From the time you wake up, it’s one of those days.
You say this like it’s never not one of those days, so you don’t know why you’re taking exception this time around. You go downstairs to find your lusus staring at the coffeemaker like it’s a foreign device meant to trick him. “Iglōra, cūr tu hanc es mihi fēcistine? Cur hoc fēcitne?”
Of course, the only way to reply to that is with, “Dare tibi dolōrem; non aliam causam est.” Which leads to a breakfast of snarky banter back and forth across the kitchen in old Alternian while you make coffee and eggs. It’s unashamedly the best part of your day, whenever this happens; this is the best version of your pater, when he’s not playing with his thralls or trying to search out new ones, when he’s well charged on the sexual energy he’s pulled from them and is therefore more like a troll than an incubus. The illusion is quickly broken, however, when his thrall this time stomps up the stairs from your basement.
It’s an oliveblood this time around, with pointy horns and an equally pointy sign you know your moirail doesn’t have in her book yet. He hasn’t been here for long, as he still has a decent amount of personality, but if the dark rings forming around his eyes are any indication, he isn’t going to last much longer, either. It’s pathetic, for a greenblood.
Also, did you mention that he was in your basement?
You count to ten. Then you count to fifty, just to make sure you’re in control of your temper.“Pater! Cur pater servi in carpisculone erasne? Loquore! Nunc!” Well. Relatively in control.
It doesn’t seem to matter; Incubusdad just shrugs, winks, and wanders into his room. The oliveblood stares, dazed, at him while he leaves the room.
“Shut your mouth before my knife accidentally flies into it,” you mutter, brushing past him to throw your dishes in the sink.
Or, at least, you tried to. The greenblood grabs your arm and tries to pull you back towards him. You freeze, instead, and remind yourself that actually ripping his head off at this juncture would be massively inconvenient.
“Look, you understand hihim, rihight? When he talks lihike that? You can teach me, rihight?” You don’t really turn to face at him, just watch his wide-eyed desperation out of the corner of your eye and focus on not acting on your more violent impulses.
“Yes, yes, and no. Let go of me.” You think some of your teeth are showing and you don’t even care. Your whole mind is snarling. It’s the same sound Incubusdad makes when there’s danger, and it won’t be coming out of your mouth anytime soon. Not for this bastard.
That was apparently the wrong thing to say. “No! You WIHILL-“ is about as far as he gets. He tries to grab the back of your neck and shove you down. Instead, you duck, grab the arm now waving in the open air above you, and use his momentum to flip him over your back. Your strife specibus flashes at the edge of your vision and a solid weight lands in your hands. Unthinking, you jump up and slam the butt of your staff into his chest. There’s a very loud cracking noise and you aren’t sure if it came from his ribs or the tiles beneath him but you don’t even care at the moment.
The next thing you know, you’re stumbling downstairs to your basement.
The basement doesn’t look like it would be a big deal to a stranger, and that’s just the way you like it. It’s small. Along one wall is a set of shelves with boxes of your things from wigglerhood and some tools. Against the opposite wall there’s a spare refrigerating unit and the door to a spare pantry. In the middle, there’s a couch covered in blankets, a large screen, and a basic gaming system. You’re going to have to burn the couch, and the blankets, now, but that’s fine. You can actually afford to replace them. The thing that concerns you most is the wall of shelves.
A sigh escapes your lips. They look like they’ve been left alone.
You reach up to the very, very top and pull a thin metal rod off the shelf. Then, with great care, you insert it into a tiny crevice between two wooden slats on the bottom shelf, six from the end, identical to all the others. There’s a hollow thumping noise behind the wall, the sound of well-oiled gears spinning, and the wall to your right shifts backwards and slides up. You step through, cool air hitting your face, and the door slides smoothly shut behind you.
Your basement doesn’t look like a big deal; however, to the naked eye, it’s only about a quarter of the length of your house.
