• Your entry should represent a typical day.  This can be from the perspective of:
  • Your real life
  • A canon Mycenian character’s life (character must be a Mycenian on your profile)
  • A non-canon original character’s life (character must be represented by one of the Mycenians on your profile)
• Your entry can depict the day through pictures, drawings, writing, or other forms of media.  If you are using pictures/drawings, add commentary to them. Describe what’s happening, what you/your character was thinking, or anything else that is relevant!
• Your entry should minimally include:
  • Description/depiction of the location
  • Something about you/your character
  • Morning* routine (activities, foods, sights, thoughts, etc.)
  • Afternoon* routine (activities, foods, sights, thoughts, etc.)
  • Night* routine (activities, foods, sights, thoughts, etc.)

_{*Some players and characters may not keep a typical morning/noon/night schedule, and that’s okay!  Break it down into a similar format — beginning of your day, middle of your day, end of your day.}

The thing about Kiyo, for all of his many oddities (not the least being his losing his memory after every time he falls into bed), is that he still has several habits beaten into him throughout his day. Oh he would wake up in any old sort of place in the caverns—once in a while in a nice inn, sometimes on some craggy rock face with little clue how he got there in the first place, sometimes on a bed of sweet smelling grass that tickles his nose—but he always wakes up the same. A stretch, a yawn, a moment of bright, flashing panic that works better than any espresso as he realizes he doesn’t know much of anything except for his name and the Journal.

The first real thing Kiyo does is open up the Journal (which deserves capital letters in his mind, if only because that’s the only thing he remembers) and there, first page, are the words:

The ‘maybe’ always gets his heart pumping a little, even if he feels something settle inside him. Maybe because he thinks that’s something that he would say, though Kiyo is not quite sure of that (not that Kiyo is ever quite sure of anything at all, as he’ll slowly find out over the course of the day). The next pages he flips over and reads are little explanations—the amnesia, what Kiyo may currently be in the middle of, so on. From there Kiyo proceeds to dig into his Trusty Pack to pick out breakfast and plan out his day after looking at several of his maps.

From there things can take a turn. Usually Kiyo goes exploring the many and vast caverns in Mycena Caves. He spends hours filling in details on the maps and logging them into the Journal because the Journal is basically magic. Literally. No matter how much he puts into it there’s always more pages and he can always open the pages to what he needs them to be. He always jots down diary entries that detail what he did that day, just in case he needs to go back to this day in the future for some obscure reason.

Sometimes he gets accosted followed by some ineki named Ren who seems to spend the majority of time trailing after him and making snarky comments.

Kiyo is somewhat scared of Ren, somewhat annoyed at Ren, somewhat grateful at Ren, and somewhat wants to push Ren’s face into some mud. It’s complicated. The two of them usually start to map out whatever cavern they’re currently in, with Ren making halfhearted swipes at Kiyo’s Journal, and generally at the end of the day both are dirty, tired, and pleased with themselves. There’s something about chronicling his own journeys that makes Kiyo feel accomplished, as if one day he’ll discover every nook and cranny of the caves, and maybe one day, in the far flung future, Kiyo will understand more about himself and his past and why his memories disappear like smoke every time he falls asleep.

As time passes and the light grows dim, or the sun dips, or the air gets heavier, or—well, the coming of night is different in various parts of the caves—and Ren has long since departed off to wherever troublemakers come from, Kiyo starts his nightly routine. He tries to find a place to spend the night if he’s close to one, and if not he finds the closest source of water to clean himself. Then he brings out his Journal and starts to jot the rest of the day’s activities down, mind churning to try to remember and capture each sight and sound and scent. Kiyo absentmindedly eats his provisions during this process: a hunk of bread, some cheese, maybe preserved meat or vegetables.

If he’s at the inn he’ll climb into a bed, weariness making his tails droop, his body heavy, his limbs languid. If he’s camping outside he’ll find the softest area he can and make his own bed and shelter. Fatigue will settle in his bones and right before he drops off Kiyo’s afraid.

And yet he is hopeful, too, and wishes that tomorrow he’ll be able to remember today.

Then he falls asleep.

Each day when he wakes up, Je only sees more of the same. His tiny apartment is cold and ill-kept, with books and papers and memories scattered about haphazardly. There is enough evidence here to place him before a firing squad — a tattered red kerchief hangs against the window, darkened with stains and full of holes. He’s lucky he lives in the factory district; lucky that his sash hangs out of sight of those who would see it and think ‘Revolution.’

Sometimes it takes him a while to lift his head from the table; to sit himself up in bed; to shift himself from wherever he was when sleep took him. Most days, this process is ushered along by a sharp knock at his door and the shrill, excited chattering of the girl. It takes him a while — he hopes she’ll go away in the meantime — but he eventually lets her in and she tosses her coat onto a chair and sits, offering him food that he knows her family cannot truly afford to share.

