Hello to our *house*. Do you feel *better* yet?

[withmanyfingers]

A portal opens into a narrow, cramped, metallic room, sending a gust of air billowing through the vacuum of the place. The bulk of the room is taken up by equipment racks along opposite walls, upon each of which is mounted a familiar-looking battlesuit. One of the suits is open and empty, the other is sealed and contains an Orz-fish. The portal itself stands in a sort of aisle between the suits, marked by slight scuff marks in the gleaming cobalt metal of the place. Stars are visible through a window on the near hatch. The opposite window glows with a brighter blue colour, though a translucent membrane obscures any detail.

There is neither air nor gravity here, excepting only what's currently blowing through the portal.

Comments

[kaolinandbone]

Lioncourt takes an ammonia-liquid breath.

Go on.

[withmanyfingers]

The mental voice of Orz fills Lioncourt as a strange music, both more harmonious and more alien than before.

W͖̖̤̠̻ͯ̌̄h̩̤͖̤ͨ̑ͤ͊o͎̺̝̬ a̸̠̯͇̭̜͇͇ͬͨ̂r̸̬ͩͣe̾̌ͧͤͩͫ y̷͈͉ͨ̈ͭ̋ͩ̏ͮő̠͎͍̻̪̳̎ͪu̺͓̣̣̦ͅ?̥̥͙
Y̯̪̿̄͋̀ͨo̮͇͗̊͊ͩ̈̎ǘ̫͛͋̿̾ a̷̠̹ͤ̔͛͛̚r̈́ͮ̿͡ĕ͕̯͇̅̐̋ n͉̮͂ͤ̿͒͘o̸̳̯̮̭̯͚͒̃ͫͪ͐͋t̬̫̲̻̠̭̗ͭ͌̀̈̇̓͜ O̢͌ȓ̮̙͙̯̞͋̃z̧̤̰̩̮̜̞̒ͩ̆̂̌ͅ.͇͈͈̭͐̆ͫ̓̊͋
W̸̙̐̅͆̅e̗̙̱͒ͬ̉̇ͫ a̖̳͖͗̾͊̉ͮͅř̜̗̐͞ḙ͙̙̘͍̩̯͐̾̋́ Ȍ͔̤͚̝͉ͯ͑͘r͊ͥ͛ͤ҉̗̙͕̤͚z̧͔͈̼͔ͦͬͧ̔͊̿̏!̋̏́̀
