Me put hand on me tum-tum, ’cause it hurt. Me hungry. It make roar.
Me… wonder?
Me let go wee-wee on big-stick, an’ den noggin-hurty come.
[ Failed to claim— ]
Me wipe noggin-hurty, an’ den me wait for da food.
It no come.
Why it no come?
“Grug stomach hurty?” ask snappy-jaw-thing-darien. Den it touch somethin’ an den it hold somethin.’
What dat?
“It make food come? Want food come?”
How? How you make food come?
Me no can do it, how you do it?
“Dis… nice-roary-thingy, make food come. If you… no loud-troll? No make noise?”
Oh. Me understand. Me be no-noise-troll. Me lay on da ground an’ me be no-noise.
Me be like… dat see-no-go-stuff.
Me wait for da food.
It come… ’cause me no noise.
Me sneaky troll… me greatest sneaky troll!
Oh… ground cold. Make flicker-hot-hurty feel good. Dat good.
Me no get food. Me want food.
Me look at darien-thingy.
No food?
—
Jonas
“Okay, it doesn’t understand its constantly speaking?” Jonas asks, looking at the — frankly ridiculous — attempt to hide itself in the ground and be quiet… despite the constant chattering.
Father is holding back a laugh. “No, it’s… it’s talking about how its really quiet. Actually, it’s impressive. It’s relating itself to the glass — being see-through — but it doesn’t have a clue its loud as anything.”
“How did it live this long? How does it hunt? Pure, unadulterated luck?”
Father shakes his head. “Oh, I do not know. This is fascinating.” He speaks, then closes the book and hands it back over to Jonas, complete with a new set of phrases.
He takes it… but the burning question in his mind forces its way out. “How big is it? Y’know, compared to the other one you spoke to?”
His father’s barely-contained laughter stops. All joviality is gone; his face grows pale. “I was nothing next to The Wandering Troll. I was less than a speck on dust on an ant. They do not relate, in any way.”
Jonas doesn’t speak any more. Instead, he re-reads the two scrawling lines of text.
One in Voidori, the other in trollspeak.
Father’s handwriting leaves… something to be desired at the best of times — and yet he’d written it whilst actively walking. Not slow, either.
The resulting script is… less than optimal.
—
Me be no-noise troll, greatest no-noise-troll!
Me is Grug, me is da dark, like me cave under bridge!
Me look back. Da snappy-jaw-thing no have thing in it hand. Where it go?”
“Sorry, Grug, it break.”
Oh. Dat bad. But it okay… me go get food.
Me go big-stick-place-lots an’ me sniff. Me big sniff, biggest sniff.
Den me go!
Dey’s somethin’ big an’ somethin’ tasty!
Den me find it. It… more snappy-jaw?
It got munchers like snappy-jaw, only it got two legs, no four legs.
An’ it big… it big-big.
It go singly-bad, an’ den noggin-hurty.
[ You are in Young Ferocladon’s Nest. ]
—
EMERIC
Emeric follows the scent. The whiff of dog is perfect for tracking.
Unfortunate that so many dogs were needed to make it so potent… the endless days of cutting snouts and boiling them down was tedious.
But… now… it is worth it!
He takes another.
Damned be the consequences.
Breath comes to him… he smells the water; the fish underneath; the rotten and burnt wood of the bridge — even the smell of the troll’s damp, musty cave.
The grass… the shadow-wood, the bird-shit, the miles under the ground.
Everything.
It’s like a path is in his mind — and he need only follow it straight to the troll. Each step makes it stronger.
He sure of it now — a divinity blesses him.
It has draped its golden cloak across his back.
His mission is righteous, just, and necessary!
He darks between trees, letting the smell guide him — but he maintains his hold on his mind. Sharps eyes watch the dark trees, ignoring the defensive writhing.
All of his senses are alight… perhaps he wasn’t as precise in snouting the dogs as he thought.
His heart races in two different ways,
Fear and excitement in equal measure.
Hunter and hunted.
But this time, he will succeed.
His ears leap into action — a massive roar shakes the trees, the shadow-mass on the barks squirming and releasing chemicals of fear that flood his nose.
He goes for the source.
—
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Damien
With nary a second of warning, the troll is gone. Powerful muscles launch it into the mist that surrounds the black-bark trees.
He freezes — as does Jonas. They look at each other, then to the woods around them…
Then they take off running after the troll.
Did something spook it?
Is it just running for the damned of it?
The forest reacts as they enter the mists. In truth, its been watching them the entire time.
It reacts in tiny, almost imperceptible ways.
If he were not the Worldseeker Damien — if his perception were not enhanced by his Legend — he would not notice.
As it stands… there is something wrong — and being near the troll is going to be much safer, even off the beaten path.
Before long, his moves to four feet to keep up. Jonas does, too, but he’s not very strong yet.
