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The Subjugglator's are an elite police force made up of high bloods who adhere to the Imperial Royal Law and execute it with an Iron fist. They do everything and anything in their power to keep the low bloods in line and their tales are something to haunt young trolls in their Recuperacoon's. They are not to be messed with or crossed. They are there to uphold the law and make the definitions in the Hemospectrum very clear. Know your place or pay the price. They are both respected and feared both for their insanity and blood lust to their unwavering loyalty to the crown.

You've heard all the stories, the tales and rumours and nothing can break the illusion of this magnificent force. You want to be apart of the Subjugglators when you are of an age to do so, your proud purple blood will expect nothing less! How would you go about catching their attention? Maybe there is a skill you can bring to the table? Do you wish to serve the crown to the best of your abilities and this group is the way to do it? Remembering that most of them are insane where as you hold all your marbles, can you still see yourself preparing to kill and butcher those that step over the line? The Subjugglators are known for taking no prisoners.

O.K., here we go. I'll admit this isn't my best, but I've gone through a couple of drafts already and I'm tired of emitting and changing. Hope you enjoy it.


Name: Galaxa13
Troll Name: Ketta Pluzig
Prompt Reply:
Ketta looked at himself in the mirror after applying his wicked paints. Today was an important day and he wouldn't mess it up by having sloppy paints. With his reflection's approval he grabbed his jacket and darted from his hive. Today was the day he would prove himself to a subjugglator. Only yesterday a group of lowbloods at made a pitiful attempt at taking over some of the shops in the marketpalce. Of course they had been swiftly dealt with, but you had heard a rumor that a subjugglator had been among the highbloods who dispatched the worthless peons. While this was all rumor and had happened yesterday you were determined to find them.

Ever since he were a grub he had heard the tales of the elite force that, without mercy, silenced those who would rebel (or for really any reason). Only those of the highest blood and deadly skill would even be considered to join their ranks. Ketta had those qualities. For sweeps he had practiced with his throwing draggers and through his veins ran a rich purple hue. With the stories that made most wigglers cry in their recuperacoons pounding in his head he made his way to the marketplace.

Stepping through the streets he couldn't help but grin as he imagined himself meeting the subjugglator and impressing them with his skill and desire. Of course it was also a terrifying thought because the adult could just kill him on the spot for his impudence. Okay, so maybe he won't try to show off, but he still had to see them. To see if the stories of their grandeur was true. If looking into their face would really make his purple blood run cold. He wanted that. To be feared by all the pukebloods wherever he went. To be amongst others who understood the message of the mirthful messiahs.

The streets were deserted, blood still spalshed aginst the walls of the shops and clogged the gutters. That's where it belonged, where the donors belonged. In the drains. Looking around he saw no one out shopping. One of the shops had collasped in the foray of yesterday's excitement. Ketta looked through the streets, looking for any sign of the fabled subjugglator. Finally he had to admit to himself that if there had been a subjugglator around here they were far away by now. He didn't find this disheartening, though. It only made his desire stronger. One day he wouldn't only see a subjugglator. He would be one.

Name: Syusaki
Troll Name: Mofein Otapei
Prompt Reply: Blood was beautiful.

His hands, nails painted a vivid violet to match his blood, reached up to tie his hair with his silk ribbons. Pitch black eyes stared past the flowing curtains that framed his large, circular window. Not a single mirror occupied the room, even as he continued to smile serenely and apply his face paints. Nimble fingers had applied the mask for many sweeps; Mofein had no need for silly mirrors to create perfection. A troll once told him perhaps his lack of mirrors implied a subconscious aversion to his own appearance.

How fortunate the same troll would be culled today.

The ribbon quietly slid in place and he brought his hands down, twining them in his lap. He smiled. He was beautiful. He was a goddamn piece of art. He didn’t require a mirror to know that. His boots tapped against the polished stone as he descended the stairs. A flourish wave to his lusus and he exited his hive.

Shades of blood splattered the streets, and Mofein was absolutely delighted. He took care to sidestep the colorful puddles. It would be a shame to dirty his clothing with paint, after all. Bodies littered the roads and he would’ve kicked them, but no use in staining his boots with supplies. It saddened Mofein that he had missed out on the actual culling itself, but at least the subjugglators had left behind lovely pieces of artwork. He smiled smugly, continuing to push through the piles of fallen trolls. Beautiful, so beautiful.

Mofein stopped in front of a wall, a completely blank slate. Violet lips curled into a frown. How painfully empty. He smiled broadly when a brilliant idea struck him.

“Oh, but of course.” He held back bubbling laughter while he pushed up his sleeves. Normally Mofein preferred to keep himself clean, but being an artist sometimes required him to get down and dirty. How fortunate that there was a colorful pile of bodies nearby. He dipped a hand in a pool of deep red. Mofein crinkled his nose. Dark red. The young troll forced himself to cover his hand with the lowly blood, but his disgust melted away once he spread it across the wall, his new canvas. He drew swirly streaks and painted vague blobs. His other hand reached down to dip into a puddle of green blood. Thick drops spilled onto the ground and his shoes, but Mofein paid no heed. He kept painting away, sticking his fingers into other pools of blood to add another color.