You inhale and sigh, content. The room smells like old paper and knowledge, your favorite perfume. No one, not even Kezria, knows this chamber exists, and you’re probably going to keep it that way. After all, if the Imperial anything got even a whiff of this, you wouldn’t live until dawn. Enough of the books in this particular library talk about the way the Empire deals with rebels that you can know this in your bones.
You stalk through the shelves, running your fingers along the spines of your treasures. You aren’t even a rebel, really, just a troll who can’t stand to see good knowledge go to waste. Like your collection of 23 different copies of the Approved and Historically Accurate Histories of Her Imperious Condescension’s Glorious Empire. The current edition, upstairs in your more public library, claims that it had only just been published for the first time about twenty sweeps ago. You know this is false; you have editions going back hundreds of sweeps, and each new edition contains information that directly contradicts the last. Of course, all of those books are banned – or rather, don’t exist, never existed, and if they suddenly did that would be a terrible shame for your ability to breathe – which is why they are here, hidden in your safe chamber.
Also contained in this hidden room, at the very far end, is a very, very special husktop. It bounces its signal over half a million different places, the path changing each day and always, always, always, spending a majority of the time tumbling through Fleet IPs, or so you’ve been told. As you’ve been using it to scour subversive websites and discover old books for sweeps now, you’re inclined to believe it.
Once upon a time, when you were much younger and less jaded, you actually managed to free one of your lusus’s thralls from his control. He was a redblood, as far down on the Hemospectrum as one can be, but a brilliant little thing. He built this chamber for you, and the husktop, as a way of saying thanks. Freeing him made him weaker, though, and the second he tried to leave, he crossed paths with Incubusdad again, and that spelled the end of him.
You don’t regret that at all. You really don’t. Really.
In any case, the husktop’s still fast, still untraceable, and exactly what you need right now. A new acquisition is always good for your mood. (And you still make fun of your moirail for her collections. No one ever said you were a good troll, and if they have, you'll rip their throats out.)
So you’re skimming through illicit websites, sighing when you find favorites taken down or replaced with Imperial propaganda by hackterrorists, when you find it. And then you find it again. And again. And again.
It’s a poem, short and full of a cold, rebellious anger. Things like this aren’t uncommon on these sites, but this one is different. It’s well written, clearly by someone higher up on the Hemospectrum than usual, and receiving a ridiculous amount of positive, equally rebellious responses, even on sites it wasn’t posted on originally. It’s being reposted everywhere, even outside of the normal subversive forums, with trolls commenting on it left and right in Hemospectrum color and typing quirk. Only maybe a third of trolls even realizing that the poet is a well-educated highblood. And, honestly? It pisses you off.
Most of these trolls seem to have no idea what they’re getting into, what they’re doing. Most of them are lowbloods who you can trace easily; they aren’t even bothering to hide themselves at all. This is literally the only excuse the Empire needs to raze whole slums and eliminate swaths of lowbloods just because of their blood color. You can practically hear the rustling pages of the books behind you, singing their warnings. It’s happened again, and again, and again. Even if Kezria doesn’t find this, it’s putting her in danger. And Kezria will find this, if she hasn’t already. Of this you have no doubt. And she’ll be excited, it’ll only enflame her dangerous Signlessist tendencies even more.
Like hell are you losing your moirail over something this stupid.
So you type a response, also in poetic form. You copy the original structure and rhyme scheme because that’s how these things gain power and meaning, according to Studies of Imperial Propaganda, Poetic Debates of the Ancient Far East, and a good dozen other books sitting calmly on the shelves behind you, forbidden secrets whispering in your ears with the mouths of the ghosts who dared to write them. It’s the same pattern over and over again, it’s always been, and none of them understand because that knowledge has been kept from them again and again, wrapped up behind fuschia sparkles. It isn’t as if you even disagree with the OP; you just want to make them realize that their fool youth actions have permanent consequences.
