Com Confessions... Two
Much of his time there is spent very drunk, rolling about and crawling on the floor like an animal and the basement is typically filthy with dust, so it's quite the coincidence that the name of the inn is the Filthy Animal. At least, he thinks so. When the thought crosses his drunken mind he peels his lips back hideously far and snorts laughter, a fine mist of spit spraying from between his long, curved tusks.
He wipes some drool from his chin and looks at the wrinkled sleeve of the dark navy button-down shirt he is wearing. The sight of his saliva on the blue sleeve makes him laugh again and he grabs the sleeve's button between his front teeth, yanks it free of its stitching; he spits it into the air. There is a ripping sound as his arm catches on one tusk. He mutters an unintelligible string of curses as he tears the fabric free. He is on his back, staring up at the dry, dirty floorboards of the inn-slash-bar overhead. The stone floor of the cellar is cool and comfortable and he thinks of taking his shirt off, but dismisses it as too much trouble. His breath reeks of alcohol, as does his entire body. His sweat is mostly whiskey, but he doesn't notice. He can't smell it anymore, can't taste the burning liquid as he lifts the dented tin flask to his mouth. His tusk manages to get in the way yet again - it does that often - and the scant remains of the flask dump onto his chest, a very little of it ever meeting his lips. His hairless brow pulls down, eyes narrowing, wrinkles forming on the bridge of his nose. The angry look quickly passes and he is laughing again, giggling up at the ceiling as he lets his left hand fall back to the floor, the flask bouncing away with several hollow metallic clangs before coming to rest against the wooden brace that holds up one of many huge kegs. His back is naturally hunched, the thick neck curving forward from the spine and the shoulders held high... It is not a form conducive to lying on one's back. To make up for this, he has removed his cloak, wrapped his leather supply pack inside of it, and uses it now as a pillow. One side of the cloak will be gray with filth when he finally rises. He doesn't care. His knees are bent, legs spread apart, big two-toed feet facing outward. Well, three-and-a-half toes in total. The fourth one had a bit of an accident, but it's healed over and growing back quite nicely. Fyve's digits tend to have a lot of accidents. His heels dig into the floor, the square-trimmed dewclaws at the back of his feet dragging on the stone and gathering dirt beneath them, though he doesn't notice and wouldn't care about that either. Right now, he is beyond caring. He's in a rare state; neither being afraid, enraged, nor embarrassed... It is bliss. Being conscious is not torture, for once. He is smiling. It's probably good that nobody is there to see it, because the sight is a touch disturbing. The only thing scarier than a pissed off monster is an amused one. "Monsser," he considers himself to be one. He claims to be many things; dragon, orc, snake; he even once claimed to be an elf; anything but a troll. He hates being called a troll because he doesn't look like a "proper" one. He is too tall, his tusks far too long. He mangles the orcish language worse than any troll in the world and he can't even speak Zandalari, barely understands it at all. If he were a troll, he'd be a pathetic specimen. He isn't a troll, he's a monster. "I a monsser," he snorts, slapping a hand over his bloodshot eyes as his laughter is renewed. He is a monster, which is hilarious, but also a great thing, because he is the most powerful, awesome and talented monster in the world. There is no monster quite like Fyve. "Fybe da monser... ob power... Shtnnnnq!" He snorts loudly, moving the hand that covers his eyes to clamp it instead over his mouth. His chest shakes with laughter and his toes flex, even the half-grown one. He has already emptied his bladder into a bucket in the corner, or he'd piss in his pants laughing right now. The innkeeper and cook both know Fyve and they know when he's down here. He more than pays for any damage he causes, using his seemingly-endless flow of gold. Plus they pity him in a detached way, like a horse-trampled dog that isn't quite dead. "Boy that's rough. Someone should put it out of its misery." Too bad gold can't buy happiness, looks or intelligence. He knows they pity him, and it pisses him off. At least they give him a bucket to piss in. "Buqqet!" He waves an arm in the