#jerath

I had finished it last week, but my head wasn't quite cooperating. The following lines contain spoilers for the DnD adventure Waterdeep - Dungeon of the Mad Mage

LIQUID SNAKE AS JERETH FROM THR LABYRINTH

Icons for @mirkstrolls @runictrolls and myself! Full sized, individual icons under the cut!

You don't know how long you've been sitting here. It must be all night, because you can't really remember being anywhere else today. You think. But you must have gotten here somehow. Right?

How did you get here? You must have walked from your hive. But, like. How did you GET here?

Like, to this point in your life (that's pretty funny. Wordplay is funny. How long ago did you think that? Didn't you just say it?)?  Yeah, here. You're sitting on a couch in the middle of the woods, staring at a monitor that appears to be plugged into nothing and shows only static. You're pretty sure--pretty damn sure--it's actually playing a recording of static, instead of just displaying ambient white noise. What the hell.

Nearby, an unprotected pit smolders with embers. Similar pieces of furniture in various states of disarray surround this focal point, with trolls slumped and slouched against one another or against the cushions. You become acutely aware of a wet spot on your back. You can only guess as to how long you've been sitting in it.

There are pie tins everywhere. Licked clean.

You'd like to move, but you can't. You know that if you try, you could easily do it--probably. That makes the most sense. But all the same, you can't. Making the effort to move any part of your body seems almost Herculean, or not even--it's just not something Jerath would do. That's a different Jerath. He can get up. This one can't. Not right now. The Jerath that you are. Not right now.Vilqua is up, and she's reading. Another poem. Of hers. You always hated her poetry. She rhymed 'fucking' with 'fucking,' she just did it, you heard it, and you tell her that, only your mouth doesn't move. This Jerath can't move. You remember.

Nice weak endings, you idiot. Nice job rhyming the same word with itself, you fucking idiot, Vilqua. She's reading it off her phone. How are you going to 'make glorious sacrifice / a yummy, rainbow snackrifice' (seriously, Vilqua???) to the Mirthful Messiahs if you can't look up from your fucking phone? She's worse than Asseer. Holy shit is she so bad at this.

You read stories about the unparalleled slam poetry of the Grand Highbloods, how their wicked verses could command obedience. Change the weather. Fuck around with time and shit. The Grand Highbloods, you were told, were the dopest of wit slingers, gifted with a second or even third sight through their wicked elixirs and soporific tinctures. Sopor doesn't make you a better poet. It just makes you sleepy and stupid. There's a bunch of sleepy stupid assholes in the woods sitting on wet furniture and reading bad poetry, putting on airs like they're royalty (all but three. You can see them. They pinned the Worm, with steel and strength and shadow magic. They're your friends) and you're one of them.

Another icon set, because I can’t help myself?

I wanted to do a fancy height chart but it’s not coming out so great and I lost my tablet sooooo here’s a list. My personal headcanon is that troll heights are not determined/influenced by caste. From rust to Tyrian:

The things you do for love.

You did promise your matesprit you’d get out of the hive more, and she certainly did seem...taken with this crafty little bookseller. You have to admit, you’re somewhat curious yourself what this capitulating, smugly obsequious little nit might look like.

So far you’re unimpressed with this town. It’s too warm, full of steam and charlatans. You feel totally out of place, and you wish you could draw a weapon--just for a little reassurance. Every time some machine or building hisses a gout of steam you resist the urge to jump out of your husk and smash it, in exactly that order. You are currently on your Best Behavior.

Of course this little fuck is holed up in Highfog. A more ostentatious admixture of dubious technology and arcane witchcraft could not exist anywhere else--and to think this place is nearly in your lawnring! Close enough that you have debated checking out the extensive archives to supplement your mythological research, but rejected the idea on the grounds that you would surely catch a haint if you stepped foot in that accursed library. Your fingers drift to your silver necklace idly as you think on it. At least you’ve got some manner of protection, but the less time spent here, the better.