fleetlogs | THE EDITED PHERES LOG (third times a charm)

THE EDITED PHERES LOG (third times a charm)

=> PHERES: Abscond.

=> FLEETBOUND POST. [refiningSpacetime - FIN]
=> MARDUK: Call your guide. [FIN]
=> RICCIN: Retrieve the damsel in distress. [FIN]
=> HINNOM: Lead him home. [FIN]
=> FLEETBOUND POST. [activatingAggro- FIN]
=> SIPARA: Fetch your dumb moirail. [FIN]
=> PHERES: Wake up. [FIN]

SUMMARY: Taking drinks from strangers is generally a bad idea. Pheres needs to be picked up from a party, but life is hard when your moirail is out of town and all of your friends are terrible. Luckily, there's always Fleetbound!

WARNINGS: None! Except for Pheres being thoroughly depressing in Lead him home.

THIS HAS BEEN FINALLY EDITED. For like the third time. Due to POV-switching shenanigans, you may occasionally encounter weird shifts / incorrect verb pluralisation at points that I missed in switching from 3rd person to 2nd person POV. Sorry! :c

For the most part, though, typoes should be fixed and continuity is now more accurate!

ALSO: Follow the story through the links above to ensure you're reading the correct, edited threads, please and thank youu

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh?" You can't see anything off in the distance, and you tilt your head to the side. There's no way that Hinnom can see better than you out in the sunlight - but sure enough, a few seconds later, the two forms come into view.

"How did you know?" you ask, surprised, but there's no time for that when the pair is walking straight towards you. They're both swaddled in suncloaks, and for a moment, you're hesitant: maybe it's not the right troll? Sipara hadn't mentioned he'd be with a friend. But then the light catches the smaller one's horns, and the caps flash white in the daylight. You saw his pictures on the forums, and while plenty of trolls dock their horns, adorning the stubs is significantly less common.

The academy is full of highbloods: there isn't a single teacher in your hall that is lower than teal, but even after two sweeps, talking to one makes you feel like you're swallowing nails. But Sipara asked her to retrieve her moirail, and you agreed, so you square your shoulders and steps forward.

"Greetings," you call out. If you pretends this is one of your mock trials, then maybe your voice won't shake. "My name is Marduk Lector, of the Imperial Legislacerator, division eight under Proctor Sungazer."

"I was sent to collect Pheres Dysseu?"

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?"

"Stay away from them," Castor tells you, wary. "They look dangerous."

He doesn't need to say it twice. You're a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them: the highblood-looking fucker might as well be twice your height, and the sort of lowbloods that associate with highbloods aren't the sorts you want to lift your spirits with.

Marduk has stepped between you and the older trolls, and you're perfectly comfortable with that. If it came to strifing, you've got your sword, and Castor, and your centispidermom, sleeping under the collar of your cloak... but no way it'll come to that.

Marduk'll make sure of that. Right?

There's people in front of you, and you blink owlishly at them as the stout girl steps forward, her chin set. With the glasses on, you can actually see her face rather than a sunbleached gray blob, and.. oh, she must be jade, because her skin is exposed, and not even blushing under the light.

You are so jealous. (She doesn't look like she's being boiled alive.) It's enough to distract you from the fact she's talking about something, and.. saying your name? OA glances down at you, and you shrug, letting them pull you forward with them.

You have no idea what OA - no, Riccin, evidently - is talking about, or anything that the little jade said, apart from your name. So you wait patiently, leaning in againsnt Riccin's arm until it seems like a good time to speak.

"I'm sorry," you say, when you get the chance, "but, ah - who are you, exactly?"

Oh.

The Shepherd is a name that you haven't heard often, but it's impossible not to recognise it. Her face and symbol are everywhere, after all, as the current dean of the Imperial Education Programs.

You hadn't realised that she was a proctor as well. Today has been an amazing lesson about all the things you've never realised, and you're starting to feel a little resentful.

You've never seen a helmsman trainee before, either, and now that Riccin has identified themselves as such, you're curious. Everyone knows they start the wetware installations at a young age, but if there's apiculture integrated into Riccin's flesh, there's no way to tell: they're swathed head-to-toe in cloth, from the suncloak to the boots to the gloves on their hands, and there's nothing to see on their face save for the blue spark of their eyes and the white dabs of paint.

