Der be a lot of flicker-hot hurty. A lot a lot. It go up an’ down da carved-sticks, in da carved-stick-caves, it go up da soft-connecty-stuff. Me gotta stay away.

“It ok, Grug. We go. We greatest go.” Say da damien-thingy. But how we go? We big high. Me never been dis high. Me fell big fall… den nearly get eaty by water… but dis more high. Big, big more high.

“You good climb troll, you ok.” Say da Jonas-thingy. Me is good climb troll. Me can climb big-stick. Da jonas-thingy put it grubber out. Me follow it, like me follow it when me pick-up him. But he jus’ point into da breezy-breath. Me… fall?

“No! No fall, Grug!” Dey say. Me giggle — me was not gonna fall. “Dat, dat!”

Dere be a weird thingy… an’ I been dere. It were… when me get hurty by little-thingys?

“Me, you, go. You… pick-up us? An’, put us down—“ damien-thingy say, den point harder. “—dere?”

Me do that. Me pick up jonas-thingy an’ damien-thingy, and me reach over da big-fall, den dey jump off. Dey doin; somethin’, den it go down an’ me can jus’ go on it. So me do!

Den it move… me not like dat. Why it move?

“It ok, Grug, we go.”

Oh. Ok.

—

As the gondola — they call it a salahous — moves along the traversal bars, pulled by two particularly large specimens of silkweave-spiders, Jonas and Damien watch duskwraiths tear into confused and scared As’tiki.

“We should help them.” Jonas says, but doesn’t move a muscle to do anything. What could he possibly do? If he knew the As’tiki subtonal-language — that whistling they do — he could perhaps direct the spiders to expel silk and rope down… but even if he could, why would he?

An As’tiki screams; loud enough that her voice travels even the distance above them. It’s not a massive drop, but enough that it will kill. He tries to close his heart to it; if they catch Grug, they’ll kill him… they’ve made their bed… now they have to lie in it.

Grug mumbles something; and then jumps off the gondola.

—

Me hear… da cry, like da one dat da not-snappy-jaw thingies did, den dey got hurt. Me no wanna see little-thingy get hurt.

So me jump. Me know me be ok. Me fall before, an’ me ok. So me go!

Breezy-breath make me cold… an’ den me—

Me stand up, me jaw goin’ back in da right place. Somethin’ bitey me, so me grab it an’ me bitey it. It not a big bite, an’ me eat it in two. Dey’s no so yummy, but dey good eatin’, so me eat more. Den me hear da cry again, it bad-loud-mouth-sound. Me go, even if me wanna eat da… da… dark-bitey-thingys.

Dere a little-thingy in da carved-stick cave… an’ dere flicker-hot hurty. Me big, dat small. Me reach arm in, but flicker-hot-hurty hurty me. Da cry loud-loud now. An’ dere a small-little-thingy, an’ it cry jus’ as loud-loud.

It… mama? Dat little grug, before mama left?

Me help. Me go big, an’ me put arms around da carved-stick-cave, an’ me do da pick-up dat Jonas-thingy show me. It… hard, but den it start to crack. Me not like breaky thingy… but me gotta breaky thingy. An’ me do. Den me can looks in. Da little-thingy go loud-loud-loud. Dat’s… one loud. Me go over flicker-hot-hurty, an’ me grab da little-thingy.

“…no…sworn…please…”

Dey… scared? Why? Me no hurty dem? Dey hurty me!

Me put in hand, an’ me smack da dark-bitey-thingys, an’ dey go bye-bye to da big-fall. Dey’s lots, but me hold little-thingy an’ little-little-thingy high, so dey no eat.

Eat… me forgot. Dey’s good eatin’. Me no make go bye-bye, me eat. Me eat one, an’ one, an’ one, an’ den one and one. Dat’s… lots, but me no count dat high… two?

Me pretty full now, but dey’s more — an’ a troll never not eat! So me keep eatin’, until dey no more.

Oh… me feel… bad. Me gotta… me gotta…

Me belch, an’ it so stinky dat even me can smell it. Good belch! Maybe dat da greatest belch? In da world?

Da little-thingy, an’ little-little-thingy, stop cry. Dat good. Wait…

Me looky at dem. No hurt?

