"Violet, huh? I thuppothe I had thothe fithh all wrong." He manages to force himself to react, plasters a smile on his face, and turns his attention to the designs the preacher is still painting on the ground. He hopes they'll be able to clean that up. (He can't help but feel twitchy at the mess, his first post was as a glorified lusus cleaning after an indigo who liked to pamper his psychics with "easy" jobs but who would lash out violently if things weren't done properly. It left him with the overwhelming need to organize and clean.)

But then, but then he notices the shape the swirls are taking. He knows those loops and curls. Any troll of any rank in the fleet would know that symbol. It belongs to the Grand Highblood, after all. The right hand of the Empire. The head subjugglator. The most powerful troll after the Empress, the troll with the strongest chucklevoodoos. He stares at the Initiate for a long, long moment, and he feels foolish. How could he not have noticed earlier? Those horns, while not as long as the Grand Highblood's, clearly have the same curling nature.

Oh, he's fucked.

"While we're thtill...Thtill vaguely on the topic of titleth," he speaks softly and hesitantly, curling in on himself. He's not sure if he should flee, but now he's terrified. "What did you thay yourth wath, preacher?"