=> Vastar: Remember them all.

Discussion in 'Desertverse Fantrolls' started by Vastar Agouti, Aug 21, 2016.

  1. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    It's been perigees and perigees and perigees since you last saw another living troll. (The dead don't count the dead don't count the dead can't count and that's funny because you're terrible at time and math as well.)

    (Are you still alive?) You think you're still alive. The frogs in the algae vats don't run away when you come near and they don't like the dead so you're pretty sure you're not dead but you can't. Be. Sure? Anyway, it's been some time and you broke all the mirrors you can break (whoops there goes another prong but you didn't need it anyway and hurting makes you feel real, at least) and none of the communication devices do anything but bounce static off your broken crown anyway.

    You sometimes message yourself on your palmhusk to pretend there's anyone out there but you, dumb knothorns Agouti who couldn't keep a quadrant to save her and couldn't save her quadrants to stay long enough to count. (You laugh, because that's funny too. Anything that has you as the butt of the joke is funny ha ha see brothers I'm a real devout no iron sigils here no siree lemme take that motherfucker off your fronds yeah?)

    (You would tattoo the Sufferer's sign on you, brand it on like He got branded, except you've all heard and read the scriptures and He don't strike you as a motherfucker who gets His approve on over self-harm.)

    It doesn't last, though, and pretty soon you're sure that you read somewhere that eating sopor takes the pain away so you try that as well because you're too much of a coward to cull yourself like a proper troll except all it does is make you drowsy and distant and the night terrors keep telling you you need to be on guard because the dead still wander. You wake sick and shaking four (or three or five numbers aren't real and time doesn't matter) days in a row after that, sure that each time you will hear a rotted snarl or hear the slow drag of a husk that shouldn't move no more but does.

    (You counted every body into the incinerator or shoved out the airlock, even Taupey that poor bastard he begged you to rip out his body from the column before the sickness got into the biowires before it got into the rest of his hull.)

    You laugh a lot so you don't scream - that's how we do it in the Church my sisters see it DEVOUT AND SACROSANCT - and you sing when you can't laugh any more. Your voice echoes even when you're gardening and you hate that you hate it but you'd rather sing than let the silence crawl under your tongue like language and lose words all together.

    "There's a hole in my bucket, dear drone sir dear drone sir, there's a hole in my bucket please let me fix it..."
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  2. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    Your name is Liamah Morray and your status as 'living troll' is looking more transient by the hour. A makeshift tourniquet made from your torn blouse is pinching your right arm hard enough to numb your fingers, and that more than anything else worries you, but you're in a shitty helm-less puddle jumper and half the empire it seems is after your backside.

    Shows that they think of loyalty, as if you didn't already know. One mistake landed you a dead end position at a tiny station in dead space. You, the most powerful troll in the galaxy, second only to Condy herself. Hell, maybe even more so than her. You were never held back by a seadwelling Council of cowards. You would have dissolved them eons ago, shown them what happens when they try to put their own whims ahead of their empress.

    How do they blame you for being angry, though? After all that? Sure you helped out a few rebels, but if it were that big a deal, they'd've been investigating you long before they ever got word. And what proof do they got, huh? Travel logs that might match the trajectories of a couple fugitives? Please, like you've got any prior rebel sympathies on your record. You coulda gotten benefit of the doubt after decades of faithful service. The jealous bastards have always wanted an excuse to cut you down.

    And Russel... you've never been anything but good to her. Better than she deserved, apparently, the fuckin' treasonous bitch. Rebellious hypocrite. You oughta sold her off. Oughta never let yourself get suckered by big, sad eyes and pouty lips... You're the only troll in this Demoness-forsaken empire what knows the coddamn meaning of loyalty.

    You're gonna make her, and the rest of those motherfucking traitors, pay.

    But you need to keep yourself alive long enough to make that happen. You pilot with your right arm cradled and useless in your lap. If you hadn't expertly masked your trail this clumsy left-handed display would have had you in the tender embrace of an interrorgator's cell hours ago.

