Da bad-singy… come from da snappy-jaw-thingys?
Dat what happen?
Da weird-thingy look at me an’ den it go fast bye-bye.
Me do dis?
Me left dem…
An’ now dey’s hurty?
Me roar. It sad roar, but it loud.
Me do dis. Me fix dis.
How me fix dis?
Why dey no fix?
Me fix, dey no fix?
Blood on da darien-thingy. Jonas-thingy put hands on it, an’ do thing with soft thing.
Da hurty gone? Me sniff.
No, still hurty, but me no see it. Da jonas-thingy look at me, an’ den it make loud mouth-sounds. Me no understand.
But it do it more. Den it look at me, den turn an put hands under darien-thingy, an’ it try pick-up it.
It no strong.
It point me, den it point darien-thingy.
What it doin’?
It try pick-up more.
It no work.
Den it try again.
Still no work.
Why it try if it no work?
It put it hands on head… den it touchy darien-thingy and pull out somethin’. It cally-thing?
No, dat like rock. Dis like carved-stick. Den it break it?
But it look at it, den look at me.
“Me… help…?” it speak, an me tilt me head. You help? Me no need help?
It runs a hand down its face, den it point an’ point an’ den point again to darien-thingy. “Me help! Me hurty Grug!?”
It no hurty me? Me scratch. Jonas-thingy no help, no strong. It make eye-river an’ it stamp foot on ground.
It want play?
Dis no good play time.
It speak, an’ point more. “Pick-up? Help?”
Me lift me up, an’ me leggy bits go clicky an’ den me move dem again.
Why it want me pick-up darien-thingy?
It hurt.
Why no get better?
Me jus’ get better?
Why it no get better?
“Darien-thingy… hurty… little big not lots?”
What it speak?
“Darien-thingy go bye! Pick up you! Go rock-big-big-river!?”
What… you want me pick-up Darien-thingy an’ go… rock-big-big-river? Me no know dat?
“No…” it touchy da thing in it hand. “Go… big-big-rock-place?”
Dat where we go. But me no know where. You know?
He nods. Dat mean yes?
“Yes. Know pick-up me, darien-thingy go?”
You trollspeak weird. But me get.
Me pick-up darien-thingy, me no break it.
It face go teethy, an’ it point at da thing in it hands. “Darien-thingy… hurty… big, big lots. Me eat?”
What?
Me put darien-thingy in it face. It want… eat?
It make more eye-river. Dat no good. It no want eat, den? Me take way.
“You! You help!” it point to it, an’ den to darien-thingy.
Me help? Me help how?
It point to darien-thingy. “You help?”
It need fix? Like bridge?
“Yes! Help!”
Me bend an’ me grab grass, den me make it go connecty-grass, an’ me hand it to jonas-thingy.
It no move. Me no get?
Me pull it.
It grab it.
It want play?
Me pull it, but it no strong.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Me lift it.
Me win!
It tug on it.
It drop thing.
“Me… need… me… help?”
Me let go? Dat what it want?
It take connecty-grass an’ it tie around darien-thingy, den it grab stick an tie it leg. Den it stand.
It point me, an’ den it point to da big-sticks. “You… help. Me, you, darien-thingy, go. Me help Grug hurty, me help darien-thingy hurty.”
Ok.
Me put darien-thingy down, den me start go. Jonas-thingy make big, lots noise.
“You pick-up darien-thingy, den pick-up me, den go?” It speak, an’ it put it hands together an’ shake dem. “Help, Help, Help?”
Ok. Me pick-up darien-thingy, an’ den jonas-thingy. Dey’s small, an’ dey fit in me hand.
“Go.” It say, an’ den it point. Me go, touch da big-sticks but me no make darien-thingy hurty more. Jonas-thingy climb me.
Dat look like fun. It go on me shoulder.
Den it let food go.
Dat no look like fun.
Den me shoulder hurty, flicker-hot-hurty, an’ me shrug. It fall, den it look at me.
“Why?”
