The Psiioniic

[By this point, it's been a few weeks since he's been with Dualscar, and he's adjusted to it. The seadweller doesn't always stay at the hive, which is understandable. Someone of his caste is expected to stay busy. Each time he returns, the Psiioniic nearly clings to him, wanting to hear news- or even lack of it- concerning his three friends.]

[Besides that, on his own, the Psiioniic mostly sticks to the library. Occasionally he explores the large hive again, wondering if anything has changed. It's a calm routine. For someone like him, it nearly feels unnatural.]

[...Which is quite possibly one reason explaining why, one night, he manages to get a hold of yellow dye and interrupts a drone on laundry duty. The next night, and it's done.]

[A bored rebel psionic was a disaster just waiting.]

[By now, he's stayed in the kitchen, idly chattering at his drone as he watches the kitchen worker make breakfast. It's almost like he's entirely forgotten about his little prank.]

[Which he hasn't, but he needs something to do to pass the time until it's discovered.]

( A roleplay, summarized by macros and gifs )

A link to the actual thread
(Warning for NSFW and triggers)

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.

To be filled out later...