    ...There's something on your viewscreen that shouldn't be. "Magnify," you growl, and... hot damn. It's a ship, and a big ship at that, and preliminary scans show no life signs. Was there something you heard of a ship in dead space...? You can't think about that now. It's a safe haven. If you're lucky, some of the systems won't be completely dead. You could wire your own ship's life support to sustain a few blocks, power up the computers. You feel your face crease from your spreading grin. Maybe it's stupid to get your hopes up, but this is the prettiest ray of moonshine you've seen in a week.

    Docking the ship under these conditions would be a struggle with two good arms. With one, it's almost impossible. You have to maneuver the ship into position without the use of tractor beams or a helmsman's calculations. The hull scrapes the docking clamps hard enough to rattle your fangs two, three times before you feel the ship slide home. Perfect. The authorization protocols are easy enough to override; you've accomplished more impressive feats while blackout drunk. This ain't shit. Ain't shit to wire power through to the airlock doors and compartment inside, neither.

    The airlock opens with a hiss of stale air and you stagger into the compartment before collapsing with a squeak. Your arm, your goddamn arm. You can't walk like this. You gotta abandon your dignity, ain't no one here to see your tits. You tear off the rest of your blouse to fashion a crude sling. You can't feel your fingers at all. You need to find the medbay fast.

    You're shaky on your feet, but you're mobile now. The room is poorly lit, but there ought to be a terminal... there. The dusty screen blinks to life under your fingers. You flick through the data, and- hm. According to the computer, life support is still functioning, which means you should have run of the place. You're glad you won't have to drain your ship of power just to get to some decent goddamn bandages, but.... a ship otherwise adrift in space, left with life support running even though life signs are still...

    One. Besides your own, there is one life sign. You feel the hair on the back of your neck rise. That doesn't bode well. Whoever it is seems to still have power to aquaculture and gardens. That's someone living, and in this state, you don't relish your chances in a fair fight.

    It's a big ship, though. You might be able to find the medbay before ever seeing each other. Then you can take care of them, whatever that winds up entailing. You pull out your disruptor. You can't aim for shit with this hand, but seeing that you're armed might dissuade this unknown party. If not, well. You'll cross that bridge when you come to it. One step at a time is the only way to take this.

    You download the schematics into your handheld. The nearest medbay ain't too far from here. With only a deep breath to brace yourself, you open the windowed doors and step into the darkness beyond.
    Last edited: Aug 22, 2016
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  3. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    You've got the systems alerts wired into your palmhusk which never leaves you (just in case just in case but there's never no-one there's not been forever) in case there's a hull breach or a failure somewhere in this dead-in-the-proverbial shitstain of a ship that you oughta know about. (After last time you wanna know about it if you're gonna cull yourself you wanna do it deliberate like.)

    It chirps at you just as you're chowing down on some still-twitching amphibian hopbeast, and you drop the rest of your meal-to-be back into the water in your mad scramble to check what the fuck just happened and are you gonna die. Mirthful fucking irons, there goes the last half-hour of frog catching down the load gaper. Great. You blink at the little notification - reading is harder when you've had too long to focus on other shit - and then reach up and rub the raw edge of your broken horns to make sure you ain't getting your dream on.

    Ow. Okay, not so much with the dreaming but you gotta be checking this out. You scramble to your feet, all elbows and knees and excited honking before you remember that you're doing the noise thing when it might not be a great idea. You ain't seen another trollsized lifesign besides you on the sensors in what feels like sweeps - hells, in what might be sweeps for all you know, ain't no Twelfth Perigee's celebrations to mark the turning out here - and your need to just see another trollanoid is overwhelming.

    (Even if you gotta cull them. It would break you, you would take a short walk outside if you had to cull the first person that's been around here in an age, but you'd do it if they're already dead or sick. That's what recent history has made of you.)

    You catch the smell of fresh blood long before you see the footprints in the dust that are all wrong size to be your own and the small splatters of purple that look bright, so bright in compare to everything else this far out from the gardens. Even the dried streaks of gore here and there that you couldn't be told to clean up are old and faded. How long have you been alone?

