They hesitate, frowning, and you tilt your head up to smile at them encouragingly. Your name is at the tip of your tongue, but you don't want to just offer it up: some trolls get defensive about that sort of thing, and even in your haze, you remember what Sipara said about OA.
Lowbloods tend to be the most defensive about casteism! You'd rather not incite a rage because OA gets the idea that you're over-stepping.
"Fereez," they try, stretching out the word, and the way they say your name makes it sound like they're gargling rocks. Your smile falters.
But, ah, it's not exactly the easiest word to pronounce, you suppose, especially for a troll who sounds like they've only ever spoken Standard. "Pheres," you corrects, and then you draw it out for their benefit, stretching the vowels: "Fair-ease."
(You hope that didn't sound terse!)
Shifting, you tilt your head up to check their expression, their arm slipping tighter to the back of your neck, and your shoulder jostling into their ribs. They're so tall: your neck is protesting even as you do it, and so it takes you a moment to process what you're seeing.
OA is wearing face-paint: white streaked across their lips and eyelids, and dangling precariously in a tear from one eye, and all of it outlined in the stark gray of the Church. That would be alarming enough, in normal circumstances. You were never much for Carnival, even before you started up travelling, not the way Sipara was: following her would've meant dealing with ID, and you'd have rather gargled rocks.
But Sipara has raged about clowns enough that you know it's better to avoid them, indigo or not. And the sense of trepedition building in your pan is made worse when you finally meet their eyes. They're psionic bright, the pupils obscured by their aura's haze, and...
They're practically cerulean.
You're distantly aware that the symbol on their cloak is yellow, but that doesn't help the way your breath stops. They've got blue eyes, blue as the sky outside, dangerously blue, and that's - that's -
That's hilarious, you decides abruptly, because it's that, or recoiling away from them and the arm that's resting now too heavily on your shoulders. A yellowblood with blue psionics: no wonder they became Mirthful, because that's one hell of a joke.
(You're not laughing.)
"What.. what are you calling yourself?" You try to mimic their cadence, deliberately teasing, and maybe if you forces out a laugh, they won't hear the way that unease is making you choke out each word. "I can't just call you OA."
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Lowbloods tend to be the most defensive about casteism! You'd rather not incite a rage because OA gets the idea that you're over-stepping.
"Fereez," they try, stretching out the word, and the way they say your name makes it sound like they're gargling rocks. Your smile falters.
But, ah, it's not exactly the easiest word to pronounce, you suppose, especially for a troll who sounds like they've only ever spoken Standard. "Pheres," you corrects, and then you draw it out for their benefit, stretching the vowels: "Fair-ease."
(You hope that didn't sound terse!)
Shifting, you tilt your head up to check their expression, their arm slipping tighter to the back of your neck, and your shoulder jostling into their ribs. They're so tall: your neck is protesting even as you do it, and so it takes you a moment to process what you're seeing.
OA is wearing face-paint: white streaked across their lips and eyelids, and dangling precariously in a tear from one eye, and all of it outlined in the stark gray of the Church. That would be alarming enough, in normal circumstances. You were never much for Carnival, even before you started up travelling, not the way Sipara was: following her would've meant dealing with ID, and you'd have rather gargled rocks.
But Sipara has raged about clowns enough that you know it's better to avoid them, indigo or not. And the sense of trepedition building in your pan is made worse when you finally meet their eyes. They're psionic bright, the pupils obscured by their aura's haze, and...
They're practically cerulean.
You're distantly aware that the symbol on their cloak is yellow, but that doesn't help the way your breath stops. They've got blue eyes, blue as the sky outside, dangerously blue, and that's - that's -
That's hilarious, you decides abruptly, because it's that, or recoiling away from them and the arm that's resting now too heavily on your shoulders. A yellowblood with blue psionics: no wonder they became Mirthful, because that's one hell of a joke.
(You're not laughing.)
"What.. what are you calling yourself?" You try to mimic their cadence, deliberately teasing, and maybe if you forces out a laugh, they won't hear the way that unease is making you choke out each word. "I can't just call you OA."