"Ow," you say dismally to the tree branch you just tripped over. Then, upon further consideration, "Jhanzi, I've broken my legs. Both my legs. You're going to have to carry me." "As far as I'm concerned," says your moiral, "you should be carrying me back to civilization. Whose idea was it to go tramping off into Bumfuck, Nowhere?" He pushes miserably at his glasses and then scratches at his arm. He looks both very silly and extremely uncomfortable, but this is entirely his own fault; he was so scared of ("rightfully cautious about") forest parasites that he wore long pants and long sleeves and a bandanna around his neck, in the middle of the hottest perigee of the hottest sweep you can remember. You picked a smart one, that's for sure. You consider the branch before you, deliver it one last spiteful kick for the injury it has dealt you, and resume trudging in circles. Okay, not immediately obvious circles, but some of the rock formations are beginning to look suspiciously familiar. "I don't recall you framing it in those terms when I first suggested going out here," you snipe back. "In fact, I think I remember you saying, 'Oh, sounds fun,' and, 'I haven't been out of the city in a while, it'll be nice to experience some natural settings,' and, 'Yeah, my palmhusk will totally keep us from getting lost, and I won't drop it in a stream or anyth—'" "Okay, okay," Jhanzi interrupts hurriedly. "Yes, I broke the palmhusk. Yes, that is why we are lost. Are you happy? Can we agree that neither of us needs to carry the other?" "But you're taller than me," you say innocently, "and stronger. So you should carry me." He curses at you good-naturedly, and you pretend to swoon. "What a gentleman!" And it doesn't matter if your bloodpusher is pumping harder than it ought to be, or if you're looking at him too closely as he laughs. "Seriously, though," he says, squinting at the horizon, "pink moon's almost down. Looks like we'll be spending the day out here." "Look at you, wow. 'Pink moon's almost down.' You gonna navigate us home by the stars next?" But nonetheless you start peering more closely at the tumbles of rock you pass now and again. Maybe there's a cave inside one of them, a decent-sized-one. Or actually, you think, and don't look at Jhanzi, maybe a smaller cave wouldn't be all that bad.
(excuse the sideways icon, I can't figure out how to change it) They're young enough that you don't feel all that threatened, but definitely old enough to know better. You've been following them in the trees for some time, your psiionics covering your movements sight and sound, and your lusus keeps chittering that maybe they're new friends and you should make new friends child you need them! You smile, barely avoid snorting. Your dad is so good-natured, it's a wonder and miracle that he ever got you through pupahood. Then before you can stop him, nearly falling out of your tree in the effort to grab him, lemurdad leaps off the branch and glides down to land on a rock by the newcomers, chirping cheerfully and shivering his long tail in friendly greeting. You facepalm, but stay where you are. If they attack your lusus they're dead, of course, but it's a toss up as to whether breaking cover on two hostiles is really worth it. Plus, there's something familiar about that greenblood's voice that you can't yet put your claw on...
You stop short in surprise. "Hello!" you say to the lusus. Some kind of flying mammal, looks like—you don't the name. Like a nutbeast but skinnier. "Huh. Do you have a troll?" Sometimes wild lusii wander far enough from the caves that you might run across them like this, but more likely this guy's just gone off without his troll for a bit. Unusual for a lusus that frail-looking, but you guess it could be a small pupa's mom or dad foraging for its helpless charge. The lusus just chitters at you, of course. Lusii don't speak Alternian outside of storybooks. You crouch and hold out a hand to it politely—it doesn't look to have fangs, and its claws are laughable—because lusii are smart enough to be pleased by good manners. "Saikym—" says Jhanzi behind you worriedly. You haven't heard him equip his strife specibus yet, but by his tone he's about ready to. You flap a hand behind you at him without looking around and continue to extend a hand for the lusus to smell. "Relax, dude, if it tells its troll it likes us we might be able to beg some water. Or directions to somewhere to spend the day."
Your lusus chirps back politely, inspects the new troll's hand for a moment with dexterous paws and licks it once or twice for good measure, then trills up at you, making an unmistakable come on! gesture with one winged arm. Come on, sillygrub, make friends! You facepalm, and drop your cover. You're a big, lanky troll, close to your adult moult, but you're unarmed and it's obvious from the way one of your ankles are twisted that you wouldn't do so well on the ground. You glare anyway, hoping to intimidate. "So what are two city-slicking motherfuckers doing in my woods, huh?"