    You cough, loudly, and your wigglerish problem where you forget words easy when you're nervous damn near throttles you. You dig your claws into the flesh around your psychic dampener, picking at the scabs, and that helps. "H-hello? Anybody there what can respond normal-like? I don't wanna get my strife on - I won't if you won't, motherfucker..."

    You're aware that you've been here before, that you sound like the warmblood in a cheap horror film, and itch to equip your poleaxe. You wait, though. You're on the tall side even for a highblood, and even if you're made of so much oars and twine you're indigo enough to be strong with it.
  4. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    The jubilant shouting of another troll reached your ears mere moments after you step into the corridor proper and stopped almost immediately after. So much for your element of surprise. If only you'd been on your game, you coulda checked for alarms...

    You wonder dimly how long it's been since another person walked this corridor. Judging by the musty odor, it's been a while, and dust is thick on every surface. You notice too late that you've left a trail of footprints... along with you blood. You curse quietly. Not much to be done about the dust, but the blood's an unacceptable bit of intell to give a possible enemy. Even if all they'll know is that they're in the presence of motherfucking royalty and better practice their goddamn curtsy.

    You adjust the sling to cover the wound more completely and increase your speed. With your movements so easily trackable, getting somewhere safe quickly will be your only option. The universe may once again be stacking itself against you, but you've never been the sort to bend over and let yourself get fucked. You're too good for that.

    Something unspeakable happened on this ship. Something awful and gruesome and apocalyptic, and it wasn't an outside attack what did it. You pass bloodstains without bodies. You've seen the aftermath of mutinies and raider attacks, seen the burns and gashes in the walls and stepped over the corpses and smelled the ozone, seen the holes blasted in the hull from psionic discharge, and this ain't it. One life sign. No bodies. Your wounds throb as you pick up speed. The woman with her fingers on the pulse of the empire, that's you. There ain't a single rumor gets made you don't hear about, and you'll be damned if you never heard about this.

    You pass a massive swath of what looks like cobalt, and Gods, thinking what kind of troll survives this has you gripping your pistol all the tighter. What are you going to find when you have the strength to track them down?

    You hear a cough echo far behind you, and then your hear nothing but the blood in your ears. You feel like you're about to get an answer to that question.

    Running isn't an option; this ship is the only hope you have just to survive the next few hours. You open the map on your handheld and scan the surroundings. There's no guarantee that all the corridors here won't be blocked off, but there should be one that takes you to the right and towards a lift. You glance behind you, considering turning off the lights in your ship, but if you're lucky, they might take the time to investigate the ship. Every second counts.

    You barely hear that nervous, stuttering hello from this distance, but you do hear it. They sound young. They sound... mirthful. Those speech patterns are distinctive as fuck. Horrors almighty, of course it'd be a clown that survives. Of course. The blocks only get darker the deeper into this monstrosity you go, but you aren't scared of the dark. You grew up in the sunless abysses of the Alternian oceans. You didn't see moonlight until you turned five. The darkness is where you belong. This is your domain, but the advantage still isn't yours. The thing about abyssal waders is... they bioluminesce.
  5. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    You've wandered this hulk for - perigees or sweeps, you don't even know - and you could find your way blinded and horn-sawn if needed. You figure your new friend is like as not making their way to medical, if they've still got any thinks left in their pan (and you pray and pray to both the Sufferer and the Messiahs - one might help because of kindness, and the others help when it's gonna be funny - and you pray that they do still have some kind of life to them.) Best to all and give them the benefit of the doubt, at least.

    You can't get your sniff on at any kind of rot just yet, but you abandon your tracking to take a shortcut towards where you figure Miss Purpleblood is getting her limp on. Not too close - you don't wanna startle them overmuch, alive or dead - but close enough that if they turn they can get their ganderbulbs all up in your face. For the first time in forever, you're glad you kept up the habit of wearing your paint. Bad enough that you ain't kept up with horn or clawcare much on your own, but to be seen naked, and by a higher-class hatchbitch than yourself - urgh. You'd rather hang, Sufferer's teachings or no.

