Fyve: Dunna Touch Fybe, Part 1
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This story contains mild violence.
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Dark red eyes - nearly brown - peered from beneath a heavily protruding brow. Deep-set eyes, set in a naturally pugnacious face, were complimented by an equally mean-looking mouth. The troll's entire affect was normally feral, aggressive. Defensive. The look was completed by a set of abnormally long tusks, which jutted straight forward from the bottom jaw, curving the edges of thin lips in a manner that would have forced the mouth to smile, if the edges just beyond where the tusks were rooted weren't pulled down in a perpetual frown.
He stumbled forward on a wounded foot, eyes unseeing.
Mean. The troll was mean-looking. It was young, only fourteen years of age, but the troll knew nothing of birthdays or years. He knew only of survival; of hunting and killing, sleeping in discomfort and running when necessary. Hiding...
Vanishing.
He'd discovered the innate, magical talent further back than he could recall. When faced with what he perceived as danger, the troll would flicker like a guttering flame and then be gone entirely from sight.
At the age of fourteen, he still had little control over the talent that would, years later, earn him much gold and special place of fear in the hearts of his adversaries. Thus far, while it had saved his fuzzy blue hide on more than one occasion, it was also the cause of much misery. When he was invisible, sleep was difficult. He could see through his own eyelids. Everything he held in his hand would disappear along with him, leaving his options quite limited when he was under such duress that he spent hours, even days, invisible to the eye.
His life was hard, but it never occurred to the troll to complain, aside from hissing between his teeth in annoyance or shouting the occasional stream of nonsense syllables. After all, he had nobody to complain to.
Survival was his first priority. He quickly learned from his fuck-ups, some of the lessons proving quite painful. As was typical of trolls, anything that didn't outright kill him healed completely over time.
Instead of being fascinated with his own remarkable regenerative properties, the troll was more concerned with the fact that none of the other, smaller creatures the came across seemed to share the trait. He often tested the theory.
The troll played with his food. Anything that he didn't outright kill suffered horribly. There was no real malice in the act of piercing, peeling, and breaking his prey, before inadvertently killing it or tiring of the game... Most often being unable to hold out any longer due to his near-constant hunger.
He'd never been shown mercy. Never been trained out of the self-centered detachment from the feelings of others that comes naturally to all children. He felt no remorse. Only quiet, contemplative interest, coupled with amusement.
Years before, he had been born to a jungle troll... a leftover from the fallen Gurubashi empire, her tribe to later become the Horde-allied Darkspear of Sen'jin. The father had been of another troll nation. He was one of the larger, more solid-looking Amani. The two parents didn't reside together. Far from it. The young mother had been a victim of rape; would have been one of murder, had her fellow tribe members not caught the savage band of rogue Amani in the act and sent them fleeing into the night.
The troll, though neither mother nor son would ever know it, would more closely resemble his mother in her lanky, long and catlike build. He would share her pale blue skin, covered in a short, velvety and transparent fuzz that was invisible to the naked eye. Her donkey-like ears, long even for a troll's, would also be his, as well as her dark indigo hair.
The resemblance would end there. As the whelp grew into a feral adult, he'd later sport monstrously long, banana-shaped tusks that neither parent could claim. He'd tower at nearly 8" tall. Bastard son would have a crueler face than even his bastard father.
As her belly grew, so did her hatred for her assailants and the whelp she would give birth to. After having him, she couldn't think of a name; didn't wish to name the ugly little troll that stared blankly as it suckled at her breast. Not until the detachment she felt at looking at him, which at least had replaced the anger and hate, was replaced by something more akin to love.
She wouldn't have the chance to name or love the whelp. After one year of tolerating her long, skinny baby, tragedy struck the village. A tragedy brought on by her own son.
There was a grassy pen at the center of the village, safely hidden by a circle of trees and surrounded by the huts in which the trolls dwelt. It was in this tall pen that the trolls old enough to crawl about on their own were often left to play. It was here that her baby destroyed and began to eat an entire generation of young trolls.
