150 Drabbles

I. Introduction

"OW- fuck, watch what you're doing!"

There's a snort, and he shifts impatiently on the hard floor of the cave they're in. They're lucky they found one that's not shallow, so that the harsh rays of the sun don't burn them. Of course, his pessimism views it as a double bladekind; with his luck, the owner of this place will be big and nasty and have lots of teeth and too many claws.

"Tho thorry." Even as he apologizes to the seatroll he's tending to, there's something bitter underneath his rigid politeness. Always be good to highbloods. Always be on your best behavior. Even as a troll of four sweeps, he knows what he's supposed to do and how he should act. It doesn't matter that the troll before him can't be much older than him. "I'll be thure to be more careful."

Just as expected, there's an imperious little snort, and then the other troll gives an impatient wiggle. Makes it a bit hard for him to hold the moss against his face. "What is this stuff, anyway?"

"Thopor moth."

"What?"

He grits his teeth. "Thopor. What you thleep in. Thith thtuff ith a part of it. It maketh you feel numb. Good for pain."

There's a small noise of understanding, and then blissful silence. Of course it doesn't last long. The seatroll gives a wide grin full of too many teeth and says bluntly, "You talk stupid. What's your name?"

God, he hopes those claw gashes in his face leave scars. The jerk deserves it for getting them in this situation. This was just to be a simple scavenging trip, but nooooo. "Artollo Apemith," he supplies reluctantly, tongue tripping on the 's'.

1x1 Smut RP - Psiioniic/Dualscar

Psionic abilities aren't really meant to be repressed. Any lowblood troll knows that. It's as much a part of them as anything, and restricting them is a nuisance, at best. That's for the trolls whose powers are honestly trivial things and who only suffer little aches and pains. Headaches are the most common. But his?

Artollo isn't aware of how strong his powers are. He doesn't want to know. It's a fear of his that he doesn't want confirmed. He doesn't want to be taken away like all the other high level psionics before him have been. It takes a lot of work to force his psionics down, to try and muffle the voices of the dead which never stop speaking, and it's enough to wear a troll down. Honestly, it's amazing he's been able to keep it down this much to last him through the night and his time of work. Now? Now he's pressed up against the wall of a small little side alley he thinks is safe for the moment, gasping for breath and sparks of red and blue twisting from his eyes and falling down his cheeks. The voices are loud loud loud and he can't muffle them. He can't hear himself think. A release, he needs some sort of release...

Through the static and screams and noise, all in his own head, the Psiioniic manages to remember the one troll he needs for this kind of thing. Holding himself tightly, he starts to stumble through the narrow backstreets and in the direction of the docks.

At some point, he thinks he's attacked. But he doesn't remember much about it. Only smears of dull orange and maybe green along walls. There might be something on his boots. It doesn't matter.

What matters is using the desperation he has within him to slyly slip onto the ship, past the sentries posted, and hide away in the captain's cabin. If he were in a more stable state of mind, then maybe he'd make some snarky comment to himself about the lack of crew onboard, how seagrifts are always so reliable to go off and mess with the town when they dock. But he doesn't say a word. The Psiioniic is utterly silent as he curls up in a small corner of a room, his face flushed and his eyes half-lidded from some sense of ecstasy as his powers leak out all around him, red-blue-purple-red glow making things float about him.

His morail. He needs his morail here right now.