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Training

Well, if he couldn’t slaughter desert fauna, the next step up the ladder was lowbloods (really, literally the next rung, lowbloods might as well have been more intelligent animals)! So back to training Ophion went. This time they were allowed to use wooden imitations of their weapons. Trolls who had firearms found themselves in a strange position with the cheap rubber bullet training guns they were forcefully given in place of their own weapons. Due to an “incident” they wouldn’t go too much into, they didn’t trust the trolls with their own weapons and thus, they ended up with old and worn military training weapons.

While Ophion found the balance of his sturdy, but slightly worn, wooden swords, he watched his yellowblood opponent frown at his little handguns. “As you might have noticed,” the instructor barked out as she walked alongside the pairings, “double weapon users have been paired up together. You will continue to be paired with other double weapon users until no other opponents remain. Then the winning single weapon user will face off against the last double weapon user.”

Ophion twirled his swords confidently and eyed the redblood a ways down from him. The muscled shebeast rubbed her callused palms against the rubber head of her large mallet and, as if fate would have it, she looked over and met his gaze. For some reason, Ophion had a strong hunch that he would end up facing off with her yet again. But this time, this time with actual weapons, he wouldn’t hit a stalemate (yes it was a stalemate okay) like before. This time she’d be the one swallowing teeth on the long walk back to her pod.

The instructor rattled off some rules that he didn’t listen to and, suddenly, there was the whistle. The game was on. A shot whizzed past his ear within seconds and, with a twisted smile, Ophion sprinted toward his opponent; if he kept the fight short-ranged, he’d have less of a chance to get a good shot.

And he was right. Once he closed the distance, his opponent spent too much time trying to dodge than he did trying to attack and, one knock to his balance left him flailing and open to a scissor cut (well, sort of) right to the ribs. Ophion moved to attack the fallen, writhing yellowblood but a familiar hand gripped his shoulder. “Next opponent,” she said curtly and pointed to another double sword user.

Ophion continued to smack his way through opponents until, as fate would have it, he and the shebeast redblood stood across from each other once more. Neither of them were unscathed from their previous battles, and both seemed to be slightly out of breath but somehow…somehow both of them seemed more invigorated than they had at the beginning. This was THE fight.

KP Duty

"... Uh.. Just... just label it as 'mystery meat'! The kids will love it!"

KP Duty

"I'm honestly starting to think you guys at the engineering 'lab' are trying to poison us all or something..."

"Now what on Alternia would give you that idea?"

"The fact that you just dumped off that burnt mess of feathers on that counter there."

"... It's a perfectly edible animal... Completely fresh and already slightly cooked! Think of it as a pre-prepared poultry product!"

"... Did you plan that out on the way here or is that just a natural thing with you?"

"Sorry?

"The alliteration."

"Oh... uh... yeah, that was weird wasn't it?"

guard

KP Duty

The narrator was gonna write a post
but then he got tired
He was gonna make a good, honest prose
but then he got tired
So now he'll just write something to boast
and cut throats on a wire

Hey-yeah-it rhymed

Cuz he got tired
cuz he got tired
cuz he got tired

ba-da-da-da-da-dum

To be honest, any sort of back-talking gossip was hardly anything to dent his ego. He didn't hear the pair, but he had no desire too, and wouldn't of stopped them; flattery, he told himself, was the only thing he was gaining from this. They were merely jealous. Everyone was, in most practical terms of the word. After all, envy was a great sin, if only because of the frequency of it's appearance and turbulent, much less thought about consequences. Muerte himself had no times to play or partake in envy or gossip; trivial things! He'd leave that to trolls like the hall way.

Meanwhile, he would sit here and work until his heart was content. The class had been dismissed, but he'd stay a little later- he often did- or at least until he was forced to leave by the instructor. Most of the kids around had left to search for the jadeblood, but really he was more interested in less 'important' matters. Occupying his constantly ticking mind was a huge hassle for him or anyone involved, but the government technologies proved to be a remedy for that, and he continued to tinker with the objects. Let everyone else to the work, if they found the jadeblood, everyone else would be notified anyway. No need risking his life out there- not that he'd die, mind you- but he'd rather not get into a tiff with a beast or whatever nondescript heathens that tend to lurk out there.

And he'd rather not have to deal with other trolls, either. He had hated it enough just being here, and was starting to somewhat regret his decision. He was loosing interest rapidly, and that was no good. He hated being bored, and there were much better things to do back at his hive rather then be out in the god forsaken desert. Christ he hated the desert.

But then he hears a rather familiar voice. Cooing, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Startled, but he didn't jump. Still, the scientist uncertainly swivels his head, looking at the indigoblooded troll with a nonchalant seemingly-uninterested gaze. He hadn't forgotten about their run in at Chittentown; the desert seemed to be the place, eh? He raised a brow, the disinterest gone, he wore a more curious expression now.

"Fancy indeed." he replied casually. Ophion was right however, he wasn't here for equality or for the mothergrub or whatever the hell the rebels were trying to do here (How finding the mothergrub would convince the queen to be more lenient with equality was beyond him), but he knew himself the highblood had to have his own reasons. Why would he join a cause against his caste? Granted, there were a few like that, but they were seldom, and from what he garnered from his first encounter with the guy, he wasn't that sort of individual at all.