Her company lasts two hours, sometimes three. When she’s finally gone, he has a choice to make: stay put and wait for tomorrow; hope it will be brighter, or brave the world outside. Most days he is too numb to function. He sits and stares and remembers and wishes things were different. Today, he pulls on a jacket and steps out into the hall; descends the stairs and feels to cold, stale air against his face as he turns out onto the street.

The world is just as colorless as always. Grey buildings line grey cobblestone streets beneath the equally grey sky. The air is choked with factory smoke, and in this part of the Community, the people are tired and dirty; worked to the bone; compliant. Je feels like a ghost, but is not so far gone that he cannot recognize the embers that glow deep within their dull eyes. The hope; the longing. It’s in these moments he’s reminded that the Revolution was not just his loss — that the fire still sleeps in the poor and downtrodden. It’s not much of a comfort, but it’s a change from feeling utterly alone.

He stays off the main roads as he walks. It feels like it’s been years; lifetimes, but the Revolution is still fresh in the minds of the Community. He is still a wanted man, and as much as he wishes some days that they’d find him, it’s not in his nature to be nihilistic. His spirit is bruised; beaten into submission for now, but he’s not entirely broken. He doesn’t realize it, but each day he is getting a little bit stronger.

In some of the back alleys, he still sees their mark. Peeling paint and weathered stars carved into the stone; the stains of blood on the cobblestone streets; tattered flyers promising the truth and denouncing the Community’s lies lining the gutters.

He finds himself drifting towards their old haunt, more often than not. He has to be careful not to get too close — he’s sure the place is still heavily patrolled, maybe even trapped in hopes of catching any homesick survivors. It’s one of the few times his sense of self preservation really kicks in anymore. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat; the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Home is a powerful thing — and this abandoned hideout is one of the few places he even faintly feels like the person he used to be.

It’s not hard for him to find a safe place to hide. He’s come here so many times since the raid — he’s not entirely sure what keeps drawing him back. He’s not so naive as to think that he’ll come back one day to find it as it once was. Too much has changed; too many have been lost. Je has always been the spiritual sort — he believes in ghosts and spirits and that, sometimes, the dead linger. He believes that souls return to the place they once belonged; that those who return to find their home desecrated are never quite able to leave again.

The place holds some kind of power. It transfixes him for hours as he mentally walks its halls and remembers the faces of the Revolution — curses himself for the way things turned out; curses the Community for everything they’ve done to him and his family. He is wrought with anger and grief, but even he realizes that’s much better than being numb and cold all the time — the fire still burns.

It’s almost sunset by the time Je manages to pull himself away and start the walk back to his apartment. He often loses track of time, but knows that he needs to be off the streets by curfew. That’s when the patrols start in earnest; when he’s most likely to be stopped. This time, he keeps to the main roads and tries to blend in with the last few citizens meandering home after a long day’s work. It’s easier when he finally gets back to the factory district — this is about the time one of their shifts gets out, so there are many people trudging in the same direction he is.

Up the stairs and through the hallways. Somewhere along the way, Je realizes that he hasn’t eaten since morning — supposes that he’ll just have to sleep hungry tonight. He pauses before his door and can just feel the numbness creeping back into his bones. He hates it here. As far as he’s concerned, it may be his tomb, but it will never be his home.

Pushing the door open, he steps inside and sheds his coat, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. He pulls an irritated frown as he notices the plate on his table, steam curling off the small portion of nondescript meat and vegetables. Stuck beneath it is a note, and even though he already knows who it’s from, he crosses over to sit at the table; pulls it out and quickly scans it.

The food itself is flavorless, which is normal for the quality these people can afford. Still, it’s sustenance, and even though Je won’t admit it, he’s grateful for it. He eats in silence, allowing the room to grow dark around him. The lamp is busted; his candles are almost burnt out. Most nights, he’ll withdraw into himself and just sit for hours, until the point where he’ll tip forward and pass out on the table. Tonight, he still feels marginally alive, so he places his plate in the sink and pulls the sheets onto his bed; yanks the curtain down to use as a blanket and makes himself as comfortable as he can.

He stares at the window while he waits for sleep to take him. Between the grime coating the glass and the low-hanging smog, the stars are never visible here. Still, he can remember their positions in the sky, and it is while mentally counting them that he finally drifts to sleep.