“Grug!” Jonas-thingy make big-mouth-shout. “You stupid troll! You hurty you!”

Me look, but me no see. Where jonas-thingy?

“Up, Grug.”

Me look up. jonas-thingy an’ damien-thingy climb, but down. Dey go on soft-connecty-stuff. Me look up lots, an’ dere be some dark-leggy-thingys… an’ da connecty-stuff come from dey’s butt. Me point an’ me giggle. Jonas-thingy an’ damien-thingy touchy poop!

“It no poop, it… stuff.”

—

Rappelling from a spider’s raw-silk was decidedly not something Jonas had thought he’d be doing today; but then neither is rescuing a five meter troll only to have him fucking jump an’ probably break all of the bones in his body. He’s very, very fucking lucky that Father’s picked up the basics of the As’tiki subtonals over the years.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The troll is below, holding what looks to be an As’tiki matriarch and her brood; a series of small tunnels connected together, with the smallest, most basic form of As’tiki inside. Barely even more than larvae; younger than younglings.

Mercifully, his feet touch the ground, and immediately he sets upon cutting the silk, then tries to scrape it from his hand on the wood below — it barely works. The building burns near them, and it looks like soon the fire will spread to the main plateau. That is, the bit they’re currently standing on.

“Grug.” Speaks Father. “Dey hurty you, but you help?”

The troll looks confused for a second, then looks down at the mother. “Dis a mama. She… no hurty me?”

“He’s identified gender. Interesting. He always calls us ’it’.”

“I know, Father.”

Damien looks at him. “Of course you do, I’m a genius.”

Jonas rolls his eyes.

Grug snaps his head towards something; seemingly only something he can hear. “What?” says Damien.

“Dey’s lots. Lots hurty; lots cry.”

“Grug, you, me, go. You go help, maybe dey hurty you. You go bridge, dey no hurty you.”

“Me help, maybe dey help?”

“Maybe, Grug.” ’But it’s not likely’ is what he wants to say. Jonas wonder can’t help but wonder; does the troll evaluate the chances? Or does he simply thing something either happens or it doesn’t — that everything is 50/50 regardless of the factors? Perhaps he doesn’t understand at all.

Either way, the troll starts to move. “Wait. You, me, go… go help. We climb on back?”

Grug nods. So it was a nod, earlier.

He puts a massive hand down, and Jonas and Father both climb aboard. There they sit, aboard a strange vessel with burnt flesh… and only one thing to grab to stay on. The small, yet sturdy, little ridges of bone that sprout from the troll’s head.

Grug goes; and before Jonas — or Damien — have a chance to tell him not to jump because they’ll fucking die, Grug drops from the side. Jonas’ stomach lurches, expecting a massive drop… but instead the troll digs its fingers into the wood, carving handholds with his material-connection with each second.

“Me smartest troll!”

Soon, it’s a verifiable climbing wall. The troll seems confident enough — but that doesn’t make Jonas happier. Nor does it Damien, judging entirely by the fact colour has near drained from the old voidorne’s face. Grug stops, and Jonas thanks Agathor for only a second before he’s plummeting again.

This time, Grug lands, then falls to one knee. Not the face-plant of earlier, but an actual landing. He stands; a twisted leg whipping back into place under him. They’ve landed right behind a group of As’tiki — backed to the edge of the plateau by a combination of duskwraiths and a fire. This one is smaller… lit recently?

Some of the As’tiki faint. Others simply stop making noise; cower; and wait for the end. Grug steps over them, and the duskwraiths jump back; but not far enough. A large fist swings like a hammer — only to slow at the last minute and open up, grasping the duskwraith and bringing it to hell at his gullet.

Jonas watches the duskwraith’s eyes; full of abject terror — before the entire upper half is gone. These things are, at least, twice the size of an average voidorne. Which — if one were to extrapolate even if they shouldn’t — would mean that Jonas and Damien are, in fact, a single-bite meal. Jonas hadn’t liked that in the councilroom… and now he doesn’t like that he has the example.

He shouts to the As’tiki. “Go up! You can climb the wall, Grug made holes!”

Only a few look back; able to rip themselves from the troll’s brutish form either out of bravery or self-preservation. There isn’t enough time to discern which; the troll is already on the move again.