You post your reply on the original forums the poem appeared on in much the same way: Hemononymous, quirkless, via proxy accounts that’ll be connected to some poor saps on Imperial vessels:
Child of my blood all alone in your cave
Our ennui befits those who’ve become slaves
you think mere love will beat this maliase
let me tell you what our foolish wars were for
to lead you towards that which your bloods abhor
to blind you if you dare look indoors.
it’s too late; you’re already mother’s cheap whore.
Child of teeth and claw and steel
You think you’ve found truth but let’s get real
In the end we all come to mother’s heel
she believes she knows best and set down the rules
You run North like you don’t see old Thule
Pitch your fit and and rebel like a fool
Our most darling mother will only take you to school
Child of fear and doubt question mother not
You’ll make your familiar kin too distraught
Acting on this school of thought
Act if you can stand the blood on your hands
Act if you can stand how grand
Will be our mother’s waiting reprimand.
When you’re finished, you shoot your moirail a message from your ‘phone, biting hard on your cheek.
IH: Hey, Kez.
IH: Wanna come over and spend some time at my hive??????
IH: I can 6ankroll the whole thing, and I’ll keep Incu6usdad 6usy, I promise.
IH: I just think it would 6e a good idea, is all. Let me know as soon as you’ve dug yourself out of whatever pile of junk you’ve gotten stuck in this time, okay?
You don’t really want to tell her that she should be less violent and blahblahblah right now because you know she feels bad about it and she probably was just trolling you to vent.
So, for now you’re just be sympathetic and you can jam the rest of it out later.
FI: *winces* (Yikes.)
FI: (Maybe you should just call the carpenter drones now?) (Instead of waiting until later.)
FI: (I figure hive collapse is one of those things you want taken care of sooner rather than later.)
You have to try really, really hard not to squee when she not only sends you the sign but also the blood color, and of both trolls. You can’t help but be a little giddy that she’s indulging you like this though.
You might be a little bit weird.
FI: {{!!!! Thanks!!}}
FI: {That was more than I was hoping for.}
FI: {Yes, yes I have it in my sylladex. It even gets its own drawer.} {Perfectly easy to find.}
Speaking of which, you get it out and flip around until you find the right places, and then write down the info. Thankfully the signs aren’t too hard to draw free hand. You’ve come across some annoyingly complicated ones in your time.
IH: I don't like calling the drones, though. They're creepy. 6ut yeah I'll call them.
You open a clean tab on your web browser and pull up the drone requests page. You log in, confirm your blood color and hive coordinates, and start filling out drop-down menus. No, you aren't on a moving hive, yes the surrounding lands are dangerous, and no, trolls shouldn't accompany the drones. The request goes through, and you go back to Trollian.
IH: Drones will be here tomorrow to take care of it.
The music coming through your headphones switches from classic rock to something more modern, and you find yourself bouncing along in time with the beat.
IH: I'm sure your 6ook is easy to find. I should have known 6etter. Silly me.
You sigh. You’re really were organizing your stuff. You just came across something that reminded you of a memory and you started thinking about that, and it happens sometimes, alright? And you’re stuff isn’t a mess such that you get lost in it a lot. It’s only a mess when you’ve just started organizing. And yeah. Ugh, you love Iglora but sometimes she just doesn’t understand your hobbies.
FI: (It wasn’t a random object) (It was)
FI: {BLUH} ((nevermind))
You facepalm and sigh again.
FI: (Iglooooooraaaaaa)
FI: (Not again)
FI: {Why}
FI: (you know they’re there) (and you know they’re not… /actively/ trying to bother you) {whyyyyy}
FI: (anyway, the body. ugh.) (idk man)
FI: (dump it outside somewhere and let the fauna handle it??)
FI: (i mean, unless you know who it was, then you might wanna…) (no, wait) (answer is still the same)
FI: (just don’t leave it rotting in your hive or sylladex or something) (the smell is gross)
Your moirail does this sometimes. On the one hand, you don’t really blame her what with the fact that they are trespassing and ‘Glora’s pretty territorial. But on the other hand, it’s not like they’re in full control of their capacities and have any idea what they’re doing! It’s her lusus’ fault, really.