It touch flicker-hot-hurty bad, an’ me no like, so me shrug.
“Oh. Oh. Oh.” It speak, den it look at it thing more. “Sorry.” It ok.
Me put hand down an’ it look at it, den it sit.
It leg no fix?
Why?
“Me go fast, sorry, you go fast, sorry?”
Sorry? You speak sorry lots?
“Fast, sorry. You go fast?”
Me go fast for friend, me go! Jonas-thingy hold darien-thingy. Me no see blood, but me smell. It no good.
Me see somethin’… den me go no-big-stick-place?
Dey’s no much. It lot of no much. But dey’s big-big rocks, like river rocks but big-big?
An’ dey go big like big-sticks. Dere be big-sticks, but dey’s small-big-sticks.
Me… tingle?
Da ground is… is….
FLICKER-HOT-HURTY
Me jump back, me back hit big-stick-place an’ dat hurty, but da flicker-hot-hurty stop.
Me look at feet. Dey no hurty?
It no flicker-hot-hurty?
Me put hand out, an’ it hurty, so me go back.
What me do?
Jonas-thing stand, an’ it move arms up an’ down, so me look. It speak. “It—“ it speak, but den it look at da thing. “—ok. Flicker-hot-hurty?”
Yes. It hurty bad. Jonas-thingy move head up an’ down, den it point a big stick. “Pick-up. It stop flicker-hot-hurty.”
How? It big-stick help, den why darien-thingy speak me need help go big-big-rock-place?
It rub it temples. Me do dat, sometimes, after big noggin-smack. Or when me face itchy.
“Big-stick… small help. Darien-thingy can big-big help? But help be big-big-rock-place? Need help no be big-stick-place?”
Dis no big-stick-place?
When you make flicker-hot-hurty go bye-bye?
“What dis… stick? Place…” it speak. Me no get. “What dis…?”
Me look at place. It… no-much-place? Or… flicker-hot-place… but it no flicker-hot… it jus’ hot. It got big rocks?
It… big-rock-hot-place!
“Place… rk-h-place?” it speak. “No. Ro-t-place? No?”
You try speak rock-hot-place?
It hear, den it speak. “Dis… rock-hot-place? Me go big-big rock in rock-hot-place. Me point.”
Me put hand out… but it hurty. Me no want go to hot-rock-place?
Jonas-thingy tap it head. It noggin-smack… be thinkin’ much.
Den it point at big-stick an’ it speak.
“It make flicker-hot no hurty lots, but big-big rock make flicker-hot hurtys lots-lots…?”
Oh. Me undastand, me thinks. Me put jonas-thingy an’ darien-thingy down, den me put me hands on big-stick.
Pick-up? Me pick up… but den it not move.
Me look at jonas-thingy.
It no move.
Me no pick-up
Jonas-thingy noggin-smack, an’ it look like good noggin-smack. Den it do it more times. Really need thinky?
It point at big-stick. “Small? Small? Big-stick-small?”
What? How big-stick be small?
“Small big! Pick-up small big! Stick!”
It want me pick up small big-stick? Dis one big-big? Me touchy it.
Dis one?
It move it head up an’ down. Me grab da big-stick, an’ it hard but me feel it come up. Me put arms around it, an’ me pick-an’-pick, an’ den it come out.
Me hold it over head, an’ me go singy!
Me strongest troll!
Me do a little dance, but da big-stick lots hard so me stop.
Jonas-thingy point at it. “It make flicker-hot-hurty small hurty. You help?”
Me… move head up an’ down. It do same.
Dat mean yes?
(Social Intelligence +2%)
( Body Language Communication )
(Motricity +2%)
( Tool Use )
Me swipe da noggin-hurty… an’ me drop da big-stick!
It fall for Jonas-thingy! Big bad! Big-big bad! Me go under, an’ da big-stick go on me back. Da flicker-hot-hurty hurty so bad it feel like big-stick flicker-hot.
Jonas-thingy still dere… it look up. Why it no move?
