You've taken mind honey for testing procedures before, when the scienstiffs were trying to see how far your psionics could be pushed, and it took three days to come down from the resulting sparkshow. Pheres is still sparking steadily away, little stings of static that keep zapping you through your clothes, but he must not have taken much - or maybe the alcohol is diluting it, because apart from the sparks, he just seems drunk.
Scratch that. From the way he's stumbling over his words, you better make that trashed.
"You're lucky you're so tall." He sounds amused, but a little envious, too, and you can't blame him. Thank the Messiahs the program inducted you when you were still a shrimp: if you'd stayed on a lowblood's allowance and feed, you'd probably have ended up just as stunted as him. "I bet no one can even see your orbs up there, can they?"
"Got it in one, brother," you drawl. "My orbs are a regular mystery. Fuckers don't even know."
He laughs, pressing his palm against your shoulder, and alright, maybe this little retrieval mission wasn't such a waste of time.
You don't really notice the two trolls walking towards you, until the little jadeblood stops directly in front of you and starts making noise. You wouldn't think you'd know her from a peg in a tent, but when you cant your eyes down, there's something familiar about her, and it's weirding you the fuck out.
(You don't associate with jades: yellow and down and blue and up are your rules of thumb, because Carnival's taught you that everyone worth living is someone that can be used, and olives to ceruleans are fucking useless. Too blue for psionics and too green for the bluebloods: the only thing they're good for is the caverns, and you don't need that many cavern workers.)
And then you tune in on the sounds she's making, and the mystery is solved. Right. Imperial trainee: that's what was tripping you up. The tunics they wear aren't exactly unique, but the belt holes for the sashes that bear their proctor's caste pretty much are, even if this little jade's missing hers.
"Riccin Kāyata," you say, stepping forward, and pulling Pheres with you. There's no need to look intimidating: when you've got over a foot of height on your side, it's impossible not to. "Of the Imperial Helms program, division six, under Proctor Shepherd."
"If we're all up and dropping rank, sister," you say, sneering the words. Schoolrules say your proctor's caste matters more than yours, and you can't get much higher than a fucking violet. "But I don't see why the fuck we have to start up that raucous noise."
You smile, showing your teeth, but there's nothing friendly about it, or the pointed lift of your eyebrows. "Who the fuck sent you?"
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Scratch that. From the way he's stumbling over his words, you better make that trashed.
"You're lucky you're so tall." He sounds amused, but a little envious, too, and you can't blame him. Thank the Messiahs the program inducted you when you were still a shrimp: if you'd stayed on a lowblood's allowance and feed, you'd probably have ended up just as stunted as him. "I bet no one can even see your orbs up there, can they?"
"Got it in one, brother," you drawl. "My orbs are a regular mystery. Fuckers don't even know."
He laughs, pressing his palm against your shoulder, and alright, maybe this little retrieval mission wasn't such a waste of time.
You don't really notice the two trolls walking towards you, until the little jadeblood stops directly in front of you and starts making noise. You wouldn't think you'd know her from a peg in a tent, but when you cant your eyes down, there's something familiar about her, and it's weirding you the fuck out.
(You don't associate with jades: yellow and down and blue and up are your rules of thumb, because Carnival's taught you that everyone worth living is someone that can be used, and olives to ceruleans are fucking useless. Too blue for psionics and too green for the bluebloods: the only thing they're good for is the caverns, and you don't need that many cavern workers.)
And then you tune in on the sounds she's making, and the mystery is solved. Right. Imperial trainee: that's what was tripping you up. The tunics they wear aren't exactly unique, but the belt holes for the sashes that bear their proctor's caste pretty much are, even if this little jade's missing hers.
"Riccin Kāyata," you say, stepping forward, and pulling Pheres with you. There's no need to look intimidating: when you've got over a foot of height on your side, it's impossible not to. "Of the Imperial Helms program, division six, under Proctor Shepherd."
"If we're all up and dropping rank, sister," you say, sneering the words. Schoolrules say your proctor's caste matters more than yours, and you can't get much higher than a fucking violet. "But I don't see why the fuck we have to start up that raucous noise."
You smile, showing your teeth, but there's nothing friendly about it, or the pointed lift of your eyebrows. "Who the fuck sent you?"