In fact, its surprising. Enough people know of Jonas… and he has an inheritance of Legend from Damien…
Yet he can’t access the panel.
He shakes his head. Not the time.
The troll disappears round a tree… then it is gone. A flash, here or there… but it is taken by the mist.
The trees reflect the sound wrong, and their ears aren’t quite strong enough to pick it out.
The troll is gone.
“Damn it.” Shouts Jonas. “You stupid fucking troll!”
Damien grips his arm. “Stop. Don’t alert something to our presence.”
He nods, stifling his big, exhausted breaths. “Will it… find us… again?”
“Here? Not likely. What the hell did it—“
A roar. North. Loud. So loud it pierces through the obfuscation and shakes the leaves.
The bark begins to warp into humanoid faces. He wipes the sweat from his brow… then starts to run.
He’s going to feel this, in the morning.
—
EMERIC
Another. More. He clicks one of the steel vial-holders from his waist and pops the cap.
This one tastes just vile.
But he presses it in, anyway.
His tongue touches a chunk… he cringes… he swallows.
Improperly stored.
He doubles over, bile rises in his throat. Two seperate divisions of alchemy blend in his blood.
He grips his chest… then becomes light as air.
He jumps from tree to tree, barely staying there long enough to register before ricocheting to another.
The distance between him and the roar is visualised in his mind. Echolocation — Distilled bat ears.
As such, he has two lines; the scent trail, and the line between him and the roar.
He jumps to another tree… and they being to line up.
The troll is where the roar is.
Then… another scent hits his nose.
He pauses, letting blood return to his eyes, and his vision to return. They lock onto two Voidorne scuttling towards the roar immediately.
The scent of the thing is all over them.
Has he been following them?
Not the troll?
Did they escape?
They run…
Why are they…?
His mind is distracted from the question.
Instead, he feels a deep, unfiltered need to chase… and catch.
He lunges — his weapons forgotten — his teeth bared.
—
Me look at big-snappy-jaw. It move weird. It go up an’ down, den left an’ right.
It… try be scary?
( Cognitive Intelligence +1% )
( Extrapolation )
Me swipe hand up. Go!
Me block me eyes… an’ me hear footsteps… den teeth in me chest, back rub on da big-stick an’ make hurty!
It bite hard! Den more hard!
Me feel me hard-eaty-bits start go crack.
Dat no good.
Me put me hands on it mouth where dey’s no teeth, an’ me pull hard! Jus’ as hard as it bite, den a little more!
It teeth come out, me push it back, den me twist. Me big troll, so it fall on floor. It whip it tail, an’ it smack on me head.
It go fast at me, an’ I play hide behind da big-stick. It bite it so me grab it jaws an’ make it bite hard, den lots hard!
It go through da big-stick, an’ me kick it in da neck. Den me grab da broken-big-stick an’ me pull it down.
It fall, it go for da big-snappy-jaw, it gonna crush it!
Da big-snappy-jaw put it leg up, an’ it kick da big-stick. It fall to side.
Dat bad.
Okay, me done play. Now me eat. Me run at it, it get up. Me jump, me put feet out.
Me big-kick it! It go back… but den it no go down? It bite me on me legs, an’ it drag me? It swing me?
Me smash on big-stick, an’ me feel cracky.
Dat… no good…
Me leg no move.
Oh no.
It go for me neck, an’ me put hands up an’ grab it. Me pull it, an’ it stumble.
Den me put me arms around it neck..
An’ me squeeze good.
It squirm, it smack, it claw.
Me no feel dat anyway.
Me squeeze big-tight, an’ it smash me in da big-stick. Me no let go, but me half-face go bye-bye.
Me feel… dumber.
What… happen?
Smash. Again.
Why?
Me dumb?
Me open eyes.
Me better.
Me bite! Bite it neck hard! It blood!
It roll, it get me gone as me fingers crack on rock.
It okay… me know what do.
Me back went cracky, an’ den me legs no work.
Me do dat to it, den me win!
( Cognitive Intelligence +1% )
( Deduction )
It come, it come… an’ den grab da big-stick an’ me climb high!
Me go over… an’ me grab it tail. It snap at me, but me pull it tail round other big-stick.
Hehe. Me gonna win. Me gonna bonk it.
Me pull it more, an’ it try bite me but it no turn. Me pick-up da big-stick. It no big big-stick, dat too much. But did jus’ right.
Den me bonk it. On da head.
It go dance, den it drop.
Me bonk it on da back.
It crack.
Me won!
( Motricity +2% )
( Use of environment, Use of Weapon )
Go!
Me go to bite… but den me hear… bad-singy?
Me need… go to bad-singy. It no make me feel good. Me crawl, me legs still no worky.
Me hear it again… and me go-go fast.
(Social Intelligence +3%)
(Understanding call of fear and pain)
—
Jonas
Jonas runs behind his father, still somehow slower despite the gap of years.
