encounter-at-oortland

[encounter-at-oortland]

THE COLONY: ENSIGN MIR. THE COLONY: THE CAPTAIN IS ASKING, AND I QUOTE, "WHY THE FUCK IS SHE TAKING SO LONG??" ENSIGN MIR: *GRUMBLE

> ENSIGN MIR: EXIT THE DELUSIONDECK. [LOCKED]

[encounter-at-oortland]

Hmm. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎If you're being quite honest with yourself, there's genuinely not a whole lot to do in this specific delusion. Aside from, y'know, meditating on the windswept milky afterglow of a doom that haunts a homeland you have never and will never—

> ==>

[encounter-at-oortland]

Never again. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎For reasons that still confound cytoculture throughout the cavalcade, physically interacting with simulated not-milk immediately crashes the delusiondeck. It also, SOMEHOW, left your fur and uniform stained for weeks; this was subsequently deemed yet another impossible mystery of cytomasonry to add to the list. It just never ends! ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Despite the fact that literally NO ONE saw this coming, you were stripped of your delusiondeck privileges for what felt like forever. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The Captain chalked it up to "blasphemy" in your record. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎An invisible barrier has since been implemented in all delusions involving not-milk.

> ==>

[encounter-at-oortland]

> ENSIGN MIR: SWIM IN THE NOT-MILK.

[encounter-at-oortland]

Yeah. You have NO fucking clue. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎No one does; not in Oortland OR the Grey Haunt. In fact, it's seriously not even relevant to your particular story, but rest assured…

> ==>

[encounter-at-oortland]

Ain't no buried treasure here, only BONES. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Every delusion depicting the Grey Haunt is a deluge of dolorif bones.

> ENSIGN MIR: PONDER THE CRYPTIC MONOLITH.

[encounter-at-oortland]

You are a CATFIEND, and your name is DES MIR. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎You are an ENSIGN aboard the vessel NEKYIA-9. You've recently turned ELEVEN (essentially THIRTY-ONE on Earth). ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎You are DEPRESSED, or whatever be the catfiend equivalent, which is always MUCH WORSE. This facsimile of the GREY HAUNT is a place you've found yourself returning to diurnally, if only because it offers a relaxing reprieve from the ceaseless corridors of coralstone and cerulean circuitry. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎You have this distinct feeling that the format of your life and whatever story soon to unfold is all loosely predicated on something ridiculous, perhaps a much older story the powers that be were once fascinated with and/or inspired by. This is all no doubt a symptom of persistent disassociation, and you will need to constantly remind yourself that, yes, your life is indeed 'this' stupid. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The CAPTAIN of NEKYIA-9 has requested your audience, but you know that you are not known for being punctual OR following orders, so you figure you've amassed a little leeway to abuse. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎What will you do?

> ENSIGN MIR: SEARCH FOR BURIED TREASURE.

[encounter-at-oortland]

You can't sTAND the Colony. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎An unexplainable byproduct of the Goldilocks Gank, only still around and annoying the fuck out of everyone because their miraculous manifestation managed to save the cavalcade from absolute annihilation. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Indebted to this mIrAcLe, the Admiralty allowed the Colony to become an omnipresent fixture in Oortland. Or at least that's what you were taught. You personally believe that no one could figure out how to get rid of them! ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎You hate it here. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But we don't really know who YOU are yet.

> AHEM, AS YOU WERE SAYING...

[encounter-at-oortland]

THE COLONY: WE APOLOGIZE IF YOU WERE FRIGHTENED, ENSIGN MIR. ENSIGN MIR: what the fUCK do you want?? THE COLONY: THAT IS NOT HOW YOU WERE TAUGHT TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE COLONY. ENSIGN MIR: you are invading my privacy!! ENSIGN MIR: again!! THE COLONY: PRIVACY IS A MEANINGLESS CONCEPT TO US. THE COLONY: WE ARE AN OMNISCIENT PRESENCE WITHIN THE CAVALCADE, REGARDLESS OF WHERE WE CHOOSE TO MATERIALIZE. THE COLONY: YOU KNOW THIS. ENSIGN MIR: I know that you're a—! THE COLONY: COINCIDENTALLY, WE ARE CONCURRENTLY TEACHING A CLASS ON HOW TO PROPERLY ADDRESS THE COLONY ON LABOLIS-2. THE COLONY: WE ARE ALSO ATTENDING LIEUTENANT GAN'S POETRY READING IN THIS VESSEL'S LYCEUM. THE COLONY: YOU ARE MISSING OUT. ENSIGN MIR: oh my fUCKING castys, it makes perfect sense you'd like her shitty pOeTrY. ENSIGN MIR: if the Admiralty would ever allow you to absorb anything other than fiendish SLOP from the Grey Haunt, you'd see how inarguably nonexistent Lieutenant Gan's writing abilities are. THE COLONY: ENSIGN MIR, WE DO NOT AT ALL UNDERSTAND THIS AGGRESSION. THE COLONY: WE COME IN PEACE. THE COLONY: AND YOU HAVE SPENT ALL DAY LOCKED AWAY IN THE DELUSIONDECK, DOING NOTHING IN PARTICULAR. ENSIGN MIR: fiendshit. ENSIGN MIR: I have been meditating on the windswept milky afterglow of a doom that haunts a homeland I have never and will never truly see. THE COLONY: UH-HUH. THE COLONY: YOUR ABSENCE WAS NOTICED IN CYTOCULTURE. THE COLONY: AGAIN. THE COLONY: THE CAPTAIN IS NOT PLEASED. ENSIGN MIR: oh wHATEVER. ENSIGN MIR: I really don't think the Captain could care less how I spend my time. THE COLONY: WE ASSURE YOU, SHE FREQUENTLY REQUESTS UPDATES ON YOUR ACTIVITIES AND/OR WELL-BEING. ENSIGN MIR: castys forbid she just tALK to me like a normal fiend!! THE COLONY: BUT THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT SHE WANTS, ENSIGN MIR. THE COLONY: YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED ON THE BRIDGE. ENSIGN MIR: ENSIGN MIR: *SIGH ENSIGN MIR: I can only assume this means I'm about to lose delusiondeck privileges. ENSIGN MIR: AGAIN. THE COLONY: AN ASTUTE ASSUMPTION, ENSIGN MIR.

> ==>

[encounter-at-oortland]

> ==>

[encounter-at-oortland]

You are a CATFIEND, and your name is—

> ==>

[encounter-at-oortland]

Bacterial waves of not-milk lap at coralstone coasts, licking away at a land lamenting its lactescent lull. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A lone fiend stirs in the blackened sands, ruminating on what she feels to be an unremarkable existence. She greets this palish wasteland frequently, gleaning only recurring resentment for the life she's restrained to. She knows practically nothing of her homeland, this ancient quagmire whose white-hot bowels once birthed her fiendish feline kin. Or so it's so eloquently described. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But this doomed world is healing, cooling from white to grey. She can see now only an epitaph haunting the greater labyrinth, a dead paradise courting old ruins to trade their tortured ghosts for dolorous demons. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Prithee, who be this lonesome fiend?

> IDENTIFY YOURSELF.