They don't seem the sort that would be receptive to questions, though. Riccin has drawn themselves up to their full height and they're looming over you, their lip curled in a sneer. If they're trying to intimidate you - well, it's working, because you have to steel yourself to keep from stepping back, and the only thing that really stops you is the fact you know Hinnom is behind you.

"Who the fuck sent you?" they ask, voice flat.

Their eyes might be blue, you remind yourself, but if they're a part of the helmsman program, then that means you're the highblood. Most of the kids in the legislacerator program are jadebloods like you, but there's more than a few violets and indigoes: all the isolated castes, that can't be regulated by normal midbloods for one reason or another. Your roommate is one of them, and thankfully, it's not hard to imagine what Sappho would say.

"His moirail," you say pompously, and your voice doesn't even crack, because you're Sappho, and she wouldn't care about a helmsman, even if their proctor was the Empress herself.

It's that thought that sends you stepping forward to the smaller figure, chin up, horns canted.. not defensively, but assertively. You don't have to be defensive, not when you're the highest caste here by two.

(The Academy always emphasizes one thing over the rest, regardless of program: respect the hemospectrum. You're desperately hoping that it carries true among the helmsmen, because your training's never covered how to deal with aggressive psionics.)

"Your handle is RS, isn't it?" You hold out a hand, and you steadfastly ignore the way it's shaking. "My online personal identification tag is forgottenSebayt. We've engaged in prior communications."

"Oh!"

Now that she's said it, you can see it. You'd never thought of her face before, but Marduk looks almost exactly like you would've imagined: small, round, and thoroughly academic, although you hadn't anticipated the snaggletooth.

Although.. she's not that small. Her eyes are level with your horns, so she has to tilt her chin down just a little to make eye contact, and she's round in a way that lowbloods rarely achieve: not just weight padding muscle, like with Sipara, but honestly round, with dimples to her cheeks even though she's not smiling, and a certain green flush that implies regular access to food.

In short, she looks healthier than most greenbloods you've met. You're not sure what the Imperial Education Program is, but evidently, it's been treating her and Riccin quite well.

You take the proferred hand loosely and shake it. Handshakes are such a greenblood thing, and the way she automatically defaults to it, like you're not rust, is charming. Her skin is cool and soft against yours, and between that and the way you're still twined around Riccin's arm, the fabric cooling your skin, you're starting to feel drowsy.

Drowsy, but not actually tired enough to stop the sparks. You hastily pull back as a crackle of aura snaps off of your horn and flies towards her. "Sorry," you say. Your instinct is to duck your horns and back away, but that just flings more sparks free, and your arm is still looped through Riccin's. "Um. Try not to let them -"

Too late. Marduk flinches as a spark hits her skin and sizzles, and you flush. "Try not to let them touch you," you finishes, a bit lamely. "Sorry. Bad reaction to.. a drink. Ah. It's nice to meet you?"

The little jadeblood steps right on past you, like you don't even matter, and your temper flares. Trainee or not, you're apt to knock those fucking horns off. It's one things when indigoes act like that - it's their fucking right, as top of the rung. But you're not about to let some rotblood stick their nose in the air like a goddamn blueblood.

But Pheres speaks up first, and a better idea strikes you instead. Sipara wants this fucker to lead her poor diamond home? Well, fuck that: she should've come calling herself, because now you're handling it.

"Drink, my ass," you say, sharp and pointedly cheerful. "Some greenblood slipped him some honey and shit ain't going too well for him. He's an out-of-towner, so I was going to take him to my hive.. but fuck, if you think your dorms'll enjoy the lightshow, it'll be my fucking pleasure if you want to take his chump-ass off my fronds."

They won't. Bringing a free troll onto academy grounds after hours is a great way of getting reprimanded. Sneaking a sparking lowblood into the dorms, though - that's some cullbait shit, right there.

The spark is more startling than it is painful: it's like the zap of static electricity, or the frisson on your lusus's scales after he goes rolling in the laundry. Still, you step back, folding your hand safely behind you as you consider.

