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 him a honeypill. Fucker 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.
No one pays them much mind as they stalk through. There's a few glances, but they're probably not the first fucker to trespass today: these sorts of events are rife with trolls being retrieved by their moirails, and the residents must figure they're here to retrieve theirs. Whatever, let the swillbloods think what they fucking want.
There's a pair of moirails dozing in the cloak closet. OA steps past them, snatches the first cloak that looks around the right size, grabs the shades off of one's face, and absconds before they can do more than drowsily complain.
There's a half-drank bottle of alcohol by the door. They contemplate it, and then snatch it, too. It smells like it's sopor-based. If Pheres is still sparking, then they'll just make him drink it: that'll fix it, one way or another.
But apparently, that's unnecessary, because when they 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 they half-expect ruddy tears.
But he's not sparking. So that's something.
They snatch the phone - it's not hard, when his grip is already loose enough that it looks ready to drop - and then they dump the cloak on his head.
"Good job, nookmunch," they say. Pheres is spluttering behind them, and on the other end of the line, Sipara sounds like she's doing the same. "Kid is sparky no more, so hell, maybe I won't ditch him."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and then she's actually growling over the phone, rattlereeds going so fast they think she might break something. "Later," they say brightly, just as it sounds like she's about to say something, and they end the call.
For good measure, they turn off the phone, too, and cram it into the pocket of their suncloak.
no subject
No wonder someone slipped him a honeypill. Fucker 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.
No one pays them much mind as they stalk through. There's a few glances, but they're probably not the first fucker to trespass today: these sorts of events are rife with trolls being retrieved by their moirails, and the residents must figure they're here to retrieve theirs. Whatever, let the swillbloods think what they fucking want.
There's a pair of moirails dozing in the cloak closet. OA steps past them, snatches the first cloak that looks around the right size, grabs the shades off of one's face, and absconds before they can do more than drowsily complain.
There's a half-drank bottle of alcohol by the door. They contemplate it, and then snatch it, too. It smells like it's sopor-based. If Pheres is still sparking, then they'll just make him drink it: that'll fix it, one way or another.
But apparently, that's unnecessary, because when they 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 they half-expect ruddy tears.
But he's not sparking. So that's something.
They snatch the phone - it's not hard, when his grip is already loose enough that it looks ready to drop - and then they dump the cloak on his head.
"Good job, nookmunch," they say. Pheres is spluttering behind them, and on the other end of the line, Sipara sounds like she's doing the same. "Kid is sparky no more, so hell, maybe I won't ditch him."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and then she's actually growling over the phone, rattlereeds going so fast they think she might break something. "Later," they say brightly, just as it sounds like she's about to say something, and they end the call.
For good measure, they turn off the phone, too, and cram it into the pocket of their suncloak.