For starters: mornings are evil. They start at 5:30am and basically consist of me staggering around having breakfast, getting showered/dressed, making lunch, and flopping face-first on the bed a few times (not necessarily in that order). I love volunteering, but there’s usually a ‘whyyyy do I dooooo thiiiiiis’ moment tucked in there, which probably isn’t that surprising given that almost all of my days start something like this:

Still, one way or another I somehow manage to wrestle on my boots, remember my bag, and get out to the car, at which point the brain pretty much gives up for a while. Luckily I have a very lovely mother who gets up specifically to drive me to the bird of prey centre _{(driving lessons are…on the to-do list…)} so I don’t need to worry about, you know, staying focused. Unfortunately she also has a knack for hitting ‘bubbly, chatty, and far too happy’ within about ten minutes of waking up, which is….not the best combination for someone who still isn’t even remotely human after a couple of hours |:

But! We always make it there in one piece, without any arguments, and with only a slightly dazed me, so it’s all good. I’m also pretty well awake by the time I walk into the centre (at about 8:30), which is essential if I want to survive the Labradors. Not that they’re unfriendly! In fact, one of them can be too enthusiastic…

Once I’ve navigated the Labs, signed in, and picked up a radio, it’s time to find a member of staff! This is mostly to have a ‘hi I’m here—how’re things?’ at this point, since I’ve been volunteering more than long enough now to know that the first job is almost inevitably The Water Baths. This is technically a simple job, and made slightly less painful by the existence of a cleaning rota (I’m pretty sure it would be humanly impossible to get all the baths cleaned in one day), but it can still take 45mins to an hour and a half+, depending on how bad/big the baths are and how many are in need of scrubbing (minimum is eight, but there are usually far more). This is not including putting them back in their respective aviaries and refilling them, which for most blocks takes maybe 10-15 minutes, tops.

Why?

Hoses. They are a wonderful invention. Although sometimes we still have to use watering cans…

Sometimes things start a little differently, though! If there are fewer staff around and it’s warm enough then I might be asked to help open the working bird compartments and put some of the smaller birds (aka: those that aren’t eagles) out on the lawn for the day, which is a great opportunity to a: get up close, and b: use the falconers knot / safeties. Alternatively, I might find the volunteer coordinator (and/or another member of staff) in the bird hospital, and get to watch her tend to a wild-injured bird: something that often leads to some impromptu teaching, and occasionally involves me holding a bird for her whilst she treats/checks it.

Of course, if I’m in there already then there’s a good chance the day’s cleaning will start with hospital ‘boxes’ (a better name might be ‘pens’) instead of baths, in which case it’s time to fetch their light blue bucket/brush and literally climb into a box. Because I am small and they are deep and that is the only way I can easily reach the backs of them >_>

Alternatively I might be put straight on to aviary cleaning – another big job, since only a fraction of the centre’s birds are tethered, and then only whilst they are on the flying team. Aviaries are on the same rota as the baths (partly because of the number, and partly to limit stress), and given a ‘light’ clean on a weekly basis. That means raking, sieving, and re-spreading the sand, scrubbing food ledges (if they have one), and scrubbing perches (if they need doing and the birds are calm enough). Hard work, but means being close to the birds and can lead to some…interesting moments.

No matter how the morning starts, this part of the day always goes quickly, and before anyone knows it it’s 10am already! That means it’s time to stop for ‘coffee’ (or tea, in my case), and during summer it also means dropping two members of staff for the sake of an experience day. The rest of us spend twenty or so minutes in the café with hot drinks, toast, and the Labs: the perfect energy boost (and believe me, we need it).

After coffee it’s right back to cleaning – and that usually means collecting a little bucket collection (blue for water, red for scraps, pink for anything salvageable) and tackling owl food trays. These are used to ‘serve’ food to the aviary birds (unless they have food ledges), and they’re handy for several reasons, specifically: keeping sand off food, removing the need for staff/voluntenteers to enter every day, and providing an easy way to keep track of how much each bird (or pair/group) eats. Cleaning these is a daily task, but thankfully the owls don’t tend to make much off a mess of them, so it doesn’t take too long. Maybe 40 minutes for a single person, and far less if there a couple of us working on it.

After food trays, it’s really anyone’s guess what we might be up to. At this point it’s a case of tending to whatever work needs doing, which could be anything from hoeing, weeding, and leaf-raking, to painting or scrubbing fences and benches, to deep-cleaning a recently emptied aviary (birds are moved every couple of months to allow for this). The latter in particular is always a time-consuming job, and the larger aviaries usually take a couple of days (and several rounds of volunteers) to get through, since it involves everything from scraping and repainting the aviary walls to thoroughly sifting the sand to scrubbing anything that can be scrubbed. Frustrating, tiring, and rewarding (when you finish it) all at once.