O̘̣̲̜̔ͥ̈rͥͣ͗̍͢ž͇̬̠̎̈́ͧͦͅ a͍͐ͨ̓̈́͒̓r̗̗̘͉͐̂̒̈̌ͅe̟͓̮͇͌̔̀̿ *̴̨̣͈̫͕ͤ͌̐͂̔ͫ̏̿h̷̴̻̼̻͓͐ͧ͆ą͓͉̍̔̌ṗ̸͈̯̖̱͎̹̩̻͘ͅp͈͙͉̳̫̖͕̪̯ͦͮ̔̉̿͛y͙͖̌̈ͥ̍́ͧͩ͋͟*͌͂ͥ̒͏̺̖͔͎̩͜ *̥̼͕͑͑͑ͬͭ̔͢ͅp̛͔̿́̂̑͌͝ě̝͍͕̼͕̠͆ͤͦ̉ǭ͎̖̜̭̗̐ͨ̋̒ͭ̋p̢̌̿͌̋̉̇́̀͏̩̝͙̣̹̭̣ͅl̨͈̹̠̯̬͖͛͐̌͒̽͟e̯̜̝ͦ̅̔̓ͬͮ̚ ͥ͑ͣ͋͏̼͈̬̞̜͔̭̀e̵̸̞̘̜͍̺͍̽̑̉̽ͨ̀̚͘nͣ͏̭̭͚̜͉͞e̲͚̙̟̝ͫ̽̑̇ͫ͊ͭͪ̍́͘͢r̙͇͍̠̿͛̽ͯ̐̆͒ǵ̣̹͌ͬ̍̓͝y̷̸̴̱̲͈̗̿̎̍*̶̭̻̠̓͂̆͝ f̡̝͖͚͓̥̩̦̾̐́ͨr͙͍̥̬͔̆ͭ̾̀͌̑ͤoͧͮ̎̓ͯmͥ͌̈̐͠ t̆̂̽͆͂̽̉̾ͬ͢͞͏̳͍͈̼͔̭ḧ̨̰̭͖̼͈̪̮̬͚ͨͧͪ̅̃̓̓͌͜͠e̷͙͚̜̪̭̝̦̖͇͔̳̯̹͋ͫ̅͆̓͆ͤ̍ͯ͌̓͒͂ͫ̓̐́̚͘͡͡ ̡͓͖̳̫͇̘̹̤̦̩̟̿ͫͦ͂ͦ̑͌̍͐̂͊̉͡*̴̵̢̡̛̭͎̫̬̙͈ͩͥ̀ͨ͆̒o̧͂ͮͪ͌̾̿̐͊̄̓ͨ҉̶̣̻͙͔̖̙̣̣͇̥̣̥̘͖̻͓͢͠ų̣͕̳̰̦͐͌ͪ̅ͨͤ́̚͟͜ẗ̵͕̬̱̱̝̗̥͉́̎ͦ̎̍̉̍ͭ͐̉̓̽̑s̨̤̥̭̘ͩ͛͑ͦͬ̔̓ͤ̋ͥͥ̉ͫ͗͜i̷̸̢̡̦̙͕̤̰͙̤͐̎̽̍̎͂͑̌ͫ͜d̸̨̢͙̬̤̫̗̀́̓̒̽̎̕͡e̢̨̖̰̥͓͙̥̯̖ͤͭͬ̓̈̆̅̊͟͝*̡͎̟͎̱̦̫͖̎̂ͫ̏ͭͫ̏ͭͣ̔̅ͩ̚͘͘͞.̍̄̐ͣ́͊̑͌ͦ̒͗̋̃ͬ̒ͫ̒̚͝҉̣̤̗͉͕͇̠͎̝̟̩̝̮̗͚͜
I̟͉͖͈͕̥̬͝ a͖͖̐̀̇̆̈́͐͜ͅm̱̤̻͕̠̲̂ͫ O͈̻͇̗̤̠͓ͦͪ̑͞r̫̘͎̱̤͒̔z̤̫̝̻̺̋!̊ͫ͑͂
Ị̤͇͛ͦ̓̐ͯ̃ a͇̐ͫ̿̿m̺͋̌ͨͩ͗ͣͮ o͕͕͎͙̘̅̀̋̃ͮͫ̃n̡͙̜͎ͣ̓ͮ̍̉ę̝͇̲ͥ̓̀̇ͣ͗ͅ w̽͒̈҉̗̹̠̭î͙̖ͫ̎͒ͅt̹͎̠̼͋ͤ̿̏͑h͎ m̞͈̦ͨͧ̔͌͆̂͟ȧ͎̱̒͂ͬṇ̻̬͇͂͡y̬͉̤̬̲̮̫ͮ *̨̹͕̖̾f̵̻̯̩̼̮ͦ̂̍̔̂i͗͘҉̢̮̩̼͉͙̠ñ̡̮͉̥̭̻̥̰̰̥ͤͮg̒̔̓͏̡̤̠̫͓͇̫̲͓̺ḙ͙̰ͫͮ̓͐͆̒̎̚͜ȓ̹̭̭̟̯̹͚̋̿ͬs͈̭̩̐ͬ̍̐͐̉ͮ͟*̨̣̰̣͕̚.̢̢͉̘̱͉͎ͥ̏́ͫ̈́ͯ̇

The torrent of thought pauses briefly, as if to reassure it/themselves as to the resilience of the being they are *squirting* at.

[kaolinandbone]

It is an extremely large amount of information to process all at once.

But Lioncourt knows how to file and sort and catalog, how to subdivide and handle and shift.

She does not oppose the tide.

She channels it, along the corridors and chambers of her mind, wearing away at the rock of a citadel not built to be a river -

But it is nonetheless built of stone.

And even amidst the flood, a part of her stands and watches, silently...

*I am Isabella Katarina Lioncourt Tepes.*