Sipara said he had a hive. Was she expecting you to take him all the way to the city outskirts? It's distressingly plausible: your brownblooded friends are a lot of things, but considerate has never been one of them.

You can't bring him back to your dormitories. If he were a caste or two higher, you might be able to pass him off as a quadrantmate and gain an exemption that way.. but Proctor Sungazer disapproves of caste gaps, and expects his creche to abide strictly by the three castes or less rule, analogous colours only. And you can't just bring Pheres in as a friend. No one would believe that.

You won't get culled, of course. You're a jade, and the caste is too rare for any physical reprimands short of outright treason. But Pheres certainly would be, and the consequences for you would be still be distinctly unpleasant.

(You've seen the girls with cut horns, and yours may not be very large, but you like them the way they are.)

You chew on your lip. Your confidence is slipping: you don't know Sappho nearly well enough to decide what she would do now, and you don't know what you should do. This is why you like staying in your dorms, with your books as company. Books, like the laws, are predictable and precise: they follow rules, and if you only pay attention, you'll always know how the plot will go, and what the characters will do.

You wish life was that simple.

"No," you finally say. "I don't think they would."

Castor is quiet while they talk, and although you look to see what he's doing, he's just.. listening. When he catches you looking at him, he gives the same half-shrug he always does. His horns must've been fuck-huge, when he was a troll: he always acts like he's going to hit them, even after centuries of being dead.

"Offer to walk with them," he says, flat and disinterested. "If you must."

You think you probably should. The conversations been hard for you to follow: they're all talking names you don't know and shit you never got fed about, like helms and proctors and dorms. But Mardie started off swaggering and now she looks like a deflated balloon, and that's no good at all.

"We'll walk with you, then," you chirp, and everyone turns to look like they plumb forgot you were there. Rude fuckers. But, as your mom stirring under your collar reminds you, you've still got manners, so you trot straight up to the short lowblood. Mardie moves out of the way, giving you one of her looks like 'the fuck you doing,' but Castor gets it.

He steps in real close, big paws hooking around your waist, and you can feel the familiar tug as he uses your psionics to lift you up so you can touch horns. "Hi! Hinnom," you say, and boop your nose against theirs for good measure.

Edited 2015-03-30 00:18 (UTC)

The little grub that speaks up can't be more than six sweeps, maybe six and a half at most, and it looks like they're all bones under the suncloak. But that's not what catches your attention; it's the fact their horns are painted all white, with maroon streaked across the tips like blood.

It's gaudy as anything, but you like it. You never thought about painting horns before: it must be a local style, and the idea is fascinating.

They step forward and then bounce up, and - they must have psionics, because they just stay there, just at eye-level. When they lean forward and tap horns, it's a little harder than the standard lowblood greeting.

"Hi! Hinnom," they say, and then they boop their nose to yours.

It startles a laugh out of you. Their eyes are big and baby gray, but there's maroon paint all over their face, and call it narcissism, but you've yet to meet a maroon you dislike. You have the best caste, because it's such a friendly caste. "I'm Pheres," you say, pleased, and for good measure, you tilt your head to touch one of your rostal horns to theirs as well.

Edited 2015-03-30 00:19 (UTC)

Pheres's skin is fever hot against yours, and if it weren't for that, you'd wonder if he was dead. His eyes certainly look like it: behind the lenses, they're pale as bone, with little pinpricks of pupil. You've never seen an adult with eyes like yours before! Usually they're all filled in with colour.

"I like your eyes," you tell him as he touches his second set of horns to yours, and you're about to say more, see if he's maybe only part dead, but then Castor drops you.

It's not a big fall. You land effortlessly, knees tucking to absorb the impact, and pivot around to hiss at him. Castor looks unimpressed. "He's sparking. And you'll tire yourself out if I hold you up forever," he points out, folding his arms.

It's true enough. You can't use your own telekinesis, although none of your ghosts have ever been able to explain why: only the leashed ghosts can use it, and even though you're not doing anything, it still takes a toll. And after a morning of mail delivery and no snacks or sleep, even the small stuff matters right now.