    "sup, motherfucker." you tell their back, because neither faith you find yourself caught between dictates you be any more polite to those who ain't yet earned it than your crew. You are the chillest motherfucker, it is you. You claws shake a little and you grip your poleaxe tighter, but don't lift it or make any move to aggrieve just yet. "If you're getting your wander on to medical, there's shorter ways than what that there bitty miracle machine can be showing."
  6. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    If you were in better shape, the raggedy clown bitch would be dead right now. You'd spin 'round, aim this disruptor at her tits, and then bam- freshest corpse this place's seen in perigees.

    Instead, you don't get to aim higher than her knees before the effort of turning your 180 knocks out your exsanguinated equilibrium. You fall to the side- still standing, but with your good arm pinned immobile against the wall. You squeeze the trigger entirely on accident and miss by five feet. At point blank range.

    You take a moment to lean on the wall - panting, shirtless, and drenched in clammy sweat - and recover from the most humiliating half-second of your life in recent memory, and to get a load of your new "friend." She's tall, scrawny, and poorly groomed, but her paint is immaculate because of course. Of course it is. Fucking clowns.

    "Don't be a fool, gill," you slur. Your voice is raspy. "I ain't as bad 's I look," you continue, and you pause every few words after to take a shallow breath. "Soon- soon's you come a step closer, I'll krill ya."
  7. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    "Shore you ain't, gillfrond," you say in a passable seadwweller imitation - it ain't exactly imperially allowed, but it got you laughs in subjug training every time there was some stuffed-shirt violet officer-wannabe thinking he could lord it over a brosis just by right of blood. Those you ain't got a lick of trouble over mobbing and being taught a lesson or three by way of your fists. "Yeah, you look right and fit to krill a motherfucker right now, upright and CERTIFIED."

    She's older than you, but shorter, and injured. You come on her slow and deliberate-like, let her know exactly how fucked she is while she can't raise that bitty cannon of hers with her arm all messed up... then you take her cute little pillbug-shooter and captchalouge it while she's still shaking, and scoop her up around the middle under your arm like a naughty wiggler.

    You done this with snapbeasts as long as you are now when you were hardly six sweeps, it ain't no thing to tuck a cranky-ass fishbitch up where she can only get at your leathers. "SHOOSH, motherfucker. This is me helping."

    Well, she ain't dead and she seems no more insane than the typical highblood with their own superiority crammed up their nook so hard it squeaks. You try to rein in the excitment of having another troll around, and get to business.

    Having a capybara lusus meant that you were often brought everything hurt and needing well, a lusus, that was doable, and a few that weren't. You got used to wrestling injured cholerbears and giant snapbeasts and all the fishy motherfuckers between, all for their own good - an adult troll now you're likeways grown up is pretty easy.

    "Hey, hey, hey, ease up, brosis," you dump her on the treatment platform in medical and you ain't too gentle with insisting on getting a look over her bashed arm. It's nearly more gash than frond, really, and as you press clean gauze over it to stem some of the bleeding - seadwellers don't real leak like landfolk do, they kinda ooze on account of liquid density - you ease off the sticky rag of a tourniquet she applied.

    That makes it bleed a little more, but still not as much you expect she was doing half a clock-cycle before. The gauze is pretty soon a much truer shade of purple than your own - you look pretty violet to a blue, but pretty blue to a violet, ain't that the most wicked heresy - and you switch it out for a cleaner piece before grabbing a needle-nosed particle extraction tool and going to town on the rest of her cuts, checking for any dirt or pieces that could be left in there to cause infection.

    Fishbeasts tend to have a higher bounce-back ratio insofar as keeping their wounds damp in a way that would fuck up a land-motherfucker in a trice, but you ain't taking no chances. Your hands shake, a little, but you're trying hard not to make it pale, just practical. Her skin's almost wiggler-grey, and you only now connect with the idea that a even a fishbitch can die from this degree of lost blood.

    Your shade and upwards ain't exactly in profusion for donors, but you grab a bag of basic plasma out of the supplies and pull her other arm out to tap a vein. You hope she ain't too proud or stupid (same thing in your experience) to figure when a motherfucker is helping.

