Warmth. It fills our bodies as we stand around, staring nervously into each other's eyes while we prepare to speak. It coats the Empire-approved supplies we have set neatly on the ground, having carried them from the embark craft. Distressingly, nobody seems to remember where our landing beachhead is. Filled by the sun's embrace, we pay that no mind. It taints the air as I, Sir Rydash Cogsbronze, 3rd Prefect to the 2nd Associate Chief of the Empirical Bureaucracy, inform the glistening, sticky masses that I want stockpiles built. Plus, as everyone should well know, no Proper Colony is replete without the palpable scents of woodwork and lumber management and coarse sanding. Mumbling about their orders, my fellow colonists set off to make those things happen. I don't really know how. I don't need to! Things will just Be Complete so long as I Declare It. And from that, everything will be Okay. I roam the land, looking for colorful objects to touch and collect. Ambling along the beach, I trip and ingest a small mouthful of black orbs. Not bad, except for all the grit! I promote some layabouts to be my Authorized Orb Cleansers, and ask them to comb the beach for more of this delicious curiosity. My motivational words inspire them to redouble their efforts - literally! It's a shame not even The Sun can illuminate the delicious gooey filling. Soon enough, I've had my fill, which was just enough to deplete our stock of this new form of sustenance. Ah well. The land will provide more eventually. I should send a Naturalist to find more. Eventually tired of their impending starvation, the lower classes add more dirt to their previously-caked skin by practising Agriculture, at my instruction of course. Lo, the heat must be getting to them - one of the oafs had the audacity to limit my Access to my Humble Abode! This will not stand! The nerve! I scrambled my legs over to Her Majesty's 125th Fighting Foot, where an impeccably mustached young chap immediately shot the offender through the throat. Excellent! I must inform my supervisor in the Empire that this soldier should receive the most courteous of discharges. We don't need a sharpshooter like that killing us all unprovoked. As I set off to retrieve my Official Parchment to prepare a letter, I noticed the colony was slightly...strange. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I believe people were acting a little bit more...purple. Quite so. Everyone acted our their purplest conversations and fantasies. I even saw one talking to a plant. It doesn't matter, just as long as they get Things done. And look at that! One of them has even tithed me with a hanging box of preserves. Man, that carpenter's shop is really paying off. The construction is impeccable! You can't even see where the box joins the rest of the domicile! I can't wait to rub this stuff all over myself. As I tore the lid from the first jar using my impeccable finger strength, a scream rang out near the sea. It startled me so badly that I had trouble looking past the cloaked daggerwizard who sidled up behind me. This was no time to discuss the weight and balance of his blade, no matter how high he lifted it in the air. Fortunately, his gob was also smacked as a horde erupted from the sea. A grand feeling welled up in the atmosphere. It taints the air, as I, Sir Rydash Cogsbronze, run for the steppes, jar nestled tightly into the folds of my sternum. It coats the colony as sea urchins are crammed down the civilization's metaphorical pants by 32 unhappy natives. It fills my lungs, pierced by a fish-shaped miniature forced through them at an extreme velocity. Warmth. Not nearly as good as the Gaslamp Literary Experiments, but here is written the end of the Sixth Colony of New Antipodea.