"Besides, you still need to greet the other." Castor's still talking. You squint at him, questioning. You don't like highbloods! They're huge, and big, and scary, and Castor's only okay because he's dead. He's never had a problem with that before, and at your look, he explains: "Their symbolhight is yellow."

Huh.

Well, okay.

You turn to the big yellowblood and trot over, but once you're standing in front of them, shyness strikes. They're really, really big: only a few inches shorter than Castor, and he's the biggest troll, dead or alive, you've ever seen. He's standing right behind you, and you can feel the impatience radiating as he waits for you to give him the sign, but all you can do is stall.

This troll might be yellow - but they're still really, really big.

"Oh," you say, pleased and with an embarrassed smile. "Um. Thank you!"

The wriggler drops back to the ground with a hiss, spinning as they struggle to regain their balance. You can sympathize: even when you're sober, it's always a struggle to make your psionics work well, and you're tempted to murmur as much to Riccin, who's staring at the two of you like you're doing something strange.

But that might embarrass the poor thing, and you don't want to do that, especially not when they pick themselves up so quickly. They trot over to Riccin, stop right in front of them, and wait.

Building their strength for the bigger hop, probably. There's over two feet of distance between them. Here, at least, you can intervene without any embarrassment. You pull on Riccin's arm, pressing your free hand against it, and then bounce up until your chin can rest on their shoulder. It's a stretch, only made possible by the way they instinctively duck, but you're not going to stay for longer than an instant. "Could - would you bend down?" you ask, laughing a little. "Please?"

Marduk is all hot air, and you can see as she processes your words and gradually deflates. It starts with the chin, and works its way down: her horns tuck in, her shoulders slump and her posture curls, until there's no sign of the shirty jadeblood, and she's just another defensive lowblood.

"No," she says, each word like someone's pulling a fang, "I don't think they would."

You smile. "You're fucking right," you say, pleased as punch, and you're going to say more, but then the tiny-ass kid hops out from behind her, and chirps: "We'll walk with you!"

The kid's dressed up like a punching bag at Carnival, horns slathered in white paint and wearing some shabby cloak that's got more holes than fabric. But they're all confidence and no hesitation. They stalk up to Pheres like they fucking know him, and you feel the pulse of active psionics before the kid even jumps. Their eyes are baseline flat, all cluckbeast yolk yellow and grub gray, but they're strong.

You're expecting - who knows, some kind of attack? That wouldn't make any sense, but nothing else does, either. All the kid does, though, is use them to boost themselves up to eye-level, and slap horns with him.

What the fuck?

Pheres acts like this is fucking normal: he actually laughs as the grub goes as far as to box snouts too, and there's a quick exchange of names and words before the kid drops back to the ground, knees bending like they were dropped.

And then, apparently, it's your turn, because the kid is standing in front of you, patient as a churchmouse, and Pheres is watching with the same loaded expectancy. You shake your head, lip curling.

There's no way you're going to let some paintsplattered gutterrat touch horns with you. This is some weird fucking lowblood shit that's happening, and you're not going to be a part of it.

Pheres tugs on your arm, and then, bracing his free hand against it, arches up. The way you duck your shoulder is instinct, and he immediately takes the opportunity to nestle his chin on it, so that his face inches from yours.

His breath smells like cheap liquor, and you can feel the heat of his skin radiating even across the short distance. Combined with the press of the sun above you, it is entirely too fucking much, and you really should shrug him off.

"Could - would you bend down?" he asks, his breath tickling the skin of your face. It's warm, and the way he's pressed against you, you can feel the hitch in his thoracic cage an instant before he laughs. "Please?"

You bend instead.

Castor makes a disapproving noise from behind you, but you can't imagine why. The yellowblood bends just as Pheres asks, and they're eyeing you like you're going to bite, which is rude. But they seem like a pretty rude troll overall.

"I don't think they're used to lowbloods," Castor says, as he lifts you. It's only a boost, one you could've made on your own, but Castor's always doing stuff like that. Says it's important for you to make sure you're keeping your psionics exercised, even if you can't use them yourself.

You shrug and make the greeting quick: you turn each cheek, so you can properly tap each horn with theirs. "Hinnom," you say, prim, and then you twist so Castor'll drop you, more carefully this time. This troll is weird, and you aren't eager to stay close.