You startle up and out of your crouch, accessing your strife deck entirely out of instinct and looking around wildly for the source of the voice, but once you locate the troll it's coming from you put your rapier away. It's a small-horned yellowblood, and even though he's crouched up in the tree you can tell he's big, maybe a sweep or two older than you. But he's not visibly armed, and even if he is your sword won't do shit if he stays up that tree. Besides, it wouldn't do to look unfriendly. Jhanzi steps up beside you and re-captchalogues his saxophone in a pointed sort of way. "We didn't know they were your woods," he says, matching the yellowblood glare for glare. (if you'd like to describe Jhanzi: he's middling tall for a male troll of his age, lanky, big curly ram's horns, glasses, greenblood.)
"Well maybe you oughta check before you go traipsing through them like a herd of hoofbeasts, greenie," you give Mr Rams-horn your best sneer, uncaring of caste. Still, your eyes can't help traveling back to his companion and the hatchright symbol on their lapel... then the denomination of small currency drops, and it hits you. "Wait...what... wait, a-are you - you're not Saikym Auigne, are you?" you're pretty sure, at least, and vanish again - literally - to scramble down the tree. When you're next visible, you're on the ground leaning on your staffkind. It's not strife, not properly, since while you can use it as such quite ably, you do need it to walk on flat ground. "Holy shit, I love your work!"
Jhanzi blinks—probably confused by the casteist insult coming from someone warmer than he is—then bristles anyway. "Greenie, huh? Haven't heard that one bef—" He stops in confusion when the yellowblood disappears, and you go for your strife deck again. How does he know your name? Is he someone's quadrant or something? Shit, you haven't killed that many people—no one lower than cerulean, either, and the type of troll who picks fights with you doesn't seem likely to have a lowblood quadrant. When the yellowblood reaches the ground you take one look at his leg and lower your rapier, because he might be faking, but damn, dude's cullbait. "Um," you say eloquently in response to his enthusiasm. You have no idea what he's talking about. "Yeah, my name's Saikym. How, uh..." Then it hits you. "Oh, you mean my singing? The stuff on GrubTube? How'd you find it, it's not all that—I mean, um, thanks." You can feel your cheeks and ears going teal.
Okay, so now it's your turn to blush, a browner colour than the typical pissblood, and stammer, "Y-yeah, I know. I guess I'm one of your few followers! I think you've got more talent in your pinkie claw than the rest of them swillbloods what get more views, though." You fumble a moment more, tack a 'sir' onto the end of that last sentence, then grin sheepishly. "Uh, we can just pretend I didn't threaten your buddy here and start again? Name's Mol. You guys look pretty lost. Need a hand?"
You go to run your claws through your hair—a usual nervous habit of yours—realize that the hand you've lifted is the one with the rapier in it, and captchalogue the weapon sheepishly. Then you scrub at your head anyway. "Ahaha, um, I wouldn't say that," you hedge. You are pretty good, objectively speaking, but most of the operagers on GrubTube are adults decades more practiced than you. "But thanks." Your "buddy" lifts an eyebrow at being addressed thusly and wraps his arm around your shoulders. Where his fingers grip you a little too tightly, your skin tingles. You ignore it. "Yeah, we're lost," he says cooly. "If you could point us toward somewhere to spend the day that'd be great." "Or if you've got rations or water or something like that," you add. "And some way of pointing us back toward the nearest town with public transport in the evening would be appreciated."
(sorry, only just saw this!) You raise one eyebrow at the PDA - pale, you guess, a matesprit might not stop at just a hug - and can't help but feel a little stab of jealousy, which is ridiculous. You don't even know these fucking trolls, not neither of them really. You decide to be generous, anyway. You might be rude, but that's no accounting for leaving strangers out in the cold - you've been a sufferist so long it'd be like kicking your own lusus. You turn and beckon them to follow. "Come on, then, there's enough room in the trunk below my hive. Ain't much, but I got rations and shit to spare and you won't fucking fry, at least." If Auigne was alone you can bet your fine fucked-up foot that you'd invite him to spend the night in your hive proper, but Greenie McRamHorns ain't welcome, and if they're quadrants, inviting one is like to just earn the mislike of both of them.
You consider Mol's offer briefly, then raise your eyes to Jhanzi's and waggle your eyebrows threateningly, trying to nonverbally convey Don't fuck this up by charring him from behind or something, ya dingus. This is admittedly a little bit ambitious—you never got around to devising an Eyebrow Troll Morse Code—but it must work at least somewhat, because he rolls his eyes and flicks your ear gently, which is something like, What do I look like, a idiot? You hiss, just a little bit, and he dances out of the way before you can get him in the ribs with a claw, smirking. He knows you too well. (You're not blushing. You're not.) "Thanks," you say distractedly to Mol. "It's gotta be better than some half-assed cave, at least." "Does the pizza drone deliver?" adds Jhanzi brightly. He dodges your swipe again.