Iglora’s lusus is kind of weird and you avoid him when at all possible. Mostly because he creeps you out, but also because being around him kind of gives you a headache.
IH: I think it’s in my 6lood or something; I can’t help it.
IH: They’re here, and they’re wrong, and I need to get them out. They don’t 6elong.
IH: And 6esides, they’re kinda creepy.
IH: They’re empty of pretty much anything 6ut wanting to please the old man, after a while, and it just gets on my nerves.
IH: Especially when they see fit to start trying to tell me what to do. Or “helping.”
IH: I already have a moirail, thanks! And I would have to 6e a 6raindead creepazoid with no higher cognizant functions and a list of fetishes longer than the void is dark to flip 6lack for one of my papa’s thralls!!!!!!
IH: Ew!!!!!!
You shudder. The last one - the one lying dead on your floor - kept trying to make you dress in these ridiculous outfits. You know they’re similar to the old ones of your ancestor, but you are in no way a dancer, thank you very much.
IH: Yeah, I really should dump it outside I guess. I’m just running out of places to put them.
IH: It’s two days to the edge of my land and 6odies attract animals and walkers and things I don’t want to deal with.
IH: And then THOSE start encroaching onto my territory.
IH: There really is no winning here.
You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose.
IH: You don’t happen to know anyone with a troll-eating lusus, do you? Or a su6juggulator who likes low6lood corpses?
FI: (Ewww is right. don’t even joke about that. xD)
FI: (Bluuuuuuh. =/)
Typing on your ‘husk is kinda irritating, so you separate your piles a bit so that they won’t get mixed up if stuff starts sliding or wolfmom walks through, and then go to your general block. You grab your laptop and plop down on the lounging device and continue chatting from there.
FI: (No, why would I know a subjuggulator.)
FI: (Especially one that likes lowblood corpses.) (Let’s think about that for a second, here. :P)
FI: (As for troll eating lusus, Idk. I don’t think so…)
You did not get swallowed by your collections (again)! You’re just… a little distracted, is all. You don’t notice your palmhusk buzzing.
And buzzing.
And buzzing.
Oh hey, what’s that noise? … Whoops. You really should start leaving the ringer on instead of keeping the thing on vibrate all the time. You open the “Frequent” drawer in your sylladex and rummage around a little for your palmhusk.
Hehehe, whoops, Iglora’s messaging you. You should probably answer that.
FI: {Hey!}
FI: {I resent the implication that my stuff {{and it’s not junk!!}} isn’t organized!!}
FI: (That’s what I was doing, just now actually.) (Organizing.)
FI: (Just because {some} people might not understand the system I have going here, doesn’t mean there isn’t a system.)
FI: {Also that was one time!!!}
FI: (And of course I read it) ((you gave it to me))
FI: (but it’s not like it didn’t tell me stuff I already knew) (or choose to ignore =P )
FI: ((I totally didn’t just get distracted by looking through stuff)) ((what are you talking about))
FI: (hi btw.) (sup?)
You sigh, drumming your fingers against your desk as you wait for your moirail to dig herself out of whatever junk she’s gotten stuck in this time long enough to respond to you. You’re hiding in your room - which happens to encompass the entire third floor of your hive and contains a kitchenette and master bath - because your lusus is downstairs having …fun with his new thrall. Loud fun. If you took your earphones out, you could probably hear them, but you won’t, so there. Troll Ke$ha blares into your ears and you bob your head, pointedly not looking away from your husktop screen.
You will NOT go kill this one, you will NOT. Even if it feels like the yellowblood is an intruder on your territory. A soft growl escapes your lips, only to be cut short when Trollian flashes at you.
Finally.
IH: Finally.
IH: Just yelling that something is organized doesn’t mean that it actually is. I am sure you are organizing quite efficiently, and not getting distracted 6y any random o6ject you may have laying around.
You laugh. Kezria always gets about three things into her “organizing” before she’s completely and utterly distracted. It doesn’t take long for your laughter to fade, though.
