Your name is DRAVIL AGFAHY and it is your seventh WIGGLING DAY. Congratulations, you have made it through seven sweeps without exploding in some POORLY PLANNED EXPERIMENT.
You have also made it through seven sweeps without exploding of SHEER FRUSTRATION, as you routinely note. The source of this anger is your lack of any PSYCHIC ABILITIES whatsoever, especially in COMMUNING WITH THE DEAD, where you are absolutely hopeless. Your psionic uselessness is confounding; after all, you are a LIMEBLOOD. One of your acquaintances is a grade lower, an ochre, and is also incredibly powerful TELEKINETICALLY.
You are SO FUCKING ENVIOUS. You are LIME with envy.
Regardless, you stubbornly refuse to give up and abandon PSIONICS, as you did with expressions of ABNORMAL STRENGTH. It's genetic, as you realized, and you simply do not have the HIGHBLOOD GENE. To make up for your lack of any outstanding inborn trait whatsoever, you devote a good chunk of your life to books of RITE and RITUAL, as well as RITES and RITUALS themselves; in the spirit of ceremony, you've torn off every Y and G key on every keyboard you've ever owned, modelling after your very first.
Your LUSUS is one of the RARE BEASTS descended from the legendary HYDRA. She retains the appearance and abilities of her bloodline. While she is no help in your relentless pursuit of MENTAL POWER, she has taught you the fun in LIES and FABRICATION. HYDRAMOM is the one directly responsible for your flippant attitude towards the truth. That being said, you are ardent about maintaining the INTEGRITY of KNOWLEDGE. It is only in regards to your own state that you stray from COMPLETE HONESTY. Your MOIRAIL takes this in stride, which you are secretly grateful for.
You share an interest in CHEMISTRY with him. Other things you enjoy include SYMBOLOGY, STUDY OF ANCIENT TEXTS, and RAISING THE DEAD, though you can only be sure that you'd enjoy necromancy, as you have yet to accomplish it. You are also an amateur ARBORICULTURIST. The tall trunks that surround your HIVE were all planted and cared for by you; they arise from a singular STOCK, the material of a TOWERING TREE you visited in your EARLY GRUBHOOD. Growing a specimen that SURPASSES IT has been a CONSUMING AMBITION of yours, although you are prone to saying otherwise.
You GRIEF THINGS with your trusty BAR STOOL; it occupies the CHAIRKIND Specibus. You STORE THINGS with your trusty BAR TRICKS; they occupy the SLEIGHT Sylladex. In order to remove a desired item, you perform FIXED TRICKS with a PROVIDED GLASS BOTTLE. Missing a move results in a START OVER; dropping the bottle results in the RELEASE OF EVERYTHING YOU'VE CAPTCHALOGUED, which is PRETTY DAMN ANNOYING. Using the chair is much easier; you just hit things and they RECEIVE BLUNT TRAUMA, which is PRETTY DAMN OBVIOUS.
You usually LIE for little reason. This trait of offhandChicanery [OC] makes itself known as ieour trollTaq, accompanied bie a quirk that likewise manifests with irreqular frequencie. Some trolls have complained about this. You onlie pretend to care.