You bark a laugh without turning around. "Not this far out, city-boy. You're in the deep woods, here. How the hell did you guys get so lost, anyway?" You glance behind you briefly, make it clear that you're talking to Auigne not their moirail with that last one. You have the very brief thought that he does have a kind of punchable face, and squash it. You might not get much company out here in the boonies, but that's no excuse to pitch-flirt with every troll that comes along. You suddenly wish you hadn't left your palmhusk at home when you decided to follow the strangers - you could really use Hanh or better yet, Plin's sensible advice. Plin ain't your moirail, not the same way Hanh is, but he's got all his quadrants on point, and you value his sage worldly wisdom. He's the calmest cerulean you know, as well, and it was him what turned you onto Sufferage when you were both wigglers.
"Well, that's an interesting question," you tell Mol gleefully. Jhanzi flips you off. You stick out your tongue at him. "Rumor was going around on the FLARP forums that some flapbeastshit blueblood had buried a pile of treasure somewhere around here, protected by a shit ton of probably-nonlethal traps. I live not too far away on the coast and Jhanzi lives in Troll New York City, so we figured, why not, it'd make a good night trip. And then Jhanzi dropped his palmhusk and its tracking program into a stream." "Saikym was the one who said we should try and find the treasure anyway," mutters Jhanzi. You spread your hands theatrically. "Can't blame a troll for trying! And we'd probably have gotten lost if we tried to go back from there, too." "You forget that at that point your palmhusk still had a signal. We could've just Troogle-Mapped our way back." "Alright, alright," you concede good-naturedly. You and Jhanzi do this sort of joking bickering sometimes, and it's better than actually getting mad at each other. Which you would be, after most of a night trekking through the woods, if you weren't letting off steam like this. "Fine. That was probably a bad idea."
"There is a flapbeastshit blueblood with buried treasure around here," you tell them brightly. "He uses it to lure other trolls to their crunchy death via antlion lusus. He's kind of an asshole, but he's not as bad as some of my neighbours - at least he keeps to his own hive and thinks it's 'unsporting' to actively chase people to their doom, you know?" You've met Khalam briefly a couple of times, and you kind of feel lucky that you're beneath his notice as a pissblood or shitblood, whichever he thinks you are due to lighting. He wasn't the one who fucked up your leg, anyway - trolls that fall into his traps don't ever get out again. He's dismissive of you at worst - you don't even think he knows about your vanishing trick. Their bickering is kind of cute, and makes you miss Hanh all the more. Maybe after this is all over you'll invite her over for Netflix and chill. (Literal chill, yo, you aren't 'rails with pails for all she was flushed for you when you first met.) You're a little jealous. "Almost there, bros."
Jhanzi whistles, long and low. You would too, if you had ever learned how. "Dodged a primitive metallic projectile there, then," he says. "The forums made it sound like, you know, someone had set it up for a campaign, not like someone actually wanted to retain possession of the treasure and was killing people for it." "We don't need treasure that badly," you add. "And besides, we do non-lethal FLARP. The hell kinda asshole posted those coordinates on the non-lethal forum?" "I could probably track 'em down, if they weren't too careful about leaving traces," says Jhanzi thoughtfully. "Or pay a technomancer." "Or a real hacker," you snipe, and then ruffle his hair. "Nah, dude, don't think it's worth it. We'll just post a warning when we get home." To Mol you say, "Thank god, my feet are about to fall off. What's your hive look like?"
"Heheh, dunno about shutting it all down that well. Motherfucker's got a tech-savvy quadrant or three, from what I've heard." not that you would use your psiionics to spy on your potientally lethal neighbours and eat grubcorn while watching their dramas unfold, nooo. That would be 'unsporting'! You bite back a snicker, and point upwards. "Hive sweet hive, bros." What little help you and your lusus got from the carpenter drones forms the nucleus of the great sprawling mass of your hive, but mostly it's wooden plaforms extending across the branches of three fat-trunked trees, covered over with leather and canvas painted so it all nearly vanishes into the foliage and slips of midnight sky between the leaves. Some of it had been here when you got here, but you were never one to look a gift hoofbeast in the mouth. It works and it's solid and you've got workspace aplenty, that's what matters. The central tree is half-dead, looks as though it were struck by lightning sometime in the long past, and there's a small door set into the hollow truck - this is where you lead your new pals to. Inside is a box room of sorts, filled with rolls of leather and large reels of copper and silver wire, and a trapdoor set into the worn wood above. "Ain't much, but it'll keep the sun out. You guys can borrow some blankets and food and shit, if you need 'em, make yourself real cozy down here if it's cool with you."
