ObliviousCruciverbalist

> Be the uncaring lump of trollflesh.
Your name is LLOLLA ASHEMA and you are seven sweeps old.

Compared to your more EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE PEERS, you are SURPRISINGLY PLACID and SEEMINGLY DEVOID OF A SERIOUS PERSONALITY DYSFUNCTION; the fact that violence does not interest you as much as it should, though, is usually considered as one. In fact, a lot of things don't interest you as much as they should. As a result, MOST CONSIDER YOUR TEMPERAMENT A WEAK, BORING FREAK OF NATURE.

Much to their annoyance, you are more than happy to let them think that way.

You like a lot of things, such as GROTESQUE RENDERINGS OF HUMANIMALS, AMUSING CARICATURES OF FELLOW TROLLS, and UNCOMMON, UNNECESSARILY ELONGATED WORDS. You keep yourself busy with several hobbies THAT YOU ARE ACTUALLY PRETTY GOOD AT, which include COMPLETING CROSSWORD PUZZLES, COLLECTING SOCKS, and FINGER-PAINTING WITH ANYTHING YOU CAN FIND EXCEPT PAINT. And since blood comes in so many colors, why not use it?

Unfortunately, blood does not make very good pigments, since it tends to DRY AND FLAKE AFTER A WHILE. Your own blood is a DARK SHADE OF TEAL, which has pretty much DEFINED YOUR ENTIRE EXISTENCE as "almost but not quite"; when it comes to physical capability you are BARELY ABOVE AVERAGE, and as a member of the "higher" end of the hemospectrum, whatever psychic virtue you've got is PRETTY FUCKING LAUGHABLE. Still, you can CATCH ECHOES OF THOUGHTS if you concentrate and no one can not be there anymore quite like the way you do—which you don't really get because all it takes are SURPRISINGLY QUIET FEET.

Gog, the world would be a better place if EVERYONE ELSE LEARNED TO KEEP THE SOUND OF THEIR FUCKING. FOOTSTEPS. TO. THEM. SELVES-!!!

...You surmise that this EXTREME AVERSION TO EXCESS NOISE might have something to do with living in the LAND OF WOOD AND GLASS.

Anyways, as much as you like words, you prefer to see it on paper, NOT out in the air in buzzing fucking swarms of soliloquies. Some people just need to learn to STUFF IT.

You are still not sure whether you like this TROLLIAN thing much, but your friends do it and because you TEND TO ZONE YOUR OWN FRIENDS OUT it's one of the few ways they know your HERMIT-Y ASS IS ALIVE AT ALL. Your trolltag is obliviousCruciverbalist and your text color is #006666. You wonder why people have trouble understanding you—you're pretty sure there's little to be confused about—but that probably has to do with your vveirrd, slighfly dysslexic accenf.

That excess of hmm~?s and smileys appear only when you are really, really angry.

> Examine self.
"VVhaf? VVhy??"

There isn't much to look at, and you're not quite sure how that thought could have occurred to you. TWO SMALL HORNS, A HORRIBLE HAIRCUT, and A PAIR OF PREDICTABLY MISMATCHED SOCKS—it's a wonder that anyone even looks at you in the first place.

But, okay, you're not that bad to look at. Your CRAZY, WOOLLY HAIR had been pretty ugly to begin with, so that HAPHAZARD BOBCUT is probably the BEST THING TO HAVE EVER HAPPENED TO IT. And those socks are PRETTY DAMN CRAZY, TOO.

> Give your lussus a big, wet kiss!
''"Vh, okay..." ''

—but before you can, your lussus entitles you to a long, baleful look, and you catch the tail end of one particular thought: pessst.

You give it a sheepish smile instead.

It yawns, presenting you with an unenviable view of ALL THREE ROWS OF ITS 472 TEETH and its inky blue tongue, which is coated in a VISCOUS TOXIN THAT PARALYZES IMMEDIATELY UPON CONTACT. If you had ventured a companionable pat on the head, it would have graciously licked your hand in reply, tentative truce notwithstanding.

Yes, it's much, much better that you don't.

Good call. Now, it's time for you to take a step back and get a good look at your hive...

> Examine hive.
"Meh. Covld be befferr..."

As one of the few trolls who are ABLE TO WITHSTAND THE ALTERNIAN SUN, your LUSSUS burrowed A LARGE, CAVERNOUS HIVE on the ground. A SYSTEM OF TUNNELS function as your stairwells, making it easier for both you and your lussus to get around, but only your lussus actually knows how to navigate it. At night, you get lost—and ALMOST DEFENESTRATE YOURSELF—more times than you'd like to admit.

Blvgh, you really need to install some GLASS in this place. Gog knows there's MORE THAN ENOUGH LYING AROUND to supply you.

> Go look outside.

 * "Gof fo be carreful abouf fhiss."


 * You push aside the curtain and look down—and quickly look away. TREES FULL OF GLASS are nice to look at, but they're positively blinding in the morning and it's way too easy to blind yourself this way.

> Look for your respiteblock.

 * *grrvmblegrrvmblegrrvmble*
 * Having to look for your respiteblock should be a crime. Your hive is what it is though, and because sometimes you just can't seem to find it on some days, you've SPENT A FORTUNE ON CUSHIONS and littered your ENTIRE HIVE with them, just in case.

> ...and spend the next two hours searching for it.

 * "Sfupid, sfupid lussuss..."


 * You don't. Oh, well. Your respiteblock's your own PRIVATE LITTLE HOLE TO BUGGER OFF TO, anyway.
 * But when you do find it—eventually—you let your eyes fall on its curving, arching interior. FROM INCH TO INCH TO INCH the walls are covered beneath the UNDENIABLE GLORY OF HORRIFICALLY GROTESQUE HUMANIMALS IN VARIOUS STATES AND POSITONS, as well BUT A FEW OF THE MASTERPIECES YOU'VE CREATED WITH MYSTERIOUS, QUESTIONABLE SUBSTANCES.
 * Your find yourself glancing at one of your oldest pieces, and notice that a great portion of its colors have ALREADY FLAKED OFF.
 * Gogdamnif.
 * Your find yourself glancing at one of your oldest pieces, and notice that a great portion of its colors have ALREADY FLAKED OFF.
 * Gogdamnif.
 * Gogdamnif.

> Examine Strife Specibus!
"...novv vvherre did I puf fhem...?"

After spending ANOTHER THREE HOURS wandering the tunnels, you have finally allocated your Strife Specibus with 2*3DENTKIND. Even now you're still not sure why you chose DUAL MEAT FORKS, but it might've had something to do with that ROAST you stole from your friend a few sweeps ago—you remember seeing one PROTRUDING FROM IT.

And staring at it, marveling at the SLEEK, DOUBLE-PRONGED SHAPE glinting amidst all the steam.

And thinking, shif-damn-ffuck, I need fo gef myself one of fhose...

In the end, you got not one, but two.

That roast was damn tasty, too.