When they found him, he was bathed in the blood of his half-kin, chewing contentedly on the foot of another sightlessly staring whelp. The decision was quickly made for him to be cast out to die, for the trolls, while openly cannibalistic, were superstitiously leery of eating the "Demon Whelp".
Under the cover of night the mother, guided by some last vestige of maternal instinct, sought out the camp of the rogue Amani group, who were far from their homeland for reasons she couldn't fathom. She left the baby on the outskirts of the camp. And if he truly was a demon, let the Amani deal with it. Let him eat the heart of the one that had sired him.
Alerted by the toddler's growling cries, a trio of Amani hunters sought the source of the racket, and found the child. Amused by the find, but interested in bigger game, one of the hunters snatched the lanky and already muscular baby up by the foot.
The trio laughed at the cavorting whelp that gnashed its teeth and bent in half, seeking in its confusion to climb its own body. They laughed harder as he was flung, spinning head over heels far into the forest. "Grow fatter so there's something to eat!", one of them yelled after the shocked youngster, who had disappeared into the foliage with a loud thud that knocked the wind out of him and left him gasping for breath as tiny hands clutched at the air.
So it was that the troll's sentence to exile finally came to pass.
But he knew the taste of blood and he had learned how to kill. The troll survived.
He was skinny now. Not painfully thin as he'd spent his first ten years, but he was never able to get quite enough meat to fuel his rapid growth.
Five days now, he'd been invisible. Five days he'd filled his belly with nothing but water from the cool, clear lake he found. Stillwater Pond, it was called. The troll had found his way scores of miles north through the continent of Eastern Kingdoms... From the southernmost tip of Stranglethorn Vale, his place of birth, all the way to a human kingdom known as Lordaeron.
For the past year, he'd been living in the forest, carefully avoiding detection by the pale creatures he didn't know were called humans. He'd later mistakenly refer to the humans as "big blood elves", though the slender elves stood much taller than any human).
Creeping through the strange settlements in the dead of night, he'd climb over the fences easily. He'd sneak into their farms and quickly pick off one of their livestock before fleeing deep into the woods.
For one year he'd done this, and, while he may have managed to avoid detection, the animals he had stolen were missed. The farmers and farmhands were commanded by their lord to be on the lookout for the beast that had as of yet avoided their traps. It had even sprung one of the steel-jaw traps left to snare it; and yet the clever creature had left neither hide nor hair in the powerful metal jaws... only a bit of blood.
The lord of the land was not pleased.
He had indeed sprung one of the metal traps, his curiosity having gotten the best of him. And it had cost him both the fingers on his left hand. Growling quietly, he'd gathered the severed digits and retreated to the woods. Then he ate them.
They'd have grown back regardless, but he was hungry. They'd tasted good.
One day the troll got too ambitious. After starting on chickens and progressing to small goats and the occasional piglet, the troll picked through the farm in search of larger fare. He ignored the quiet, nervous shuffling of the smallest farm animals as he made his way toward one of two long barns. The troll winced at the rusty creak as he pulled one of the giant doors ajar. His shadow was long and strange on the dirt floor, as he let a sliver of moonlight into the darkened building.
He crouched just outside of the door, peering into the dark barn. The troll had seen places like this; permanent dwellings fashioned of wood, where men entered and left and stayed throughout the dark hours when the troll prowled the outskirts of their villages and invaded their farms. He'd seen such things but never had he ventured so close. Never had he stood, as he now did, steeling himself with the clear intention of entering...
Something within the barn shifted quietly in the dark, and the feral troll crouched even lower, the gossamer white ridge of longer fur that ran down his spine standing up straight as his ears first flattened against his skull and then, gradually swiveled forward alertly. His long legs were bent, the knees up and to the sides, his heels lifted as he balanced on the balls of great, two-toed feet. Trembling, anxious and excited, he leaned forward, head stretching forward on the curved neck that connected it to his hunched back.