Sans the manic gleam in his eyes, he appeared calm. If he hadn’t been surrounded by bodies, he would have passed for ‘normal’ according to human standards.

Mofein stepped back, admiring his work. The strokes were thick and frantic, sort of like that Van Gogh human the annoying, culled troll apparently liked so much. Grungy figures that appeared to be trolls of all shapes and sizes were everywhere, strewn across the hazy streets or fighting one another. It was bloody. It was chaotic. It was like a miniature war.

It was beautiful—thanks to the blood the subjugglators had wrought.

He grinned a toothy smile, revealing sharp teeth. “I will become a subjugglator.” Art was beautiful, but it would be even more beautiful if the paint was made with his own hands.

Name: saedusk
Troll Name: Neiros Moksha
Prompt Reply: The room was quiet, almost uncomfortably so. Heels clacked noticeably against the bare floor as Neiros moved to the window of his hive. Night had fallen only recently, but already the streets were alive with the buzz of gossip and many moving bodies. It was almost like a sea. An undulating wave of green and blue and purple spotted among black and gray. They were excited, their voices carrying through what once was stillness, only hours ago when the sun was still up.

Two nights ago there had been an uprising. Nothing of note, it had been quelled with a fierce quickness. Still, the number of rebelling lowbloods had made for such an interesting spectacle that they had been kept around and given the fairest of trials before being sentenced to death at the hands of the Subjuggulators. No one had actually expected a single soul to be spared when they were so obviously guilty of treason against the crown. Now, there would be a culling in the streets tonight.

No troll under the bluest-of-green blood dared step out on nights like this. While public displays were not uncommon, there was hardly an order to things where the Subjuggulators were involved. If one looked too much like the criminals meant for slaughter, death could come just as unexpectedly quick. Highbloods, on the other hand, tended to leave their homes in droves to witness the events. A merry time was made of it. More lowbloods put in their place. The world was right again.

Letting out a gentle breath, Neiros stepped away from the window. He had never attended a culling before. Not a single one. There was no reason, not when he had seen all of it before. Not when he had predicted these events so many moons in advance. Taking a seat at the edge of his recuperacoon, a hand wandered up to the mass of matted, unkempt hair that he could barely struggle into the ribbons anymore. On the nearby table, next to the obviously unused brush, was a diary. To the untrained eye, its pages of wisdom meant nothing. Neiros took it in his hands rather lovingly before flipping through, his thumbs grazing over each page in turn.

'Elmyma Agerur. Undlor Ghaull.
Ashyhs Vorerr. Nysero Ardlac. Bropol Tiaque.
Mosloo Worard. Rodogh Dynsay.
Enwora Tainny.
Awalia Enetra. Hatdra Imawer.'

The words had smeared in some places, had dried and flaked in others. They were names. The names of all the victims. Or, more accurately, the names of all the ascended. He had seen them in his dreams, trolls of all colors and creeds, wallowing at the feet of the Subjuggulators with their hands held high. They would shed their blood to be saved. And so, Neiros had learned to shed his own to keep the names carefully tended to in his diary. The tips of many of his fingers were already swollen with permanent scars.

Closing the tome, he let a soft smile slip to his lips as the sound of the crowd outside grew louder and more excited. The lowbloods were dying. In their death, they would be saved. If they were lucky, their offspring's offspring would be born to a higher, better life. Sure, they wouldn't be around to see it, but that hardly mattered. Someday the world would be nothing but highbloods of the best caliber. Neiros clenched his fingers around the book. He could do it. For a savior, killing was easy. One day he would join the ranks of the Subjuggulators, the queen's very hands, and end the suffering, the miserable lives of those who could not understand how perfect the Hemospectrum was. His great dream powers would be a guiding light shining among the painted faces, leading them to their next great conquest. Nay, their next great salvation.

As light began to spill over the land with the coming of morning, he drew closed his windows and set the book back down on the table where it belonged, just within reach of the recuperacoon. When his next vision came, he would write down every name with the rest, knowing with all of his being that he was predicting the next great culling. If only the truth were so easy to believe. Paint cracked at the corners of his mouth as his grin stretched even wider and he ran his hand one last time over the cover.

There were no visions, there was no power. As sure as he was, the dreams were simply that: dreams. And yet, there was no one around to tell him that all the names he had jotted down over the years were nothing to anyone with eyes. Only gibberish.

'dewjfYadhrnSwtyxceLwenff.
FerisuFnsfbnqSetnjfQjdstfA.
frhngeAprqpaIfeopb.
ssornPawrneO.
QfnerdRsmrmaldlreM.'