#dataexpunged

Your name is Visier Traore, but you much prefer Sir. You suffer from a rather unfortunate mutation due to catching a nasty case of polyhue fever early in your life which caused your eyes to never quite fill in. Combined with your tendency to wear only black and white suits and your round glasses, this has caused some trolls to refer to you as the 'Owl' troll. And sometimes a penguin, though never to your face. Due to your silent nature and your various abilities, some have also taken to calling you the 'mime,' also never to your face. At least that one is more appropriate.

You gather some enjoyment from making people guess your blood color, and one of the few things that amuses you are people struggling to figure out if they should kneel, stand, or stand over you. But very few can stand over you.

You are a professional Censor, a job you enjoy very much, despite many others in your department complaining of the crushing boredom. You are tasked with making sure knowledge the Empire does not want the public to know about stays unknown, whether by suppression, expungement, or eradication of the source. And you have no shortage of things to work with. The Empire has graciously granted you everything you need to target and wipe out whatever you have targeted, though more stubborn stains tend to require greater resources and the filling out of the proper forms.

Censoring and editing the flow of information is easy, but sometimes the source of ire is a specific person or two. Violence is quite common among trolls, you know. No one will miss one or two people, especially if they're spreading such lies as the Condescension's connection to Gl'bgolyb weakening, the number of limebloods growing, and the existence of an organization that doesn't exist. Such things could prove disastrous to the web the Condesce has woven, and we can't have that, can we? Being a Censor gives you the privilege of knowing everything the public doesn't.

Like limebloods; their existence is also somewhat of a problem. One of your duties is seeing to their continued extinction, one way or another. Sometimes groups of them enjoy meeting up, and you enjoy making sure these meetups are in tandem with carnival movements. Someone has to put those clowns to work, after all.

You have been granted many powers from your blood, from the glories of Alternian science, and from various sources you cannot mention to the commoners. Combined with your technology, you dare say you are the best at your job. There are some better, but they are few, and across the galaxy on other worlds. But for this little sector of the Empire? For Alternia? You control the flow of information better than anyone. Few know as much as you, and fewer know more.

Off the clock, which you almost never are, you enjoy very few things. Reading uncensored material, for example, under the guise of looking for things to cut out or edit. You also enjoy chatting it up with those below you to see if they know things they shouldn't. You love nice meals, astronomy, seeing the sights in your personal craft, serving the unknown, serving the Empire, and chocolate chip cookies (with milk of course).

Your trollian handle is dataExpunged and you appear to not use a quirk, but have written a program that keeps important information and uncouth language blocked. Like so: Those [REDACTED] cretins don't seem to understand my [REDACTED] purpose in the Empire.