For several minutes, he waited and watched. Keen eyes adjusted to the dark, picking out strange silhouettes in the grayish gloom. Glancing around furtively, the troll crossed the threshold and slunk into the barn.
Slipping in tentatively, the young troll kept to the wall, his eyes flicking about as they alighted on one unfamiliar object after another. The rows of farming tools loomed ominously, mysterious in the dark. Sharp edges were a foreboding reminder of his previous mishap with the steel-jawed trap. Not wishing to part with any fingers, or toes for that matter; he kept his hands to himself and let his gaze drop to the floor from time to time.
Slowly, carefully, he edged toward the back of the barn, where a strong animal scent was present over the sharp tang of hay.
A wooden barrier blocked his path and as he inched his way along, there was a quiet snort and the scraping shuffle of hooves on hay. Although he paused, tilting his head at the sound, his pounding heart beat a tattoo of excitement.
Prey.
The troll rounded the corner and peered into the stall, his surprised gaze meeting the back-end of a horse. He flinched, crouching instinctively as the great beast switched its tail and shuffled its feet before falling still.
The troll waited.
The horse didn't move.
Slowly, the troll stood taller, watching the animal - ready to defend himself if it showed any sign of attacking. Still, the great creature didn't budge. Glancing about the splintered stall, the troll took a deep breath and reached out one hand...
... and brushed his trembling fingertips against the warm, muscular flank of the horse. The animal twitched slightly, but remained quiet. Steeling himself, he stepped forward and patted it with the flat of his hand.
Again, the animal twitched.
It twitched the way his food sometimes would, after he'd abused most of the life out of it. The troll's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The rigid loincloth he wore, constructed of improperly tanned hide, had ridden up in the back. He pushed it down absently as he reached up and grasped his left tusk - a nervous habit that would remain for his entire life.
Still holding the tusk, squeezing it rhythmically, he once again prodded the horse with the two fingers of his right hand.
Gradually gaining confidence, he stepped closer to the great and obviously (in the troll's eyes), dying beast. Would he cut it apart piece by piece and carry it back to the woods? He blinked and licked his lips as he reached out with both hands. Better to drag the entire thing at once.
Barely had his hands closed around the "dying" horse's leg when suddenly he was slammed in the left shoulder. The pain was blinding and he opened his mouth to roar as he was lifted by the impact with such force that he spun sideways.
The sound was cut off in his throat as he connected with the far wall with such force that the entire barn shook. Old dust puffed out from between rafters and cracks between the boards, showering the troll in filth that temporarily blinded him and stuck to the blood that streamed from his mouth; for he'd also bitten his tongue.
Wiping at his eyes, the troll's face contorted with rage. He blinked back the tears that sought to flush the grit from his eyes. He sat, legs splayed on the dirt floor where he'd landed. So shocked and angry was the troll, that he didn't register the extent of his own injuries.
The horse had tricked him as he sometimes tricked his prey; tossing a rock, making them flee toward him. The horse had twitched and pretended to be dying. His ears rang loudly and there was a thud in his temple as his blood, mixed with dust, ran from his chin to his lap.
He bent his knees, bringing his spread legs together and batting at the filthy, ragged loincloth without thinking about it. His mind, his red eyes, were only for the horse. Unconcerned with making a racket after being slammed so noisily, he threw his elbows into the wall, planning to launch himself at the maddeningly uncooperative beast.
Eyes the color of blood became wider, the look of anger replaced by shocked pain as a sickle fell free of the wall where it hung and cut the air scant inches from his curved, beakish nose, and planted itself in the dirt floor. The wicked blade had removed both the toes of his right foot, snapping him out of his rage and likely saving him from being trampled to death.