    You don't ask what happened. You figure she'll tell you or she won't, and asking a stranger what all their recent troubles are when you're already wrist-deep in their blood is just indecent, Cult teachings or no.
    Last edited: Aug 23, 2016
  8. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    You try a few more times to stand away from the wall so you can lift your goddamn gun, and it's all just so fuckin' borked. You could cry when she keeps walking your way. Helpless. Clown girl scoops you up like, like a meowbeast, a pet, and she jostles your arm so badly your first reaction is to cry out and struggle rather then to give this stupid scarescrow what-for. You ragdoll, at least until you're dumped on a table of some kind and your arm is trollhandled out of its sling. Horrors. Horrors. A tear trickles down your temple and into your hair, and you whine like some raw cadet.

    You writhe and grit your teeth as she maneuvers the limb out of your shirt (and you did a damn fine job making that sling one handed, if you do say so yourself), but... this looks like a medbay. Well. Getting along with 'cullers has never been your strong suit, but you can make an exception.

    Until now, you've been making it a point not to look at your arm. Seeing it now makes you very, very glad you made that choice. The gash looks, somehow, even worse without a steady flow of blood, and you freeze for a moment taking in the exposed...

    Stop thinking about it.

    "Stitch up the, the big'un first," you gasp. "You got any, any... coddammit, wwhat d'ya callit. Close that gash. Glue, string, wwhatebber. Don't care. Arm's gonna be five times this size in a few." You babble at her through the whole mess, half directing her work and half narrating every thought fluttering across your thinkpan. You don't give a shit if you sound stupid; you gotta stay awake. The realization that you're getting help has allowed the adrenaline buzz you've been running on to finally wear off, but you'll be damned if you pass out with some stranger poking around your insides.

    It looks like there's significant vascular damage, not that it's surprising, but on the bright side, you're not seeing skeleton. That's about the only bright side you got, right now. You dunno if you're ever gonna get to move this limb again.

    There are a few times she brushes your fingers, and you swallow back nausea when you can't feel it. You're already planning contingencies for losing this arm. There's a biomechanic cult a few sectors away, something about an old E%ecutor...
    Last edited: Aug 24, 2016
  9. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    "I know, fishsis, but I can't be going on with motherfucking repairs if I can't see your externals for your internals," you grin at her all easy-like as though you ain't invading her personal space like a snapbeast after a frog. You pinch her arm below the gash, to check for nerve damage. There might be some, but you're hells of reluctant taking off the frond just yet with your patient all shocky and you knowing next to nothing about real anaesthesia.

    You finish with the dabbing gauze as much as you can for now - you admit that you're all to be liking puns a lot, and you hung around freshwater fishtrolls enough in your bayou that you were near to be glubbing with the best of them come Ascension - and fish out a needle and thread from the first aid shit in the top drawer nearest to you. The medical block is kind of a mess - your ship mediculler's fault for wanting to do an autopsy on a dead rustblood who was very soon not to be dead at all - but you're glad this corner of it mostly avoided the worst of the chaos.

    Your fishbitch is still babbling, about the cult of the E%ile a few sectors away. You hadn't all up and comprehended that your prison had drifted so far, but you suppose it makes sense. That gives you some idea of position, all the same. "Don't be counting your fiduspawn before they hatched, my most abyssal of violet sisters. I ain't giving your frond up for lost just yet."
  10. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    "Good gill." You grin - well, you grimace at her. "Let's be realfishstick though, Imma be better off with a swwanky neww mech frond than a janky crip- fucking cock!" Another wave of nausea sweeps over you. You can feel her pulling the damaged artery back together and every unnatural tug of string in your innards. You lash at her with your left frond purely on instinct and then slam the back of your head into the table.

    "Demoness," you groan. "Ey, clowwnfish, ever heard that story about the- the noblewwoman wwhat wwas gettin' to be old an' needin' a successor?" Another tug. You bite down on an unbidden whine. "Nevvermind, I'm tellin' you anywway.