air, "Fuqqet." Fuck it. The sound of his own voice makes him want to laugh again, guffaw until he pukes, but the puke part is a little close for comfort, so he digs his sharp canines into his fist and focuses on the ceiling. Well, he stares at the ceiling... He stares in the direction of the ceiling. Focus is not something his eyes are capable of at the moment. Fuck it. "Fmmpnt." His words are even less intelligible with his fist in his mouth. He breathes through his nose loudly. A tiny spider, tan and spindly and smaller than the pupil of the troll's eye, descends from overhead on a gossamer strand. It lands on his broad forehead and scuttles over the thick, indigo-blue dreadlocks that fan out above the troll's head before hurrying away across the floor. He doesn't notice. Disengaging his teeth from his fist, he lets it slap back onto the floor, palm up to match the opposite hand. He's scratched his lip with one claw. They grow square at the base, in a fashion similar to human, gnome, dwarf or elf fingernails, but are much thicker and grow to a point. He trims them to look like fingernails, but he's been lax with it. Something inside of his mind registers the taste of his own blood, but vaguely. His pupils shrink to pinpoints but dilate quickly and that is the extent of his carnivorous (slightly cannibalistic) reaction. Drink-numb lips don't feel pain. It will likely be healed over by the time he can feel anything again. Trolls heal fast. He takes a deep breath, the creepy and rare smile still softening his brutish features. Chest expanding mightily, he lets the air out in a contented sigh. This is the way to be. Well, except for the vague waves of nausea but those are scant enough to be ignored. He'll suffer for it later; he can care about it then, not now. Now is not for worry. Quiet, except for his drunken sounds, the cellar is devoid of all other sentient life. His dog has gone missing. Stinky, he's named it. It isn't really his dog. He hates all animals, "Cannn fuqqin stan no aneemuhzzzz'," a slurring mumble, followed closely by a quiet giggle. He found it. He can't remember right now how that happened, but he can't remember much beside his own self-given name. He adamantly denies that he keeps any pet, especially a stinky little fat ugly dog with bugged out eyes and a face so flat that it snorts when it breaths. Stinky is not his dog. Animals are disgusting. They shit, make noise, smell bad and demand things. He refuses to ride any mount that isn't mechanical. If he loves anything it's his mechanohog; the great two-wheeled, noisy monstrosity he built with his own blue hands. He's trained it not to follow him when anyone is around; the dog, that is. Not the bike. Maybe Stinky will come back. Maybe he won't. It doesn't concern him at the moment. He stares at the ceiling. Hands, blue, each with two clawed fingers and a likewise clawed thumb, slowly draw inward toward his narrow hips; the downward arc of a snow-angel. It's a dust angel. He's out of his armor, wearing instead a long-sleeved navy shirt, the color similar to but not the same as his thick indigo dreadlocks. Blue hands, grey on the backs with the dust that also clings to the dark blue sleeves, wander to his belt and fidget with the handles of the two ever-present daggers. He doesn't take those off for anything. He sleeps with them. He retains the belt with nothing else on when he bathes. His race has no propensity for water, but he doesn't know that. He likes to swim. He has to replace his weapons often. Both hands grab the thin black fabric of his pants, wrinkling them at the thigh and stretching them to the sides, smoothing them back down before returning to the dagger hilts. His eyes roll aimlessly about, though he is still conscious. At times they appear to be attempting to move independently of each other, though they are not entirely successful. He burps with his mouth shut, blows out his cheeks and snorts. The back of his right wrist comes up to rub against his dry eyes, lids squeezed tightly shut. The hand rejoins its partner in fumbling the blade handles at his hips mindlessly. There is now a streak of dirt across his eyes, like a crooked raccoon mask though it continues partially down his right cheek. He clears his throat and swallows before letting his jaw relax, his mouth partially open. Normally, despite his feral aspect and the gruesome manner of his "work", the Fyve is compulsively clean, opting to bathe upwards of three times a day, when the option is there. Despite his currently squalid