Far from being grateful for the interruption, the troll opened his bleeding mouth unnaturally wide and pierced the night with a howl of pain. The sound was such that it caused the hair on the neck of every human to prickle; they having awakened due to the raucous din. Tired humans, who'd been exchanging questioning glances in the dark after the earth-shaking thud, now flew into action at the sound of the horrific, animal scream.
All of the animals; goats, pigs, and the horses in the other barn, raised their own cries of fear. The farm fell to pandemonium as squawking chickens fled the safety of their coop, sending up a flurry of feathers that shined with moonlight as the rained down on the earth.
The pigs fled to the edge of their pen farthest from the sound and crowded fearfully together, their squeals adding further to the confusion. The goats charged the fence and pressed each other against the wood, bleating and stamping their hooves. A tiny kid leapt onto the back wide back of its fat, gray mother and vaulted clean over the fence, running blindly across the fields with a flick of its tail.
Within the barn, the lone horse whinnied and tossed its mane, stamping all four hooves in agitation. The howling had ceased and now the troll gibbered nonsense as he clutched his foot, babbling in pain.
There were other sounds then, which the troll recognized as voices. The hurried and nerve-wracking sounds of men were rapidly approaching. Had he not stopped his own stream of sound to catch his breath, he'd not have heard them.
For the first time that night, luck was on the troll's side. He vanished and limped for the doors, just as the first lantern-wielding man pulled them completely ajar. Holding his breath and pressed flat against the wall as his injuries oozed blood, the troll watched the line of men pass within mere feet. They gathered before the stall and moved the lights about, their voices raising as they tried to speak over the noise of the horse.
One of them jerked the sickle free of the floor and exclaimed loudly as he held it in the lamp light, turning it to show the still-wet blood.
Frozen in terror, the troll watched the group without blinking. He'd been holding his breath the entire time and his vision was obscured by floating blue blossoms that became black at their centers as they spread across his sight.
Nostrils flaring, heart pounding as if it were beating from outside of his ribcage, the troll inhaled slowly through his nose. It wasn't enough and, though he fought against the urge to open his mouth, his jaw dropped wide, chest expanding massively as he sucked greedily at the air.
Despite the raised voices of the men, the one nearest him looked around sharply. Their eyes met and the troll nearly fainted.
Rather, the trolls eyes met the man... The man's eyes scanned the area near the barn doors. His hand came up, once finger extended, as if he would point at the door. Something had been in the square of light where the doors were ajar. He wasn't sure what he'd seen. It was like a vision caught in the periphery of his gaze, but viewed dead-on. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them at the doorway. Nothing moved.
Shaking his head slightly, the man turned back to the others.
The ragged stump where his toes had once joined his foot scraped across the top of the fence. His faced twisted into a silent yell as he stumbled forward. He managed to keep himself from falling by dancing forward in a floundering lurch; each step bringing fresh, nauseating agony. Righting himself clumsily, he staggered toward the sanctuary of the woods.
... and the woods had never looked so far away.
As he forced himself to hurry through the field, stones and dry stalks attacked his foot punishingly. His mutilated food wept blood, which appeared as pools in the wake of the mysteriously parting corn stalks. The field had become a nightmare of malicious obstacles that sought out his injury relentlessly.
Finally, the shadows of the first trees fell upon him. He hazarded a glance over his shoulder, eyes bulging at the sight of lanterns and torches spreading out from the barn. Quickening his pace as he neared the forest, he suddenly stopped and fell to his knees.
The troll threw back his head and let back a grating, agonized cry, "Geeeee!" The sound meant nothing but it sought to encompass everything; the pain, frustration and abject terror that roared in his head as his throat sought to echo the cry.
His anguished wail brought more unwanted attention, the lights swarming toward them as they converged into a line that picked up speed... fueled, seemingly, by the shouts of those who carried the lights.
Before his cry had even ended, the troll regained his feet, wrenching free the errant stick that had embedded itself where toes should have been. Fresh blood spurted from the foot as the troll suddenly bolted for the woods.