    "So you get this noblewwoman, sea, an' she's gettin' older an' greyer an' saggier. All droopy, y'knoww, like a blobfish once you take it outta the depths - an' thank cod that same principle don't apply to deep seadwwellers, 'cause I still gotta look pretty for the dusthuffers - an' she's lookin' at her subordinates an' she's thinkin' 'dam, all a these trolls is lyin', cheatin' scoundrels!' You can't put a troll you knoww is a lyin', cheatin' scoundrel in charge a your things, so she gets this plan.

    "Our lady calls all a the wwigglers in her provvince to the estate, doesn't evven givve a damn about the color, and starts handin' out these seeds. She tells all these young'uns, she tells 'em, 'Any one a you wwhat wwants to be my successor is gonna havve to groww me these plants. Come back in a perigee, no matter wwhat, an' I'll judge your wwork.' An' wwith that, she sends 'em off.

    "One lil guy, she cares for that seed like she's it's coddamn lusus, but evven once the perigee's up, it ain't so much as sprouted. She's all sad, an' confused, but she knowws the right thing to do is to be honest. She takes that sad lil dirt pot wwith no-fin inside and take it into the estate, and wwhat does she see but a rainbow of flowwers. There's blues an' purples an' yellows an' red, any color you can think of, it's there. An' she's the only one wwith a pot a dirt.

    "Wwale the noblewwoman comes around, check in' out the plants, an' wwhen she sees the sad lil pot a dirt she stops. Just, stops, an' she says, 'Wwhy you brought me nothin', kid?' an' the kid says back 'because it's wwhat I greww.' Then the noblewwoman starts up laughin' an' laughin' an' she says' "I got my successor, all the rest y'all glubbin' get! Those seeds wwere boiled and you all are all liars.' The moral here's that honesty gets rewwarded.

    "My lusus tells me this story, and I don't givve it half a fuck because wwho scrod dam cares, right? But she tells me that I ain't allowed outta the hivve until I think up a betta endin'. She was a glubbin' despot of a custodian, lemme tell you. But I gotta play along, don't I?

    "The problem wwasn't that evvery one a her servvants was a liar an' a cheat, cos that beach was a liar, too, she tricked all them wwigglers. Nah, the problem was that she kneww the basstards wwere no-good dirty squeakbeasts, and if you're any good at all bein' a cheat then no one is the wwiser.

    "In my story, it's all aboat another gill, and as soon's she gets her seed she's off lookin' for more just like it, 'cause sometimes plants just die or don't sprout all on their owwn. She's got four pots wwith a seed in each, and she's gonna bring in wwhichebber one growws up biggest.

    "One night though she's wwalking 'round the block and seas, hey, these other trolls're growwin' the wwrong sort a plant, an' wwhen she gets hivve she digs up the seed from the noblewwoman an' loww and behold, it's dead and rotten in the dirt. Noww she knowws they'vve all been had.

    "The perigee's up and she gets to the estate, the only one there wwith the right kind a plant, and wwhen the noblewwoman sees she says 'Gill, did you groww this yoursellf?' an' she responds 'Yes, ma'am.' and noblewwoman says 'You greww this wwith the seed I gavve you?' and she doesn't hesitate, she says 'A course I did, ma'am, 'less you think there might a been somefin wwrong wwith them seeds you gavve us.' and the noblewwoman gets a big old grin an' sends the rest of the kids awway. She don't need more bad liars hangin' around.

    "So our gill gets to be successor instead a the stupid dirt kid. Dirt girl gets to be her lieutenant. Gotta have a troll wworkin' for you wwhat don't need their frond twwisted to admit to things. Honest trolls are good to havve around, but bein' a bereefable liar is betta."

    You sag into the table when you're done. The last weeks feels like it's hit you all at once, and you feel this chill you swear you wasn't there before. That must be why you say this next part, you wouldn't mention it normally. "Got my tailfin wwhooped wwhen I told my lusus. She said that I, I wwas cocky to think that... someone else could nevver come up wwith the same plan as the gill, or groww the right plant by chance. But I kneww that. I just forgot to wwrite it. I kneww it," you insist.