"You yellow?" you ask. "'cause I'm yellow too!"

You're starting to think of Riccin as one of the wild beasts you watch when you're on the road: dangerous enough, if you're unprepared, but otherwise perfectly harmless. (Or like one of your customers, but that's a mean thought. Most of them haven't tried to kill you in sweeps.)

Prepared, for you, usually involves being in your steel-enforced cart. But you think you've got a handle on how to deal with Riccin. Everyone responds well to manners, and they're apparently no exception.

You lean against them, chin still on their shoulder, your hand tucked in front of it. There doesn't feel like much point in moving it, for all that you don't need it to stay upright, and besides, the way that Riccin feels cool against your torso is a nice change from the heat of the sun on you back.

You could just stay like this for the rest of the trip.

Or, well, not really. Riccin's going to stand up eventually, and you'll have to shift back onto their arm. But right now, everything feels great, and it's easy to lean in against them, drowsing a little as your breath hitches in the beginning of a purr.

This is so fucking weird.

The familiar tingle of psionics again, and then the little troll is lifting up to eye level. The greeting is perfunctory, and you hold perfectly still for the duration of it: they tap left horn to left horn, and then right horn to right. "Hinnom," they say, prim as a schoolfeed, and then the kid drops back to the ground.

This has got to be a fucking lowblood thing, because when you cant your eyes towards the jade, Marduk's got the same wigged out face going on as you. Well, whatever. Getting bagged for the programs early meant you never spent much time with lowbloods: before that, you spent your time with Myrrha and Liyiji, and after that, you spent it in church, to better prepare for your position on a Carnival ship. But if these fuckers want to play rustbuddies, it's no skin off your back.

"I'm yellow, too," Hinnom says, and you frown. They're all decked out in maroon, from the seedflap to the bulbs to the twice-painted horns, and ugh, fuck, you just want to go home already, because this shit is too weird. Maybe it's quad colours, but there's no insignia on the coat, in either maroon or yellow. Bluebloods play this game occasionally, but it seems weird for a yellow: their blood is shitty enough, why chance someone making the mistake it's the one hue worse?

"'course I'm fucking yellow. That's what the symbol says," you say, flat as a board, and then you stop.

There's a vibration against your back, almost like the diagnostic pulse from your ports, and it's only when you lean towards it and it increases in response that you realise what's going on. Pheres is fucking purring, and if he wasn't pressed against you, you wouldn't have noticed - but it's impossible not to, when cloth is the only thing between your skin.

This is getting awkward, fast. You're not about to haul him on your back like some sort of glorified pack animal, but you're not exactly keen on moving him, either, because holy shit, that's a great fucking noise.

(It'd be better if he wasn't completely fucking sloshed.)

"Since you're all evidently just going to stand around in the daylight," Castor says, "I'm going to check the perimeter."

He doesn't walk away so much as he dissolves, his outline growing more abstract with each step. Ghosts can do that, when they don't want to be seen, and you could force him to refocus.. but you don't bother. Castor's allowed his space! And besides, it isn't as if you can't feel him just by thinking about the leash.

Riccin has trailed off: for a second, you think they're going to say something else, but Castor was right. They're all just standing there! Welll, whatever. Not like they can walk until Castor gets back.

"Is it?" You lean in, peering at their cloak, and oh, now you can see it: two overlapping yellow circles, on the edge of their collar. It looks neat! You don't have any clothes with those, and although trolls have made noise about the lack, the only colour you'd want a symbol in is maroon. But Castor said it wasn't allowed, and that was that.

"You got any powers?" you ask, more to talk than out of real curiosity. The silence is dragging on and on, and you're not sure why, but it's boring as fuck. "I do! I'm a psychic."

A beat, and then you add: "That means I talk to ghosts."

You're starting to think you'll feel excluded from any group. All of your highblood classmates look down on you for your blood, and many refuse to talk to you outright: they'll all be heading off to ships and colony planets, but you're the only student, save for the four sweep old Dammeo, who will be sent to the caverns. Why bother making connections with the girl they'll never see again, when they're surrounded with children they might be stationed with?