You frown and snap your fingers. “A dead body; an empty doll. Both brown houses devoid of soul; staring lustfully for new occupants, yet unable to reach them.”
Your Metaphor Modus shines, then clicks, accepting the offering. With a sickly squishing noise, the body of a brownblooded troll falls out of your sylladex and to the floor. You grimace at the ruts his square horns leave in your wooden floor before turning back to the keys.
IH: …right.
IH: Anyways, I have a confession to make.
IH: I killed another one of Incu6usdad’s thralls last night.
You sigh. You’re really were organizing your stuff. You just came across something that reminded you of a memory and you started thinking about that, and it happens sometimes, alright? And you’re stuff isn’t a mess such that you get lost in it a lot. It’s only a mess when you’ve just started organizing. And yeah. Ugh, you love Iglora but sometimes she just doesn’t understand your hobbies.
FI: (It wasn’t a random object) (It was)
FI: {BLUH} ((nevermind))
You facepalm and sigh again.
FI: (Iglooooooraaaaaa)
FI: (Not again)
FI: {Why}
FI: (you know they’re there) (and you know they’re not… /actively/ trying to bother you) {whyyyyy}
FI: (anyway, the body. ugh.) (idk man)
FI: (dump it outside somewhere and let the fauna handle it??)
FI: (i mean, unless you know who it was, then you might wanna…) (no, wait) (answer is still the same)
FI: (just don’t leave it rotting in your hive or sylladex or something) (the smell is gross)
Your moirail does this sometimes. On the one hand, you don’t really blame her what with the fact that they are trespassing and ‘Glora’s pretty territorial. But on the other hand, it’s not like they’re in full control of their capacities and have any idea what they’re doing! It’s her lusus’ fault, really.
Iglora’s lusus is kind of weird and you avoid him when at all possible. Mostly because he creeps you out, but also because being around him kind of gives you a headache.
IH: I think it's in my 6lood or something; I can't help it.
IH: They're here, and they're wrong, and I need to get them out. They don't 6elong.
IH: And 6esides, they're kinda creepy.
IH: They're empty of pretty much anything 6ut wanting to please the old man, after a while, and it just gets on my nerves.
IH: Especially when they see fit to start trying to tell me what to do. Or "helping."
IH: I already have a moirail, thanks! And I would have to 6e a 6raindead creepazoid with no higher cognizant functions and a list of fetishes longer than the void is dark to flip 6lack for one of my papa's thralls!!!!!!
IH: Ew!!!!!!
You shudder. The last one - the one lying dead on your floor - kept trying to make you dress in these ridiculous outfits. You know they're similar to the old ones of your ancestor, but noou are in no way a dancer, thank you very much.
IH: Yeah, I really should dump it outside I guess. I'm just running out of places to put them.
IH: It's two days to the edge of my land and 6odies attract animals and walkers and things I don't want to deal with.
IH: And then THOSE start encroaching onto my territory.
IH: There really is no winning here.
You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose.
IH: You don't happen to know anyone with a troll-eating lusus, do you? Or a su6juggulator who likes low6lood corpses?
IH: Paging faithfulIntellect!
IH: FI come in!
IH: …Hello?
IH: Don’t tell me you got swallowed up 6y your stacks of junk again.
IH: I am not digging you out of another pile of whimsical animal figurines.
IH: Kezria!
IH: If I have to come 6y I’m going to 6e very disappointed.
IH: Did you even read that 6ook I gave you on collection organization or did you just lose it in a stack of 6ooks?
IH: Keeeeeezriiiiiiaaaaaa!
You did not get swallowed by your collections (again)! You’re just… a little distracted, is all. You don’t notice your palmhusk buzzing.
And buzzing.
And buzzing.
Oh hey, what’s that noise? … Whoops. You really should start leaving the ringer on instead of keeping the thing on vibrate all the time. You open the “Frequent” drawer in your sylladex and rummage around a little for your palmhusk.
