Your name is Tirala Saalis, a mere maroonblood of seven solar sweeps. You once held interest in video games and sports and sparring, challenging your wits, strength and reflexes to hopefully be considered worthy of consideration as a warrior in any of Alternia's mighty fleets, as adulthood looms in just a sweep. But not anymore.
Your lusus is unimportant now that she's dead. When you had a computer, your trolltag was flightyProngs and you like> to type with a sharpene> e>ge.
Fitting your caste, you have psychic powers, which you try to ignore in favor of physical prowess in an effort to avoid telekinetic slavery. As such, your ability is moot and undeveloped.
Your interests were culled along with most of your lawn ring and its inhabitants. Rumors of potential revolt attracted the attention of a nearby ship, which happily took on the task of slaughtering most of your neighbors, and enslaving the rest. Including you. Especially you.
The ship's blueblood captain Skytta Mettsa took a dark shining to you. It was hate at first sight. Her feelings reached their blackest apex when you managed to beat the shit out of her one night, and absconded from the ship, which still held low to the surface.
Well, you actually hadn't intended to do that. You had hoped to slip out of the brig and jump overboard unnoticed, but she was fortunately, or unfortunately, awake at the time, and got in the way. You could have killed her, but you were in a hurry and needed to get the hell out of there before anyone else came by.
If you had killed her, a legislacerator would have been dispatched to hang you. Or maybe they would have just drafted you into the army early.
Instead, she hunts you. Skytta hates you and you covets you in spades. She runs you ragged across the landscape. You use every ounce of endurance and skill to run and hide, hide and run. She does not give you a head start, and herds you away from the cities where you might hole yourself up with sympathetic lowbloods and stand an honest chance of slipping out of her grasp for good.
She makes certain that you hate her just as much in return. She makes certain that you are powerful enough to prove a worthy rival, for her association with one of your vile blood could not possibly prosper in the eyes of her peers if such a peasant were also weak.
You hate her and hate that she stole everything out from under you, came along and smashed your tiny little window of freedom before inevitable conscription. You are tired and hungry, wounded and exhausted at all times, far from civilization and lonely without your lusus. You know every time you're forced to sleep openly under the blistering sun, or not sleep at all as horrendous nightmares haunt your sopor-starved mind, that all of it is her fault.
And you know that if she had not waxed black for you, the rest of your life would instead be spent, at best, as a foot soldier, fodder for the front lines, or a slave. At worst, a living graft to one of the ships, your brain reaped for all its latent telekinetic energies, using you as fuel until your neurons fried, cutting your short life even shorter.
She hunts you, but she keeps you alive. She makes it clear that if you refuse to run, refuse to rebel and rival against her, that she will kill you without remorse.
When she does catch up to you, your recapture is not guaranteed. You make yourself a viciously fitting nemesis and fight her off for all you're worth. You leave her a mess, and slip away before the ship catches up to recover her. Your brutality against her dignity leaves her enraged. You blatantly refuse to kill her outright. You tell her so each time.
But sometimes, she does get you. Her anger, or impatience, overrides her aristocratic love of an honorable hunt on foot, and she simply rolls over your position with soldiers on hand. And sometimes her skill and strength simply matches your own.
She takes you aboard and leaves you in solitary. She does not have you perform menial tasks, though she could try, but you would only escape that much quicker. She ensures that no one else kill you, or even squabble with you. She jealously hides you away from them to prevent you from forming a rivalry with anyone else. Once though, she took devilish delight in demeaning you by dragging you along to some detestable blueblood ball, dressing you up and hanging you off her arm opposite her matesprit, freshly-bandaged wounds and all.
Your despairing lack of significant contact with other trolls has left your quadrants gaping. Sometimes you get a little untrollishly lonely and make a stupid pale comment toward her, and she puts you to the irons for your disgustingly platonic solicitation.
Her mistake of not giving you time for red romance nearly proved fatal when a drone visited the ship. She chose a similarly single greenblood and forced you both to fake a matespritship for the sake of filling the filial pails. You doubt such an insincere union will ever produce progeny. It all made you hate her a little more, in a little less of a romantic way and more of a real, raw desire to someday see her dead.
You dig a little deeper and try to mentally club yourself out of it, hold your own hands and pretend to stand to the side of yourself and talk yourself down to concupiscent hate again. You remind yourself how all the ways the bitch makes you miserable are reasons to keep her around.
But it's a little hard to forget how life felt for most of those seven sweeps. This black romance may be all you know now, but you knew normal life before, one not wholly eclipsed by the obsession of another.
You sometimes wish you had another rival, but you know they could never challenge and strengthen you the way she does.
They could never humiliate and weaken you the way she does.
You hate her with all your heart, but you don't know if you hate her the right way anymore.