Why me… feel strong?
Me press it up, lift it big-strong! It hurty… but me no want friend hurty-bad. Hurty-lots… go bye-bye.
Me get it off, an’ Jonas-thingy got wide white eyes. Sorry. Me stupid troll. Me noggin-hurty… an’ me want it go bye-bye… but me hurty jonas-thingy. Me sorry, me sorry.
Jonas-thingy grab it chest. “It ok, Grug, help Damien-thingy. Need go big-big-rock or he go bye-bye.”
Me move head up and down. He pick-up Damien-thingy an’ Jonas-thingy, den put da big-stick on me shoulder.
Me look down, an’ Jonas-thingy nod. “Please, go.” It say, an’ den it point. “Make hurty-small, Damien-thingy no go bye-bye.”
Me go where it point, an’ me keep going even when da ground got hot. It not hurty-hot… but it hot an’ me no like it.
Me move da big-stick, an’ me feel da hurty. Big-stick stop hurty?
How it stop hurty? Me look at Jonas-thingy.
—
Jonas
Jonas wants to scream, to shout and shout — to tell it to fucking move already!
Father is by no means safe, even with the emergency healing salice bolted onto his neck. Eventually, it will come undone — and then he’ll continue to bleed.
Even if he could carry his father all the way to the As’tiki normally — which he could not — his leg is either fractured or outright broken.
When the troll dropped the tree… he thought it was the end.
That means his own method of travel is the troll. Never before has he felt such a stark powerlessness as when he had to stare up and the big idiot and beg it, plead with it, to carry them to safety.
He takes a deep breath. Don’t blame the victim… blame the attacker.
Why did the human attack? They had done nothing — nothing! — to him. He guesses that’s what humans do. They steal, they murder.
Call it conquest.
He shouldn’t be surprised.
Now they’re on the right track. Nestled amongst the various other living stones in the savannah is ’the big-big-rock.’
Strangely enough, that’s about as much of a name he has for it as the troll does. His father called it ’The Dead Mountain’, once.
That’s apparently the most accurate translation from As’tiki.
He tries to ignore the disgusting, acrid breath as it runs, but the plumes of it suffocate him.
Wet, weeping flesh grows on the troll. The burns were bad before… but the tree’s bark had acted as a grater, peeling away the angry, burnt skin to expose raw, bloody flesh underneath.
He had watched a man be flayed, once, in the Jungles of Akraathu’um… and the man there had looked better than this.
He wants, so desperately, to be angry at the troll. To hate it for not going immediately where he told it to… but the pain must be ludicrous.
How can he, in a sound mind, blame the troll for not wanting to make it worse?
The sun bares down on him, only protected the smallest fraction by the myriad thick leaves that cover the troll’s body in shadow.
Nor is it the beast the books as described. It is no warmonger come from the depths of the earth to slaughter and main… nor a wild creature that could not be reasoned with… or bargained with.
It’s just… little more than a child. One with a good deal of strength and a vast emptiness of common sense but… a child nonetheless.
It starts to whimper through the relentless mumble. His father is very smart. He doesn’t say that of nothing.
The book he holds is frontloaded with ways to communicate. Speech isn’t that hard… but the actual words the troll uses constantly when its just going about itself are indecipherable.
His father knew that. He made it specifically so that they could communicate word to word.
And now that might save his life.
He looks at Damien. Has he ever seen his father so… inanimate? Lifeless?
Not even in sleep, is the answer. He’s a whisper away from death. White hair sticks to his face with the glue of dried sweat, trails down his head and merges with his beard.
Voidorne don’t usually live long enough to get white hairs — nevermind a full head of them.
Furthermore, he’d never heard of a Voidorne so old that their ancestry scales have turned white.
Why has he only just noticed that?
The troll groans, ’Where go?’ it says. He says. It’s a good person, isn’t it?
“Where go? Jonas-thingy?”
What? Why isn’t his finger up? Is it…
He slumps. Tired. That’s… not good. How will…?