Hehehe, whoops, Iglora’s messaging you. You should probably answer that.
FI: {Hey!}
FI: {I resent the implication that my stuff {{and it’s not junk!!}} isn’t organized!!}
FI: (That’s what I was doing, just now actually.) (Organizing.)
FI: (Just because {some} people might not understand the system I have going here, doesn’t mean there isn’t a system.)
FI: {Also that was one time!!!}
FI: (And of course I read it) ((you gave it to me))
FI: (but it’s not like it didn’t tell me stuff I already knew) (or choose to ignore =P )
FI: ((I totally didn’t just get distracted by looking through stuff)) ((what are you talking about))
FI: (hi btw.) (sup?)
You sigh, drumming your fingers against your desk as you wait for your moirail to dig herself out of whatever junk she's gotten stuck in this time long enough to respond to you. You're hiding in your room - which happens to encompass the entire third floor of your hive and contains a kitchenette and master bath - because your lusus is downstairs having ...fun with his new thrall. Loud fun. If you took your earphones out, you could probably hear them, but you won't, so there. Troll Ke$ha blares into your ears and you bob your head, pointedly not looking away from your husktop screen.
You will NOT go kill this one, you will NOT. Even if it feels like the yellowblood is an intruder on your territory. A soft growl escapes your lips, only to be cut short when Trollian flashes at you.
Finally.
IH: Finally.
IH: Just yelling that something is organized doesn't mean that it actually is. I am sure you are organizing quite efficiently, and not getting distracted 6y any random o6ject you may have laying around.
You laugh. Kezria always gets about three things into her "organizing" before she's completely and utterly distracted. It doesn't take long for your laughter to fade, though.
You frown and snap your fingers. "A dead body; an empty doll. Both brown houses devoid of soul; staring lustfully for new occupants, yet unable to reach them."
Your Metaphor Modus shines, then clicks, accepting the offering. With a sickly squishing noise, the body of a brownblooded troll falls out of your sylladex and to the floor. You grimace at the ruts his square horns leave in your wooden floor before turning back to the keys.
IH: ...right.
IH: Anyways, I have a confession to make.
IH: I killed another one of Incu6usdad's thralls last night.
IH: Paging faithfulIntellect! IH: FI come in! IH: ...Hello? IH: Don't tell me you got swallowed up 6y your stacks of junk again. IH: I am not digging you out of another pile of whimsical animal figurines. IH: Kezria! IH: If I have to come 6uy I'm going to 6e very disappointed. IH: Did you even read that 6ook I gave you on collection organization or did you just lose it in a stack of 6ooks? IH: Keeeeeezriiiiiiaaaaaa!
Doctrilationist; portmanteau of “doctrine” and “public relation(ist)” – career that involves the creation of the propaganda and literature distributed by the empire, as well as the reviewing of non-government works to ensure that they do not contain treasonous or heretical ideations against Her Imperial Condescention and her Glorious Empire
Handle: insidiousHuldra
Blood Color: Blue; #192669
Lusus: Incubusdad
Cast Symbol: Lyre
Gender: Female
Age: 8 Sweeps
Height: 5’11’’
Weight: 230 lbs
Fetch Modus: Metaphor Modus; in which the user must make a metaphor about the item they wish to remove/modify from their sylladex
Strife Specibus: Fistkind, Staffkind, 2xknifekind
Appearance: Long, straight black hair; very tall; slightly overweight;
Horns are curly back and slightly outwards. One horn has a protrusion that points almost straight up; the other has a protrusion that follows the curl of the horn.
Pre-ascension: generally wears dark wash blue jeans; a black t-shirt with her symbol; glasses with a computer interface; hair sticks; and white shoes
Post-ascension: generally wears a light gray button-down shirt with her sign embroidered over the breast; a dark blue, rather flowy skirt over a pair of shorts; and a red scarf as a belt (A7362E because moirallegience); a dark blue jacket, on occasion; glasses with a computer interface and chain; a couple gold/silver bangles; and hair sticks