All sound had ceased to be. He seemingly outran the pained grunts that escaped him as he sprinted with speed that would have been miraculous even had he not sported such grievous injuries. Low-hanging branches bounced back in the wake of the furiously flying, invisible wind. As the snapped back, many of their branches bore spots and streaks of blood as if a ghost were battering and injuring the foliage.
The men were quickly left behind, as was a part of the troll's consciousness. Unblinking eyes that dried as they were propelled forward, pupils mere pinpoints navigated the trees expertly yet saw and registered nothing. Even the pain was gone as the basic animal brain - the insectile part that was all that remained conscious - commanded the straining muscles to move, commanded the lungs to heave and the arms to pump so hard that the muscles in the neck strained as if the head they were attached to sought to pull away.
All but the sound of ragged breathing ceased as the teeth ground tightly together, the jaws standing out from the pressure. The brain commanded the flight for survival as the rational mind slept soundly within. He was less than a beast. He was a machine without consciousness. A perfect machine for the task of flight, that did fly, as though it meant to continue until it lay in pieces.
Two days later, he awoke to find himself staring at the sun through invisible eyelids. After lying awake for a dazed hour, he attempted to rise. He'd felt nothing as he awoke and as he moved it seemed that he felt everything. The world hurt and then it spun, causing him to turn his head from side to side in a slow, drunken parody of denial.
He rolled to his side, his mouth opening wide to yell, but only a dry croak exited his parched throat. Empty and aggravated, his stomach lurched, and he dry-heaved silently.
When the unproductive attempt at vomiting had ended, he remained on his side, propped on his right elbow. As his mind cleared, he took inventory of the places where he suffered. The foot was the first and most obvious, but his back ached from top to bottom. His shoulder hurt so badly that he could feel the air tormenting it as the wind began to blow calmly. Something was very wrong at the front of his shoulder and part of his chest.
Still propped on his elbow, he let his long right arm rise and cross his chest to gingerly inspect there. His eyes crossed and then closed to seek darkness but he saw everything (as he was still invisible) as fingers met flesh.
Quickly withdrawing his hand, he waited for the starts to stop spinning across his vision. He had to see.
Focusing intently, he commanded himself to materialize. A fly buzzed in front of his nose and he pursed his lips and blew sharply, sending it rudely away.
Just as he was about to give up, his view of the mossy tree-trunk he'd been staring at was suddenly obscured by the welcome dark of eyelids. The troll kept his eyes closed, relishing the darkness for a while before grudgingly opening them again.
Lifting himself higher on his elbow, he craned his neck with a painful hiss, to examine the source of his misery. His eyes widened in horror at the unexpected sight...
A deep, rounded indentation, which he didn't recognize as the shape of a horse's hoof, dominated a blood-smeared section just below his shoulder. The hoof had struck upward and he'd been leaning forward, so that the blow had landed evenly, the horse's foot landing perfectly flat and punching the flesh there inward.
The troll's shocked mind registered the bruised center of the print, black that faded to dark purple and then blue at the outermost edges.. Blood caked the outline where the flesh had been torn free and then shoved in nearly an inch. He gaped at the wound disbelievingly until it faded and he was staring through himself again. He managed to roll onto his back - which he'd have noted was dominated by a giant bruise, had he been able to see it - and promptly fell unconscious.
He woke again, several hours into the afternoon. The sun had fallen behind the trees but there remained plenty of light to see by. It took three attempts for him to roll of his back, and another several minutes before he could push himself onto his knees.
His head hung forward, and he could feel, rather than see, his matter dreadlocks (indigo, when they were visible) draped over his forehead. He shook his head to move them from his face, his shoulder too painful to consider lifting either his hand from the ground.
Raising his chin as he remained on hand ans knees, weak and starving like a beaten dog, the troll looked around blearily.