You've never had that problem with lowbloods. Jade is rare enough that most think you're just olive, and you've always been treated like one of them. But at times like these, when they're all doing strange things like they're perfectly normal...

It's almost a relief when you notice the way that Pheres is drowsing, half-perched on Riccin's shoulder. You've read about the dangers of sunlight: it's important to know, for all that it doesn't apply personally. And sleepiness, all of the guides said, is one of the first signs of danger.

You gently tug a water bottle free from your decimal sylladex, where it's been catalogued as 600.641 (Food & Drink), and head over. You tap him on the shoulder, carefully, and holds out the water bottle. "Excuse me, Pheres," you say. "Um. You should drink this."

"It's water with additional electrolytes added in order to prevent dehydration." He's already drank contaminated liquid once tonight, and you don't want him to be unaware, or worry. "You've been in the sun for a great deal of time, so you should rehydrate."

Man, lowbloods are all so fucking tiny. You're starting to feel like a drone in the caverns right now: Marduk is the tallest of the bunch, and even slouched, you've got a head on her. Shit is absurd.

Little fuckers could at least have the courtesy to wear boots.

"Ghosts," you repeat. That sounds vaguely familiar: if they're hanging with Marduk and Sipara, then they're probably another dork from Fleetbound. Well, whatever. "That's hilarious, kid, 'cause I fucking make them. Now shut the fuck up. I'm not out here to yammer."

Moving requires shifting Pheres, who is still purring, and.. apparently sleeping, because he doesn't do much more than make a muffled noise of protest when you try to stand up. It's pathetic, and you'd almost be tempted to let him stay, except for the fact he is completely fucking drunk, and that, combined with the way he's clinging, is starting to seriously weird you out.

Thank god for the jade. She trots over, rattling off some creed on water bottles and dehydration, and you take the opportunity to shrug off Pheres, and push him - none too gently - towards her. "Go cling to the trainee," you order. "Come on, we're walking."

There's someone tapping on your shoulder.

Your eyes have shut sometime in the last few minutes, and your purring stutters to a stop as you crack them open. It's still bright outside, even with your glasses, and Marduk is standing in front of you, holding out a bottle of water.

Riccin shrugs you off, and the world goes floppy for a moment: you're too tired to really have much in the way of balance, the heat having left you limp-limbed and sluggish, but luckily there's a big hand in the center of your spine, shoving you roughly towards Marduk.

"Oh," you say, blinking rapidly. Latching onto Marduk's arm as soon as she gets close enough is a matter of self-preservation: you don't want to fall! (You can't feel the ground beneath you with anything other than your feet, and that's bizarre.) But she still tenses like it's unexpected, and you twist your mouth into a lopsided smile. "Sorry," you offer, laughing a little as you lean on her.

This is ridiculous. By the point that the alcohol starts burning off and disorientation sets in, you're usually already asleep. If this is what it feels to be drunk - really, really drunk - you're never going to touch a drink ever again. "Haah. I take it we're walking now..?"

Pheres is only a few inches shorter than you, but he's featherbeast light: even when he leans on you, the only inconvenience is the way that your earring tangles in his hair. He's apologising muzzily, even as he latches onto your arm, but you can't blame him. He's unsteady as a particularly top heavy wriggler.

"Um," you says, frowning at Riccin, because why did they just shove him on you? The way he's clinging is making your skin crawl, and it has nothing to do with the heat. "it's alright."

Riccin claims that they're an Imperial Trainee as well, but manners are an important part of every course, and respecting your betters is the main focus. You're not sure if you really believe in the hemosystem, but you know better than to flout it.

Apparently, Riccin doesn't. There might only be two castes between you, but the fact remains: jade is past the limegap, and yellow is not. You would think that'd warrant a little respect, and tossing Pheres onto you without so much as a by-your-leave and referring to you as a trainee.. well, you'd never do that to Sappho.

(Mostly because she'd cull you. But also because you aren't rude.)

Trying not to let your frown deepen, you push the water bottle into Pheres's hands. "Do try to drink that, please."

You push out your bottom lip, pouting. You want to say something else - like tell them how much they suck, they're such a jerk, it's awful - but Riccin is looking at you, so you pinch your fingers and zip your lips shut instead.