Legend. That has to be it.
A smear of vision cuts through his sight — and his father is gone.
A cry of pain. He turns his head.
What—
A smack, his chest. He plummets, the wind stored safely in his chest ripped from him.
A sharp pain lances from his leg. Something bites through the cloth. He kicks out — it doesn’t release.
It takes a pound of flesh.
His vision narrows. A wolf, a bear?
A kick lands. It releases. He scrambles back… a snarly, frothing human stares back at him.
His eyes dash to his father… blood leaks from his neck.
Jonas sees red. He pulls his hand to the side — leveling the ’flecher’ at the human.
It dashes. He triggers it.
The human’s teeth dig deep. He cries out. The tension-wire snaps. A rod of steel snaps out, piercing the human’s stomach.
It reels, he falls over as the pain takes him. He drags himself with one arm towards his father. Blood coats the ground.
The human is above him. A deranged smile looks down at him, the steel rod in his stomach coated in blood.
A beast ready to deliver the final blow.
Its head come down, seeking Jonas’ neck.
A blast of force smashes into Jonas and the human alike.
He’s pressed into the ground — the rabid thing is catapulted a short distance, slamming into a thick, unyielding tree with enough force to slam into the ground.
A lingering note hangs in the air. A… drum?
His vision swims. His father smiles.
Then closes his eyes.
—
EMERIC
He peels himself off the tree.
Who knew? That black-bark trees are fleshy… almost soft.
If it had been a regular tree… well… its not worth thinking about.
He took too much. Became an animal.
That’s over, now. He’s back.
But he feels… great! He’s never felt so alive!
Whatever concoction he ingested… it was not the one he thought.
Either that, or he did something magic with it… or his compatibility changed…
Something is different!
No potion he has ever brewed as had such a drastic effort. He feels invincible!
It’s true. A divine presence is looking over him. There’s no other factor.
Saved from death by a tree-root, returning at the exact time when the troll must have been forced to go for food… and now this!
Everything is going his way.
He walks towards the voidorne.
What was the blast?
Does it matter?
He begins to salivate.
The flesh tastes too good.
What if… he took more?
Nobody would know, would they?
He’s locked onto them. He waits. He can smell the fear in the air, and he drinks it by the gallon jug.
He licks the blood from his lips, teasing himself.
It was one of the tastiest things he’d ever eaten.
More.
More!
He can’t wait! He lunges—
The emotions — glory, thrill, excitement, joy — all fade from a blazing wildfire to a cold, dead ember.
The troll drags itself across the ground, gripping onto the hard earth as thought it crushes cotton into a ball.
It trails useless legs behind it.
And it mutters.
Incomprehensible gibberish.
But its eyes are locked onto him.
Like before.
He has seen abominations, yet not bat an eye.
But his blood freezes as red eyes meet his… and slowly trace the trail of blood to the voidorne.
His muscles betray him; they shake, they shiver. Heart beings to palpate, blood pumps loud in his ears. Eyes track; hand twitches.
He moves a single finger to his belt.
The troll moves.
He runs; before he even registers his feet — his mind is the last to betray him, but it does so swiftly.
A ROAR engulfs the forest in an oppressive certainty — a tyrannical control that seizes Emeric’s very existence; an absolute commandment for his death.
The black-bark trees, no, the entire forest twists in on itself in abject horror. Their barks grow thick with spikes, tipped with red, blood-like ooze.
The fog thickens; light fails to pierce the veil.
Memories flood him, now. They control him.
The sound of snapping bones. His feet drenched in blood.
A massive creature looking down at him; a boy in the middle of a courtyard surrounded by the dead.
He looks back up at it. He wishes for death.
It doesn’t grant a boon.
The memories fade as he tpples, his face impacting the ground.
Fear swells. He stumbles to his feet.
He can feel its warm breath on him. Teeth around his neck; arm ripped from the socket; heart crushed like a pebble.
He falls to the ground. His body doesn’t move.
No heavy stomps follow him.
He… lost it?
He coughs up blood through a smile, and grips grass to pull himself against a tree.
A giggle rumbles in his chest despite his dry, cracked throat.
For a while, that is all he is. A stupid boy sitting in a cursed forest, laughing to himself.
He reaches into his satchel, to pull out a dense, leather-bound notebook. In the pages, he finds solace.
His finger lands on a page covered in anatomical diagrams.
He’s too weak. That much is obvious.
Did the troll even chase him?
Was it ever going to attack?
Pathetic. So utterly, truly pathetic.
But his master once told him something, when he was skinning a cat.
“If you cannot do something, find something to do it for you.”
The world is full of creatures.
If he cannot defeat the troll… if he is too afraid even to face it…
He looks up at the tree ahead of him. Three claw marks are etched into the bark.
A Sign of duskwraiths.
He’ll punish himself for his fear later.
For now, it’s time to plan.