    You sigh and shake your head. "Like dirt gill wwould be the only troll in the wwhole provvince wwhat wwas honest to a fault. It's was a stupid story," you mumble through chattering teeth. You peer at your wound, despite your vision being a bit fuzzy. How long has it been like that?
    • Like x 1
  11. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    You barely acknowledge the attempted lashing out. You had worse from cholerbears when you were fixing them up as a wiggler, and your skin's much harder now than it was then. You just move your nug outta the way and don't stop stitching, not for pity nor hate. You nod when she asks about getting her tell on about a story, though. Messiahs like a good punchline and well, the Disciple never got her desperate write on for no motherfuckers to not read her sacred Words.

    You laugh at all the right bits - you ain't never heard of no blue motherfucker getting their decide on in such a way, but it's a good story either way a sister might write it. You nod all easy-like when she's done, hands busy but thinkpan working over. What you get from this - it's been a long-ass time since you met anyone new, but this one might as whale have 'seadwweller worth less than she thinks and just ran over the wrong motherfuckers on the way to the top' tattooed on her nook. (You're kinda tempted to check.)

    After a moment you say, "Well, my lusus always up an' told me what folk don't get their know on over can't hurt 'em. Also that those spilling the fucking heresies work fast than them what leak truth, so a motherfucker gotta be wicked sharp on both to keep their head above water."

    It seems like it might be the right thing to say, water pun and all. You tie off the last stitch, and pap the neat line, almost a little flick. "There you go, motherfucker. Neat as you like. You gonna need some assist on getting to a 'cupe?"

    It feels like the middle of the night to you, and the thought of losing track of the one person you got your look on since - that - happened makes your chute wanna close in panic. But you know injured trolls gotta sleep, and you might as well offer a help while you can.
  12. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    "Smart lusus..." you mumble. "Wwhole point, though, is that wwhat they don't knoww hurts 'em better. Can't prepare for wwhat you don't expect. You gonna smack a motherglubber it's betta they be gobsmacked. You're a good listener," you add. Wow. She's nice. You keep your head above water, don'tcha? Yeah. Yeah! You're scroddamned smart!

    You vaguely remember something about losing a lot of blood... and moving anywhere sounds terrible. "Jus' put my legs up. Pillow, somefin, elevvate 'em. I'll sleep here." Sleeping here isn't high on your list of things you wanna do, but, well. So long as there ain't ghosts... wait.

    "... I saww the mess out there, swweetiegrub, are there any spirits I gotta be wworryin' aboat?"
  13. Vastar Agouti

    Vastar Agouti tol nerd, Witch of Heart

    "...I ain't got my know on for that that particular issue," you admit, and touch the psychic dampener above your chestplate. "This motherfucker drowns out all kindsa echo shit as well as stopping up my own leakage."

    It's indigo in colour, but it's a few blues too south of your particular shade, made for bluegills who can't up and handle their 'voodoos and become a danger to themselves as much as everyone around them. Your fishy friend don't need to know that ain't the case for your particular woes.

    You dig out a couple of foam comfort lumps for her, and a sopor patch to boot. "There was all kinda motherfucking hilarity getting their song on for a while, though. I ain't gonna fool you on that, sister."
  14. superciliousUndertow

    superciliousUndertow sU: Beach BETTA havve my money!!!!

    You've seen clownfishes with that kinda dampener before, and you've never met one what was happy to have it. You'll see if you can win some favor offering to deactivate it, but best wait on that till you're up for it. Powerful chucklevoodoos by your side would be a boon for you, in any case....

    "It's my luck, then, isn't it, how un-psychic vviolets are. I ain't afraid a no ghosts." You smirk. If the only ghosts here can be contacted by necropathy, you'll be fine. You direct her to lifting your legs to arrange pillows and run the sopor patch on your neck. "You'll havve to tell me that hilarity in the evvenin', gill. Beauty sleep." You yawn a sharp-toothed yawn. "There any roomservice at this inn?"
    • Like x 1
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