—

Da little-thingys got… two bads. Dey’s gettin’ eaty, an’ dey’s gettin’ flicker-hot-hurty. Me no help flicker-hot-hurty, it hurty… but me can eats da dark-bitey-things, so me do that. Me land, an’ dere lots of little-thingys, but dey not hurty me so I go big-over, an’ me grab one of da dark-bitey-things and me eat good! It a little tingly but it good-good eats!

But me pretty full… an’ dey’s a lot. Jonas-thingy say somethin’, but me no understand. He speak no-troll-speak.

Me wish not-annoying-buzzy here. It bring me food… it understand me. It good friend!

Ok… me very full. Very, very full… but me eat more!

—

There’s a certain terror to be felt when an opponent’s main source of killing-you is just to devour you nearly whole. Even from the side of certainly-not-being-eaten, Jonas can’t help but feel a little sorry for the duskwraiths. Some of that might have to do with the constant near-subliminal glimpses of obvious emotion in the duskwraiths before they enter the decidedly-eaten phase of their lives. Or… death.

Jonas doesn’t know where his train of thought it going; only that it takes his mind off the snapping bone under giant, fist-sized teeth.

The other part is that this doesn’t seem normal.

“Father!?” he shouts across. It’s not too far of a distance, but between the screaming and the crunching — and the sound of his own heartbeat — he’s not so sure Father will even hear him.

“What, Jonas!? I’m thinking!”

“These duskwraiths… why are they here!?”

“That’s the obvious bit!” he shouts across, before letting go of his feet-hold and scuffling closer, coming behind the troll’s neck rather than being half-clutched on Grug’s shoulder. “Someone stole their eggs! Duskwraiths have been known to surround entire cities; even call on other packs in order to get their young back. Yet they don’t indiscriminately kill; not usually.”

“Did the As’tiki do it?”

“Wrong question. Don’t focus on the who; focus on the—“ Damien’s voice is cut off by a especially loud chomp. “—they’ve been drugged. Some kind of aggressor. These are either very, very—“

Grug leaps from a standstill, crushing one duskwraith between a fat foot and grabbing another at the same time.

Damien shakes his head. “They’re not acting normally. They’re stronger, for one; and near-fearless.”

“Fearless?” Jonas asks, looking at the duskwraith slowly entering Grug’s maw. “Hardly.”

The troll is slowing down — at least in his eating speed.

“Sure, when they’re about to die. Duskwraiths are opportunistic predators; they steal kills from other predators, using numbers and the ability to disengage if they need to. These… aren’t. They aren’t hunting; they’re just killing. At this point, I don’t think they’re even looking for their clutches anymore.”

Jonas is about to open his mouth when the subject of their talk jumps at them; having circled around Grug. Damien acts in a flash; whipping the rod around and hitting the duskwraith. It reacts as though it’d been hit by a building; flying off the side of the plateau. If it lives, it will have a long time to think about its actions.

“That’s a prime example. Why the hell haven’t they been doing that before? We’re wide open. They’re throwing themselves at the biggest target with no regard for themselves.”

“I don’t know what to do with that, Father. Can we reverse it?”

Damien shakes his head. “I’m not versed with—“

He pauses, then looks straight at Jonas. “That human… he was enhanced in some capacity. I had thought a Legend, like my own but, what if he was well-versed in potioncraft?” Damien posits; then looks at the burning silk. “That would explain why the silk is catching.”

“You think he’d follow us?” Jonas asks. “Why?”

Grug stomps on the ground, falling to one knee. Jonas is about to ask him what’s wrong before a truly unholy belch comes from the troll. Lasting over seven seconds; it fills the air with a noxious acid-like smell. Jonas and Damien both have to shut their eyes to stop them from stinging, and the breath feels like mouldy cake slathered on their skin.

It’s like he’s forced to be a wine taster, feeling every note, every aroma; only each is worse than the last — and it’s not wine. He doesn’t even like wine; but he wishes it was — he wishes it to be anything else. When he opens his eyes; the duskwraiths aren’t standing up anymore. If they weren’t at least somewhat accustomed to the general foulness about Grug…

They might have died.

As it stands, however, they are not. Grug seems positively elated, raising his hands in the air.

“Dat one! Dat were da best belch! In da world!”