Familiar, at least. As pain-wracked and hungry as he was, there was still some comfort in the familiar surroundings. The ground beneath him was cool, with springy grass and a healthy scattering of tiny pink and white blossoms. The area of the forest where he had landed was as gentle slopes, the gradual rises and falls alternating with woods and brushy clearings.
He remembered the lake, which would be just beyond the thickly wooded hill that he was facing. As if in answer to his thoughts, he suddenly realized that he could smell the water ahead... the lake calling out to him as his dehydrated, pitiful body yearned toward the life-giving water.
The troll started crawling.
Had he had the strength to lift himself, the troll would have chosen to walk, bad foot or no. It occurred to him vaguely that he wasn't yet healed, considering the rapidity with which past injuries had mended. What he didn't quite guess was that his body couldn't properly regenerate, as it had no fuel. He was starving.
Due to the lack of food, he was healing at the rate a human or animal would - the changes so very subtle that it seemed to him that he wasn't healing at all.
Unable to rise, he crawled forward slowly. His teeth ground as he inched forward, long ears sagging pathetically. Each movement brought forth alternating grunts and whimpers from the troll, but he didn't pause and the sounds subsided as he neared the water that was his desperate goal.
He crawled with his head down, staring at the ground before him. When he finally reached the lake, after an hour of mind-numbing motion, he continued to crawl until his hands were submerged up to the wrists.
Head still lowered, he stared dumbly at the prints made in the soft, sandy shallows, by invisible hands.
A frog let out a belching croak before splashing into the lake, near his right hand. He leaned forward and unclenched his teeth, ignoring the fresh agony his shoulder was awarded by the movement.
Sucking at the water, he filled his empty stomach from the lake for several minutes, taking long, slow gulps. His adam's apple rose and fell as he drank, eyes staring blankly into space.
In reaction to the sudden stretching of its empty walls, the troll's stomach lurched, his head barely lifting before he spewed the water back out with such force that it also exited through his nostrils.
Letting out a watery cough, he choked on the remainder of the water, anxiously fighting his body in an attempt to keep what he'd come so far for.
The heaving subsided and he dipped his head once again, refilling his belly.
Full, he moved back from the water and let his body melt down into the cool, damp and grassy shore. His head was turned to the right. The side of one long tusk, pressed into the earth, left an indentation. The dent around the tusk filled with water and dirt. Some of it found its way past his lips at the base of his tusks and his tongue slid around in his mouth, seeking out bits of dirt and rolling them against his teeth as he stared, dazedly at the lake and the part of the surrounding woods that his view afforded.
He fell asleep.
Three days past, a trial of steady pain and tired struggling from water to shore and back. When he had to urinate, he didn't rise, but rolled to his side and let the urine arc away from his prone form. When he thought of food, he drank more water, often shaking with silent sobs.
It was the fifth day since the troll's ill-fated equine encounter. His dreams were plagued with images of a giant ratlike head (His mind filling in the blanks, as he'd never actually seen the front of the horse) chasing him as he ran on stumps that had been his feet.
Five days of pain, hunger and nightmares had culminated in a temporary insanity that drove him to stand and walk, lurching back toward the dreaded farmyard.
Slack-jawed and vacant-eyed, the troll stumbled through the woods, shoving clumsily through bushes and low-hanging branches before finally leaving the woods to cross the field in a zombie-like trance.
Clicking sounds could be heard in his dry throat as he swallowed rapidly and repeatedly, a tick accompanied by the constant twitching of his long blue ears.
Unblinking eyes stared at the pigs and widened with hungry recognition. The telltale hoof print had crusted over in a dark scab, likewise, the end of the shortened foot. The troll had become visible during his trek through the forest.
Hands groped greedily at a massive, snorting sow just ahead. Continuing forward, the troll caught the wooden barrier against his legs and tumbled forward, head down and feet up on the fence...
... under the startled and incredulous gaze of the men. He was unconscious.
Thus, the feral troll ended his freedom, for a time.