condition, he smiles goofily as he lies on the dirty floor. His shirt has bunched up in the back. The translucent white fuzz that covers most of him, giving him a silky, velvety texture, is exposed to the floor and attracts yet more smut. A yawn interrupts his dumb grin, lips peeling back even further, massive canines exposed, "Oooaaaaugh." The sound is funny and he begins to laugh again. Arms stretch wide and fists clench as he yawns and laughs. His hand hits something and he grabs for it, dropping it several times and lazily refusing to rise and properly retrieve it. He's not sure he COULD rise if he needed to. He doesn't care. Squinting, holding the small, rigid object between his tusks and near his eyes, he pulls it further back until he can focus enough to recognize it. "... oh." He snorts and laughs again, bringing the com up to his thin lips, his broad, mean mouth. His laughter is punctuated by ridiculous sounds, "Ha ha harragh... snnnk," he snorts again. "Ooohoohoohaaahaa," he tries to catch his breath so that he can speak into the device. "Ouuurinners, snnnk! Goohoohoohoo, Hhhnnt!" a strange squeak escapes him. He's drooling again but he doesn't notice. "Ouriiiners hahahai gah sahmnin a tell..." He pauses for dramatic effect, the effort of holding in his laughter bringing forth an explosion of thick guffaws, the sentence broken by sounds, some of them akin to those of a dying animal. "Sahmtin ta tell yaha! Fybe dinna leeearned ta, snnk! Hahaha! ... Dinna learned ta tahalk HAHAHA... dinna eben learn talk unnil... bery hehehe recenly. Mayme," he coughs and sputters giggles, "Mahaybe two, tree year! AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAA!" He kicks his legs and flails his arms in a moronic fit of amusement at his own words. The meaning that holds such gravity for him sounding, at the moment, like the best joke he's ever heard. He brings the com to his drooling mouth and swallows, clears his throat noisily, prepares to say more. His laughter stops abruptly. The displaced merriment on his features vanishes, replaced by a look of horror and confusion. He whines in the back of his throat, and the sound is indistinguishable from the pitiful sound of a frightened dog. The left hand contains the com. The right leaps from the floor to smack loudly over his eyes. His mouth feels very dry. The sound comes again, "What was that, Fyve?" It's a horrible sound. It's an amused sound. The com was turned on. His eyes roll beneath their lids and beneath his hand. He lets out a disgusted growl as his left thumb flicks the switch on the side of the gadget. Now it's really off. With a frustrated grunt, he throws it away from him, hands remaining over his eyes. He rolls onto his side, reaching beneath himself and yanking out the dagger whose hilt presses into his hip. He tosses that, too, though not as far. Suddenly he feels quite ill.Since some of these stories were hosted on Fanfiction.net, they did receive comments, which made me so happy:
"I just don't know what to say that would be sufficient to describe how delightful your writing is, your vivid descriptions, and the DEAD-ON way you write about 'giggly, just don't care' drunk...that blissful, all-too-brief state between unconsciousness and puking! XD...and Fyve has sorta captured my interest because READING about is him is PAINFUL but in a way that one cannot just walk away from...he's foul and frightening...but I like him XD poor thing, nobody unnersands heem!
PLEASE keep writing...especially about Iwilo and Fyve. I will happily keep reading =)" - Five Shades
A note on my use of "coms" in this story:
If you do not speak Nerdanese, I do recommend Google Chrome for its translation abilities.Kek!The goblins and dwarves have made many advances in technology, some of them utilizing the magic inherent to Azeroth, others being more akin to Earth-technology. Brann Bronzebeard uses a communicator that not only transmits his voice, but also his IMAGE. There's a quest chain in Northrend where you use this contraption to contact him several times.
The guild I am a member of, The Warsong Outriders, happens to use radio communicators for rp purposes. It's better than talking into "enchanted hearthstones," in my opinion. I've had someone argue that there are no radio towers in Azeroth. Fair enough, let us just assume the Outriders' coms are fueled by hate and powered by gnome toes, that they steal the magic of "the light" and were obtained through goblins who made a pact with the Burning Legion. Roffle roffle!