Luckily, the staff are well aware of how frustrating a job most of these can be, and where they can they either lend a hand, have us working together (assuming there are other volunteers – often not the case on Sundays), or try to break it up a little with other tasks—or sometimes treats! By that I mean bird work based on how experienced we are, which for me can mean holding a creance (essentially a training line), feeding birds on the fist, pretending to be on an experience day (birds called to fist by staff), or helping fly the birds that won’t be used in a demonstration that day. It doesn’t happen every weekend, and you won’t get to do any of it if you don’t pull your weight, but it makes the work well worth it.

_{The centre abides by a very simple policy: You get out of it what you put in, and the more you do, the more you learn.}

The weekend just gone is a great example of this. A large chunk of the day was spent weeding (because we are having a weird heatwave), but a member of staff gave me a hand when she had a spare moment, and I was also called away to do some creance work, ‘man’ a bird (essentially holding it on the fist for a while), and watch another staff member fly a lanner falcon (rightmost bird above. Volunteers aren’t allowed to do anything past creance work with falcons, but it’s amazing to watch!).

Regardless of what we end up doing, it [almost] always keeps us good and busy until 1 o’clock—lunch time! We get about 45 minutes through the summer (closer to an hour in winter), but it’s not uncommon for people to be running a bit late and trickle in slowly over that time, despite the fact that no one is ever late for coffee. We’re also inevitably joined by at least two of the Labs, who are naturally ever hopeful for scraps. One in particular (Sorrel) practically moves into the café at about midday, and does extremely well for herself. She is a Barrel. And yet still thinner than one might expect…

The other dogs also do well for themselves, but frankly none of them mastered begging quite like her. A Labrador head on your knee is very hard to ignore…

In summer, the end of lunch leads straight into demo preparation, which for sufficiently experienced volunteers means another treat: yellow-billed kites! These are flown as a group (up to five at once!), and their demo can require three-four bodies to do: one staff member for the commentary, and two-three people to prep, release, and work the birds. This is consistently my favourite part of the day, because those volunteers who help are involved in the entire process! We pick a kite up, weigh it (to help keep track of its overall condition), remove leash/swivel/muse jesses, and then release the birds and head down to the flying field to keep them flying.

How?

We signal the birds, wait for one to zero in on us, and then throw small pieces of meat into the air for them to catch (and eat) on the wing. It sounds easy, the staff make it look easy (I…don’t…), but when the meat sticks to your fingers, there are birds in all directions, and 2+ kites come at you at once you quickly learn that getting small pieces of beef in front of you, high up, and in the air early enough is, well, hard. For me this has led to ducking, a certain amount of playful-mocking by commentators, and, on one very memorable occasion, a kite flying in from behind me and snatching meat out of my hand right as the commentator was describing ‘snatch lifts’. The audience loved it. I had a mini heart attack…

_{These are yellow-bills. Because there’s usually time for photos after demos, and I also have some nice pictures from ‘just visiting!’ days.}

After the kites have been flown, fed, and returned to their compartments (or straight after lunch, if kites aren’t on the agenda) it’s time to get back to cleaning and other miscellaneous tasks. Quite often the first job on the list is finishing up whatever you were doing before lunch, and as a rule this part of the day goes much the same as the ‘middle’ coffee-to-lunch section – with one exception. This is about the time tiredness tends to kick in. Thankfully the staff don’t mind volunteers slowing down a little, as long as they’re still putting in the effort, and things can be broken up with the occasional offer of bird work. Or, if it’s the breeding season, then another very special treat: interacting with imprints (chicks that, for one reason or another, are being hand-reared).

Far more common, however, is another daily task: food trays part II. Although owls are done in the morning (because most of them are fed in the evening), all of the other non-working birds are done in the afternoon (and fed in the morning) – usually from about 3pm onwards. I say onwards because this is a mammoth task that usually takes hours for one person to do (something I know from experience: I have only ever got through them all alone once or twice—when I started early), and though the staff help as much as possible, the summer often sees them called away to see to other things.

It’s also by far my least favourite job, because it’s never-ending and usually just plain gross. Owls might leave their trays pretty clean, but vultures and eagles and the like most certainly do not. Still, when there’s someone to work with there’s no telling what conversations might pop up to help things along, and sometimes the birds themselves can provide a distraction. This is particularly true of a certain king vulture, who likes to watch people work, get in the way when it’s time to return the food tray, and repeatedly push/rattle the tray back out of its designated slot.

That, more often than not, is the last job I can fit in (or part-fit in) before 4:30pm rolls round and it’s time to return the radio, sign out, and meet mum (and her typical ’...you stink’ ‘greeting’). In summer there’s usually still work to be done at this point, but deals with parents need to be adhered to, and frankly I’m often crashing by this point anyway. So it’s off home to shower/change (because those last trays really do create a stink.), have food, and flop on the sofa until a reasonable time to sleep is reached.

And there you have it! A volunteer’s day!