I have forgotten my name. But I have not forgotten who I am. And I have not forgotten my own roots.

I am a philosopher. A polymath. A man of science from England.

A fortnight ago, I embarked on a cartographic mission in a hot air balloon. I fell through a rift in the sky and landed in the foothills of a deceptively Earth-like land.

Most plants and animals I recognize. I have so far lived off those. There are freshwater springs in every cliffside. They have not yet killed me.

In my rucksack is a telescope, a compass, a notebook, graphite, a ruler, a tool knife, rope, a firesteel, and my dwindling rations. My pocket watch still works, thank the heavens. My flintlock has run out of ammunition.

It is the 22nd of March 1791.