Editing Reference:Saavedro, personal journal (section)

== Entry One ==
''(Voltaic, on the path to the lava room)''

It is coming back to me. Slowly. the knowledge of who I am. How long I have been trapped here. So much of it is blurry. Whole blocks of time still floating in the fog that eats my mind. But if I concentrate, I get pieces of it back.

It was the dream that first helped me remember. I was lying in the reeds near the tusk. I don&#39;t know for how long or how I get here. I am staring at the sky. Seeing a man grow out of the cliff. First his head. Then his shoulders. Then his torso. Sunlight rims his body like a halo. I cannot move. I think that Death has finally come for me.

The man stands on the cliff with a book in his hand, staring down at the lagoon as if something made him sad. I wanted to call out to him. To tell him it was me he&#39;s come to find. But my mouth is dry. I can&#39;t remember any words. And before I think to stand, he opens his book. Puts his hand on the page. And fades to dust.

I thought he was a dream.

It was only later -- hours? or weeks later? -- that I find his swirling book atop the cliff. And when I reach down to grab it, it is real.

The fog tried to swallow me then and there but I held on to the firm reality of the book and did not let it. I did not let the numbness steal my mind.