"If it was a fucking bother, I wouldn't have offered." They look down at him, and when he tilts his head to meet their eye and grins, OA remembers why they found him appealing in the first place. Nice rack, nice face, and nice manners. It's just a shame about the eyes.
But luckily, they already thought about that. Fishing around in their pocket, they pull out the sunglasses and present them to him with a flourish. "What's a miracle is that those wicked monstrosities haven't gotten your chump ass culled," they say, amused. "Put these on, before some fucker starts getting ideas."
Their timing is impeccable, because there's two trolls walking towards them right now: a kid who's actually smaller than Pheres, which seemed pretty fucking impossible even a minute ago, and a jadeblood, who seems kind of familiar.
It's fucking weird. OA doesn't associate with jades: blue and up, or yellow and under is their rule of thumb, because if life in Carnival has taught them anything, it's that olives to ceruleans are a bunch of uppity motherfuckers that make good paint, and pretty much nothing else. Of course, you can't make paint from jades - they're too rare, no matter how much the painters bitch - but the point remains.
And then she opens her mouth, and the mystery is solved. Right. Imperial trainee: that's what was tripping them 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 she's missing hers.
"Riccin Kāyata," they say, stepping forward. There's no need to look intimidating: when one's got over a foot of height on their side, it's impossible not to. "Of the Imperial Helms program, division six, under Proctor Shepherd. If we're dropping rank."
"But I don't see why the fuck we have to start up that raucous noise." They smile, showing their teeth, but there's nothing friendly about it, or the pointed lift of their eyebrows. "Who the fuck sent you?"
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"If it was a fucking bother, I wouldn't have offered." They look down at him, and when he tilts his head to meet their eye and grins, OA remembers why they found him appealing in the first place. Nice rack, nice face, and nice manners. It's just a shame about the eyes.
But luckily, they already thought about that. Fishing around in their pocket, they pull out the sunglasses and present them to him with a flourish. "What's a miracle is that those wicked monstrosities haven't gotten your chump ass culled," they say, amused. "Put these on, before some fucker starts getting ideas."
Their timing is impeccable, because there's two trolls walking towards them right now: a kid who's actually smaller than Pheres, which seemed pretty fucking impossible even a minute ago, and a jadeblood, who seems kind of familiar.
It's fucking weird. OA doesn't associate with jades: blue and up, or yellow and under is their rule of thumb, because if life in Carnival has taught them anything, it's that olives to ceruleans are a bunch of uppity motherfuckers that make good paint, and pretty much nothing else. Of course, you can't make paint from jades - they're too rare, no matter how much the painters bitch - but the point remains.
And then she opens her mouth, and the mystery is solved. Right. Imperial trainee: that's what was tripping them 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 she's missing hers.
"Riccin Kāyata," they say, stepping forward. There's no need to look intimidating: when one's got over a foot of height on their side, it's impossible not to. "Of the Imperial Helms program, division six, under Proctor Shepherd. If we're dropping rank."
"But I don't see why the fuck we have to start up that raucous noise." They smile, showing their teeth, but there's nothing friendly about it, or the pointed lift of their eyebrows. "Who the fuck sent you?"