The hivestem's lobby is dank as fuck, sweltering with the heat and pheromones from too many trolls packed into too small of a space. There's almost no light at all, save for what's streaming in from the parted curtains, but most of the bodies are flushed green as fuck.
No wonder someone slipped Pheres a honeypill: dumb motherfucker was probably the only rust on the scene. It could've been intentional, or else it could've been some kid, a little too eager to spread the mirth to think about checking caste before hand.
Who cares? Same result.
No one pays you much mind as you stalk through, stepping on hands and bodies of people too zoned out to think to move. There's a few glances, but you sincerely doubt you're the first fucker to trespass today: these sorts of events are rife with trolls being retrieved by their moirails, and the residents must figure you're here to retrieve yours. Whatever, let the swillbloods think what they fucking want.
(You've never been in a party like this: after-sermon meet-and-greets, sure, where the faygo's spiked and the air is kept as cold and humid as the inside of an refrigeration unit, but this isn't exactly the same. For one, there's not enough blood. And...)
The hell are you smelling?
(Scratch that: the honey pill definitely wasn't personal, because you're pretty sure most of these fuckers are high as kites right now. Who the fuck smokes sopor?)
There's a pair of moirails dozing in the cloak closet, and you step past them, snatching the first cloak that looks around the right size and the sunglasses from the larger trolls face. You're on your way out the door before they can even do more than sleepily protest, and whatever they say is too low to process as much more than a drone.
There's a half-drank bottle of alcohol by the door. You contemplate it, and then snatch it up, too. It smells like it's sopor-based, and if Pheres is still sparking, well. He's already proven he's not adverse to drinking: sopor'll fix the sparks, one way or the other.
But it looks like that was an unnecessary precaution, because when you step outside, the sound that greets them is hysterical laughter. Pheres is propped against the wall by the door, arm over his face, laughing so hard that you half-expect ruddy tears to be running down his face.
Maybe they are! You can't tell, because boy's bright as a colourgrub. It's a change of pace from the way he was cowering just a few minutes ago, and hmph. Maybe Sipara isn't such a shitty-ass rail, after all.
(Figures the only quad she's decent at is the one that doesn't fucking count.)
Pheres is still on the phone, his lips barely moving, but the buzz of his voice just loud enough that it registers to your ears. He might not know you can't hear worth a shit - he better not fucking know, or else you'll cull whatever wastechute's been running their seedflap - but it's still rude as fuck. If anyone's gonna be talking, they're going to do it where you can actually hear.
So you snatch the phone from him. It's not hard when his grip is already loose enough that it looks ready to drop, and when he makes a noise of protest, you dump the extra cloak on top of his head for good measure.
"Good job, nookmunch," you purr into the phone. Pheres is spluttering beside you, and on the other end of the line, Sipara looks like she's just about to pop a vein. Good. "Kid is sparky no more, so hell, maybe I won't ditch him now."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and then Sipara's actually growling over the phone, rattlereeds going so fast that it sounds like they're gonna snap straight in half. Your bloodpusher's twisting, the familiar, satisfying precursor to your war glands acting up, and -- holy shit, she's actually flashing fang at you now, the first time all day.
Took her fucking long enough.
"Later," you say brightly, just as it sounds like she's about to say something, and you end the call.
It starts ringing immediately as she calls back, and you're still grinning as you turn off the phone and shove it into your pocket.
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No wonder someone slipped Pheres a honeypill: dumb motherfucker was probably the only rust on the scene. It could've been intentional, or else it could've been some kid, a little too eager to spread the mirth to think about checking caste before hand.
Who cares? Same result.
No one pays you much mind as you stalk through, stepping on hands and bodies of people too zoned out to think to move. There's a few glances, but you sincerely doubt you're the first fucker to trespass today: these sorts of events are rife with trolls being retrieved by their moirails, and the residents must figure you're here to retrieve yours. Whatever, let the swillbloods think what they fucking want.
(You've never been in a party like this: after-sermon meet-and-greets, sure, where the faygo's spiked and the air is kept as cold and humid as the inside of an refrigeration unit, but this isn't exactly the same. For one, there's not enough blood. And...)
The hell are you smelling?
(Scratch that: the honey pill definitely wasn't personal, because you're pretty sure most of these fuckers are high as kites right now. Who the fuck smokes sopor?)
There's a pair of moirails dozing in the cloak closet, and you step past them, snatching the first cloak that looks around the right size and the sunglasses from the larger trolls face. You're on your way out the door before they can even do more than sleepily protest, and whatever they say is too low to process as much more than a drone.
There's a half-drank bottle of alcohol by the door. You contemplate it, and then snatch it up, too. It smells like it's sopor-based, and if Pheres is still sparking, well. He's already proven he's not adverse to drinking: sopor'll fix the sparks, one way or the other.
But it looks like that was an unnecessary precaution, because when you step outside, the sound that greets them is hysterical laughter. Pheres is propped against the wall by the door, arm over his face, laughing so hard that you half-expect ruddy tears to be running down his face.
Maybe they are! You can't tell, because boy's bright as a colourgrub. It's a change of pace from the way he was cowering just a few minutes ago, and hmph. Maybe Sipara isn't such a shitty-ass rail, after all.
(Figures the only quad she's decent at is the one that doesn't fucking count.)
Pheres is still on the phone, his lips barely moving, but the buzz of his voice just loud enough that it registers to your ears. He might not know you can't hear worth a shit - he better not fucking know, or else you'll cull whatever wastechute's been running their seedflap - but it's still rude as fuck. If anyone's gonna be talking, they're going to do it where you can actually hear.
So you snatch the phone from him. It's not hard when his grip is already loose enough that it looks ready to drop, and when he makes a noise of protest, you dump the extra cloak on top of his head for good measure.
"Good job, nookmunch," you purr into the phone. Pheres is spluttering beside you, and on the other end of the line, Sipara looks like she's just about to pop a vein. Good. "Kid is sparky no more, so hell, maybe I won't ditch him now."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and then Sipara's actually growling over the phone, rattlereeds going so fast that it sounds like they're gonna snap straight in half. Your bloodpusher's twisting, the familiar, satisfying precursor to your war glands acting up, and -- holy shit, she's actually flashing fang at you now, the first time all day.
Took her fucking long enough.
"Later," you say brightly, just as it sounds like she's about to say something, and you end the call.
It starts ringing immediately as she calls back, and you're still grinning as you turn off the phone and shove it into your pocket.