Examine your sorrow-roundings

Jorrel and Emalie seems to be locked in a deep debate about the semantics of friendship. Without paying too much attention you catch the gist of it: Don't be a dick. Somehow they can agree and still argue. What happened wasn't really Emalie's fault. It was yours. Should've been more careful, a lesson you still haven't learned despite the countless weird scenarios and accidents you've caused over the years. But noooo. Apparently you're completely incapable of learning anything not related to mechanics.

You look down at your sleeve. Great. Smudged everything a little more. Dang, could've played it off as a brave new look. Warpaint. See, you think to yourself, pulling down your suit and tying the arms around your waist, there's actually one positive thing about work. You get as long as you'd like to consider every possibility before ruining everything.

The room you're in is almost completely dark, save Mute's glow-sticks and the faint light of the moon from the opening above you. Not quite sure on how you fell up considering a rope usually falls down. Nothing ominous about that. Hopefully. Treading carefully, you get the impression that this room used to be a hide-out of sorts. One of the boring ones. You know, where people, who do not want to be found, do their accounting. Three doors (or opening, depending on how much door has to left to be considered a door). One leading into a stairway, and the other two into darkness. The room itself has a single desk and some shelves.

Whoever did accounting must have felt very lonely, isolated from everyone here. On instinct, you almost thought, up here. Not sure why, maybe nothing more than a feeling or a brain fart.

You're certain no one has invaded the personal space of people long dead just yet. Emalie and Jorrel are more 'big stuff' inclined. Forgotten robots, obviously trapped relics, you name it. As long as it looks like something mankind was never supposed to rediscover, both of them will be all over it figuring out what it does and how much it's worth.

Mute - swoon - always takes care of more important stuff. Drawing maps, planning escape routes, planning plans, looking amazing. It's like he doesn't even have to try at any of those things. He does it flawlessly and without ever losing his cool demeanour. Emalie once theorized he had an almost precognitive power for - sometimes drawing maps perfectly, before even entering a place. Mute pointed out that precognition isn't a thing and that he just made very good guesses. Emalie said that's how precognition works. Mute replied, _then I must be a medium, because I precognitively predict that you won't manage to convince me, _dismissively. Jorrel said, that's a good point. Emalie exclaimed, no it's not, loudly. Then Jorrel and Emalie argued for about an hour and a half.

Doodads litter the desk and there's probably a bunch of stuff in the drawers. Hopefully a diary. You've found plenty of diaries in the past, none of them eligible though. Paper is just fine, conditions allowing, kept way beyond its expiration date. The problem is their weird as hell language. According to the old farts in your village, you're still speaking the same language, while writing has changed in many odd and unnoticeable ways. Technically, you can read it. Sometimes you'll come across words that doesn't exist any more or you'll encounter ones that has changed contextually.

There's stuff on the shelves, too. Folders? Maybe? Not quite sure. You'd like to have a long ramble about shelves and their importance on your person - unfortunately - you don't really feel there's more to be said. The desk monologue covered it pretty well. Pre-emptively, you apologize to the shelves, if it made them feel unappreciated.

Conscience clean, you need to decide which grave you want to snoop around in.