He feels his bloodpusher stop when the Initiate grabs the knife, and for a moment he feels afraid. He can't deny how curious he feels as the highblood cuts himself, or the way he can't hide the fascinated look on his face as he watches him paint. Something about this feels familiar in a way that's uncomfortable, and he's not sure why that is, and he's even less sure if he wants to know the reasons for this familiarity.

The Psiioniic is quiet as he speaks, staring at the indigo blood staining at the floor. He...he's not really sure what this means. It's not how he would have expected the other troll to act, but maybe he's not as good at reading highbloods as he had once been. Or maybe he was just too concerned with surviving this encounter he hadn't been paying good enough attention. "Are you offering to give me a new title, thir?"

Sir. It's a slip of the tongue, and he can't help but feel ashamed and disgusted by himself. He had once prided himself on being resilient and free, a time so long ago it feels more like a dream, but after so many sweeps it seems like subservience was becoming his nature. As soon as his betters showed up he would bow to them.