As soon as they turn their back, you stick out your tongue. They're so mean!

Riccin shoves Pheres off on Marduk, and you watch approvingly as she catches him easily. Her other arm is free, and maybe you'll grab it in a minute, so the three of you are all in cahoots, and Riccin is left all alone. That'll show them.

Maybe they'll cry! You hope they'll cry. Jerk.

The rest of them are walking ahead, and that's cool: you'll just play catch up, once Castor turns back up. You linger back, giving the leash a mental tug, and wait for the blueblood to appear.

Pheres stumbles as you push him, giving you a look over his shoulder like he really doesn't understand what's going on. He's walking like a puppet with its strings cut, and when he reaches Marduk, he immediately latches onto an arm, twisting just enough so that he's facing the right direction. The look that Marduk gives you is flat-out mean, but she doesn't say a word, just flicks her ears like she's chasing away flies.

She's smarting over the trainee comment, probably, but tough shit: you're Mirthful and she's not, and the Book is real clear on where that places each of you, spectrum or not. You smile at her, but it's hard to keep up the smuggery when Pheres's leaning against her, close enough that he'd be cheek-to-cheek if it weren't for those stupid horns. His eyes are pleased slits, and he's laughing about something under his breath, his lips too slow for you to read and his voice too low to hear.

Good to see the purring shit wasn't personal: apparently, cuddling with strangers is just what he does, because now that he's hanging on the jade, he seems happy as a clambeast.

(Well, what did you expect, when you shoved him off like that? Should've just dealt with the mugginess -)

Ugh, what the fuck ever.

You start walking, and sure enough, the other two fall in step behind you. It takes you a few feet to realise the thump of feet behind you is off, though, and when you look back, yeah - you're missing one of your little number.

The maroon kid is hanging back, peering off into the distance like they're waiting for someone, which is bullshit: no one's awake this time of day save for your lot, and you aren't up for dawdling right now. Long legs mean a long stride, and without having to wait up for the other short-asses, heading back to the kid only takes a minute.

"Come on," you snap, and you snatch them up by the back of their cape. Carrying them or dragging them, it doesn't really matter: either way, Hinnom's coming with them.

If you're playing shitblood corraller, might as well do it right.

You're snatched up by the scruff of your cape like a baby meowbeast, and for a moment, you're too startled to move, and then too scared, because Riccin's hauled you all the way up into the air. Falling from up here would be awful, and Riccin's exactly that sort of a jerk.

You jerk on the leash again instead, soft one time and then a split second later, you yank it harder. Where is Castor? You didn't bring Runnin, or Goutof, or Namese for a reason, and that's because out of all of them, Castor's the only one who really gets that it's his job to protect you.

But he's not here, and you can't use your telekinesis without him.

Fear has you pulling as hard as you can manage. When it comes down to it, the leash is a chain, and you wrap it tight, turning your cry from a request to a demand until finally, there's an answering vibration.

Castor emerges over the horizon a few seconds later, approaching at a run.

Castor can't look pale. There's no blood in his veins, no flesh to drain, but maybe he's feeling especially corporeal today, because when he gets close enough to see, his face is drawn, his body is tense, and he's as pale as.. well, a ghost.

"Drones," he says, his voice like he wants to tear something to shreds. He always gets angry when he's scared, angry and a little wondering, like the emotion's new. "We need to go."

When Riccin turns back, you peer over your shoulder to see why.. and immediately, your pumpbiscuit sinks. Oh. Oh no. You completely forgot about Hinnom.

But the yellowblood has grabbed zim, and Riccin is hauling zim like a package of goods back to the group. Hinnom dangles by zir cape, and even from here, you can see the way ze's holding zimself stiff and solid, like they're frozen from fear.

You don't like it. The way they're being held can't be comfortable! But Hinnom is the smallest of you all, and there's no way ze'll be able to keep up otherwise, so you swallow your complaint. Unless..

You step to Riccin's other side, pulling Pheres gently with you until you're next to Hinnom. Good thing ze isn't thrashing, or ze'd kick you in the face. "Hinnom," you say carefully, "do you think you could use your psionics to keep up?"

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