Your name is Bereil Amvoku, and so much has changed since you’ve been gone. For one, you’ve changed up your hair. Your friend suggested adding a splash of black to add to your screen appeal. You couldn’t help but agree. It’s grown on you. And another, you’ve had a career change. It can be boring, but at least you aren’t under constant scrutiny anymore.

I’m BRINGING BACK ONE OF MY KIDS FROM RETIREMENT. Bereil has changed his angle, having given up the pursuit of law for something more suited to his innocent intentions and his fast-paced brain: the Media. Although, he’s quickly found that reporting only about the constant tantrums of the local Tyrian in the area can be a bit... Boring. However, he’s made some great new friends, and new doors have opened for him. In the words of his theme, “I’m back, so enjoy the trip.”

Your typical expression of gentle mirth fades and mutates into one of muted panic, your fins sinking slightly beneath the weight of your worries, the ones you’ve covered for sweeps through muted cries of help through memes to hundreds of trolls and aliens alike, coming to the surface. 

“I…”

You look down at your hands, clenching them into tight fists. 

“I have a fear of being abandoned.” 

You say this quietly, speaking more to yourself than to fill the ears of anyone in particular.  Coming to terms with something like this so quickly was not something you were particularly ready for. 

“It’s not a silly fear, like ‘oh, i’m afraid of people just going away because they think I smell funny, or because I made a bad joke.’, no. It’s... beyond that.”

Your lip curls and you heave out a heavy breath, hugging yourself loosely and trying to hide away beneath the comforting folds of your sweatshirt.

“I have a completely based fear that if I....were facing death, a quadrant would leave me, in order to preserve themselves.”

You blink back tears. You don’t want to talk about this anymore. But you have to.

“And Idriss, I....”

Your fins droop, clenching and unclenching your fists with a strained sniffle. All of your tactics to keep yourself from crying are failing. 

“He’s a really nice troll, one of the nicest trolls I’ve ever met, but I...”

You feel the hot sting of tears on your freckled cheeks, and it makes you flinch. 

Of all the reasons to be beaten down, you have never expected your ideologies to turn against you. You were always the good guy, the fighter, the go-getter! You had never expected this, there was no way you ever could. You had just won a monumental case, much to your boss’ chagrin, and you couldn’t be more proud of yourself. However, the troll that you had just convinced Callos to let walk had quite a few enemies. And they swarm you when you leave the safety of the Council, unarmed as you’d never had a reason to carry a strife specibus on you, especially when you held such an image of peace with the citizens of the city.

You managed to get away, but just barely. You’re bleeding from more places than you can count, and you can taste it between your rasping breaths, coating your tongue and teeth as you had fled into the safety of the woods leading to your mentor’s hive. You had felt cold metal hit your skin on more than one occasion, but you were so focused on harnessing the light within you to daze them enough to get away that you hadn’t thought to check yourself for wounds, particularly of the puncturing variety. You’d probably be panicking a whole lot more if you had.

You’re half-blind, partially from the blood stinging your eyes, and partially from the new black eye you’re sporting. You can feel the slick chill of your blood soaking into your undershirt as you run, sopping thickly into the sleek fabric with every pounding step against the near-invisible trails you blaze through. There’s just so much blood. Your face is swollen, runny with saliva and ridged with bruises. Your knuckles are bloody, but more from grinding against pavement than from breaking teeth.

Exhausted, you stop only when you hit the door of your mentor’s hive; slamming your weight against it, you don’t wait for an answer as you slip inside and lock the hive door behind you. You can feel eyes on you, but the pairs of eyes watching you escape inside were your key to abandoning courtesy and patience. As Feyivo steps from the shadows to greet you, you meet him with wide eyes and trembling hands, your white hair stained violet. 

“Mr. Throel, I--” You had been starting to apologize when you placed your hand over your abdomen and pulled back a soaked hand, rich in your color. You hadn’t realized how much blood you’d been losing. You were practically standing in a puddle. Your legs collapse beneath you and you fall, dazed, to the floor. Between your bouts of fighting for consciousness, you can just make out the yelling of your assailants slamming against the door to his hive. 

Probably Emziel tbh. Gotta love the sweets and a lady of the law.

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗💗💗(purely aesthetic appreciation of looks)

FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💗💗💗(how close a friend they consider them)

SEXUAL DESIRE: 💗💗💗(wanting to have sex with them)

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💗💗💗💗💗(hoping for a romantic relationship)

“Stop screaming! Shh, calm down. You have to keep quiet!” You had spoken this with a croak between your bouts of panting and expunging the rotting contents of your stomach onto the floor of your study. You try to see him in the creeping darkness of the room, but your vision is swimming. One of your eyes is completely blind, consumed by the tarry ichor of the eldritch magic you’ve delved much too far in for someone of your experience. You had only known from the screams who it was; the sweet, horridly twisted screams from a troll who claimed to fear nothing. But he fears you now, doesn’t he?

“If you remember nothing else in your twisted delusion, Callos, remember this: Bereil is a KID. And while he may prove to be no threat to you now, know that he is the only one in this council who can grow strong enough to rip you from your throne of lies that you’ve crafted for yourself. You won’t be nimble and spry forever, and he knows that. “

Gentle reminder that Bereil is, in fact, the youngest troll on the High Council at the tiny, tiny age of 12 sweeps. And seeing as he is Callos’s direct counter in the Council’s order of business, it would be of no surprise if Bereil usurps him one day. :3c