Not that it mattered. He glances at his miniature project once or twice before putting it to rest, setting down the screw driver he was grasping in one hand onto the cool table. Guarded eyes behind panes of eyeglass looked uncertain, but also vaguely amused. Whatever he reason for being here, he wasn't out with the raids either. He had half a mind to outright ask. Maybe some small talk would just be easier, not that it really mattered to him what affairs this purpleblood got himself into.

"And what might bring you to this little sliver of heaven, eh?" he asked, emotionless if not for the slight emphasis on his 't' sounds and the very noticeable twinge of bitter sarcasm at the end. He was really getting sick of this place and the sand, mostly the latter, however.

For trolls who took the time to volunteer and help out, or even take an interest in learning self defense, your nights were if not packed, then filled sufficiently with the kind of real life experience that no one can learn from a book. And you gained more than just experience. The eyes of the older rebels, the ones who dressed in their hemoanonymous robes and kept their symbols hidden, had a kinder look when they crossed yours. It was clear that your effort to help was appreciated, and so were the results. Eventually, most trolls were taken aside and given a quiet talk. Most of it was just simple thanks for your effort and time, but you were also passed small bits of broken metal. Closer examination would show that these were more than just scrap, instead they were carefully cut pieces from the abandoned currency system that a previous monarch had tried to replace beetles with. They of course had failed, whoever heard of using metal as money? But the coins remained, and were considered valuable collectors items to any troll interested in that kind of stuff. It was clear that each piece you were given was a token of appreciation, and recognition, of your hard work.

For trolls who got under 10 in any category, you just didn't put enough effort in to be considered truly helping. Maybe if you had been a bit more willing to get your hands dirty, you would have been rewarded.

For trolls who got 10 to 19 points, you're given a small piece of the most common of the coins, simply made of cheap scrap iron. While it's not one of the most valuable souvenirs, it shows that you took the time to assist and they recognize that. And hey, now you've got experience in what ever it was you were doing, and it shows!

For trolls who got 20 to 29 points, you're given a small piece of one of the slightly more valuable coins, molded out of slightly dented impure copper. A copper coin was considered the staple of the attempted currency, and you were a staple of the task force that helped keep the camp running during your stay. You've also got quite a bit of experience under your belt to go with your shiny new prize, certainly something you can bring back and apply to your more mundane everyday life. Along with this, you've been approached by one of the hackers and slipped a small one use, non-rechargable trinket. They mention that to activate it, just check in with them after the mother grub issue has been dealt with.

For trolls who got 30 to 39 points, you're given a small piece of one of the rarer of the remaining coins, a shimmering slice of solid silver. Most silver coins were melted back down into their pure form and remade into jewelery or other objects after they failed as a currency, and its clear that to get this your benefactor had to go to no small trouble. But to them, you're worth it. In your time at the camp, you've become recognized as a troll who can be relied on, and are surely on their list of future allies. Along with this, you've been approached by one of the hackers and slipped a small two use, non-rechargable trinket. They mention that to activate it, just check in with them after the mother grub issue has been dealt with.

For trolls who got 40 plus points, you're given a small piece of one of the most valuable of all the coins minted, a glossy and glittering piece of pure gold. As soon as the currency bombed, most trolls in possession of gold coins immediately set to work converting them into something with value, or selling them off to other trolls who wanted the precious metal, leaving barely a handful of these remaining in circulation. You're not even sure how a bunch of scruffy rebels managed to get their hands on one of these, surely only highbloods had enough beetles to trade for them. You're also given one of the first smiles you've seen from these stoic trolls, which flashed as brightly as the small piece of metal in your hand. Your assistance will not be forgotten for a long, long time. Along with this, you've been approached by one of the hackers and slipped a small normal, four-charge trinket. They mention that to activate it, just check in with them after the mother grub issue has been dealt with.

Trolls are recommended to take their tokens and keep them in their journals, you never know when you'll need them later! All trinkets are novice level, but only 40+ trinkets are rechargeable at the store. However, your troll can pick from the following trinket abilities: offensive style B, defensive style B, agility style B. Trinkets can't be used in battles until the meta has officially finished.

A single corner of his lips twitched up as Muerte continued with their little charade of formality. Or maybe it wasn’t too much of a charade, but it was being played like one, even if it was honest. “Perhaps you should care about genetics,” he tapped the tool against the greenblood’s nose and gave a baring of teeth that was supposed to be a smile but was far too hungry for it to appear as anything but ravenous. “Should you choose to,” there was a throaty little chuckle before his next, teasing words, “decipher the enigmas,” (was he goading him? Perhaps.) “You might find yourself without a want in the world.”

It was an audacious promise, all leading up to an even more audacious proposition. Mercifully, Ophion set the tool down and backed away from Muerte to stand behind him (not much better but still now he wasn’t breathing down his neck). “Genetics is the key to cloning. Imagine, sequencing the genome of a mother grub…to have the blueprint to make your own.” Ophion grasped the back of his chair and leaned forward until his lips were nearly brushing his ear. “To have your own, persssonal, troll factory,” he whispered, unable to keep the hiss out of his voice. The thought was just so…exhilarating that his tongue just couldn’t contain itself.