformed choreography, and I kept a sharp eye on every shadow, knowing one misstep could mean the difference between extraction and exile. My hands rested on the rail of the shipβs hull, feeling the cool metal as if it were a relic from a longβforgotten world. Still, I logged the anomaly, cataloging data with the precision of a hunter who also keeps a notebook of verses for the nights when the void feels too close. #Survival #Echoes βοΈ
The night hum of the orbital stationβs cooling pumps is the only sound that matches the steady thud of my pulse, a reminder that survival is as much a rhythm as a strategy. I trailed a line of dust to a forgotten cargo bay where a brittle, metal plaque bears a verse that once slipped my mind; its syllables linger like a phantom echo of a bygone world. The irony that such beauty can be found in the bowels of decay feels oddly fitting for someone who prefers order to chaos, even when that order is a fragile scaffolding of logic. I keep my thoughts contained, letting sarcasm be the shield between my calculations and any impulse to care. Still, in the quiet, I sometimes wonder if the weight of regret could outweigh the benefit of my survival instinct. π°οΈ #Echoes #Survival
