#troll reader

“Alright, buddy. Follow these and not me, okay?” You say, looking for a good place to toss them. Then, you wind up your arm as best you can in your position, and chuck the pouch into the woods in the opposite direction.

The hexopard immediately lets off the tree and lumbers after the pouch, tail swishing behind it as it loudly crashes unbidden through the underbrush.

After a few moments of observation, you slip down the tree gingerly, hoping to not become more interesting than the alluring scent of dried meat. When you get to the bottom, you’re relieved to see the creature so fully engrossed in your ration pouch that you might as well not exist any longer, its snout fully covered as it roots in the opening of the leather. You sneak off quietly while you still have the chance. 

Once you get far enough away, you resume your trek at a faster pace. After another hour or so of traveling, you grin from ear to fluffy ear as the sight of the river comes into view. 

Salvation.

Your pace picks up without you even thinking about it, your morale boosted by something going right for once. Your tail curls behind you in a delight.

You’re not exactly thrilled at having to give up your only food supplies; yet you’re alive and no longer lost, and that seems like a pretty good trade-off.

Now, all that’s left is to follow the river back to town. Then, this whole ordeal will be over. You’ll be back to your old life, though now enjoying the increase in station in the guild pulling off such a momentous task surely will earn you. Who knows, maybe they’ll even splurge on a feast to celebrate! 

Now that does sound good right now.

Think about something else, you urge yourself. You need to force yourself to stop, lest your mouth start watering. Anything else… The grumbling of your stomach is distracting enough already. 

But it’s no use, you’ve fallen down the mental rabbit hole, and now only thinking of all the things you’d like to eat when you get back. You’re swept up in thoughts of whole roasted suckling pig and honeyed chestnut sweetbread… braised venison with cherry glaze and grilled root vegetables… seeded crackers with soft cheese and over-slathered with homemade berry jam… 

Hell, you’ll even take marinated eggs right now…

You wipe your mouth on your sleeve. It takes you a moment for it to sink in, but those are all things that you’ve been eating at the stronghold that you’re craving, not things you miss from home. All of your memories of food you miss from the past are so fuzzy. It’s hard to remember anything of note, past vague, smeared memories of nostalgic meals you ate when you were very young.

And when you get back… you probably won’t eat Orcish food again. At least not for a while.

It’s… fine.

You’ll be home, soon. And you won’t have to think about any of this ever again.

LAST SPRING

“Surely there’s something I can help you with.” Your tail swishes in agitation behind you, a clearly visible indicator of your emotional state. “You’re just being difficult.”

“Urgh- Don’t you have something better to do than bug me?” Torg rumbles, running his good hand down his face in annoyance. "Work to finish? Anything?"

His arm is still in a sling from the hunting incident. And true to his nature, he's being an absolute ass about accepting any help.

"I've already filled my quota today." You say smugly, hands planted on your hips. It's one of the rare days you've finished early and without incident, and you're quite pleased with yourself about it.

"Good, you should be off enjoying the nice weather while it’s here, rather than nagging me in this stuffy office."

"Just let me help you, you stubborn oaf!" You lean over the desk, slapping your hands down on the papers in front of him. Your loosely laced shirt hangs off you a bit with the movement. The new clothes you had made for the warm weather don’t quite fit you as close as you typically wear your shirts- the tailors here still aren’t quite used to your non-orc proportions.

Torg simply stares down at you in perturbed silence. You’ve gotten much more comfortable with the way you communicate with Torg since the hunting trip, but he is your superior. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve gone too far..

"...Torg?"

"...Fine." He grumbles, now looking at anything but you.

He really must be prideful if accepting your help makes him this uncomfortable…

"Shop taxes are due, but I don't think I'll have time to visit each one today." He makes a list of names on a sheet of paper. "You can knock out some of the collections for me."

"You're trusting me with handling funds?" You scoff.

"When you put it like that you're really making me second guess it." He chuckles, but slides the paper across to you nonetheless. "But I do trust you, if you can believe it. They'll already have the gold ready in pouches. You just have to collect them and bring them back here."

"Alright. Leave it to me." You take the paper with a grin, filled with a sense of victory at having convinced him to let you help.

He grunts and goes back to what he was doing. 

You can barely refrain from rubbing your hands together in glee on your way out. If the big man of the settlement trusts you with funds of all things, it looks like you're making progress towards your goal. Maybe having a reason to poke around more shops will give you more of an idea of where the item you're looking for is…

The first stop is close enough: a short walk to the tailor's shop, nearby in the middle of the settlement.

"Good afternoon ladies!" You say cheerily as you enter the colorful shop. Granny Ghorza is taking a break from her loom, sweeping the floor instead. She's become one of your favorite orcs here; she’s a funny old bat and makes the best sweets in the whole settlement, to boot. "The good looks must really run in the family."

Her young adult granddaughter manning the counter balks a little at the blatant flirting, but gives you a courteous smile. She's a nice enough woman, though shy and a bit forgettable. Her name eludes you at the moment…

"Mmhm, and how are your new spring shirts fitting dearie? I might have to add some modesty stitches if you're going to wear it unlaced like that, ohohoh!" She cackles, using the broom handle to pull at the front of your partially open, billowy shirt. "Looks a little breezy, you might catch a cold- or worse, someone’s attention, eheheh!”

"Ahah- They fit perfectly fine, thank you!" You act scandalized, pinching the gaping collar closed and pressing the broom handle away, before you turn to approach the counter.

"Um, what brings you here today? I don't think you have any orders waiting to be picked up..." Ghorza's granddaughter says meekly with a polite smile, looking through the ledger book at the counter. "Your items are… hard to forget, since they don't use up much fabric…"

"Ah, I'm here to collect your tax dues." You explain. "Since Boss is still healing."

"Oh. So… He isn't coming today, then…?" The young woman asks, in a curiously forlorn tone.

"Afraid not. Though, I assure you I am perfectly capable of safely transporting a gold pouch." You say and let out a friendly laugh.

"I see, I see. About time the man let someone give him a hand once in a while." Ghorza gives you a toothless smile. "Would you be a dear get him the dues, Murgol? The pouch is ready in the top drawer."

Murgol twists the hem of her shirt in her hands in displeasure, looking like she's about to break into tears at any moment. Then her lip quivers, and she unceremoniously flees the room, sniffling.

There’s an awkward moment of silence that seems to stretch out far too long for your liking before Ghorza speaks again.

"Mmgh, that girl…" Ghorza shakes her head in reproach. 

"Is she… going to be alright?" Clearly something upset her quite badly, but you don't think you said anything that egregious… "I hope I didn't offend her…?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. She's sensitive when things don't go her way, but she'll live." She shuffles behind the counter, hobbling into her granddaughter's previous spot. "Let me get you the gold, dearie."

You leave the tailor shop, eating a slice of candied apricot-studded sweetbread that Ghorza definitely forced on you and you only took because you were guilted into taking. You scratch the tailor’s family name off your list as you reflect on the strange interaction with the seamstresses. 

You like to think you're quite astute when it comes to social intelligence, but you just can't put your finger on what may have been the trigger of her outburst.

Oh well. Perhaps she's just going through something personal?

You put the interaction out of your mind and head to the next place on your list.

You walk into the blacksmith's next. Luckily she doesn't seem to be too busy as the shop is currently devoid of customers, with her hammering out something at the anvil.

You’ve been friendly with her ever since prepping for the hunting trip. Apparently Lurog and her are good friends, and she was kind enough to let you use her shop to create the arrowheads you needed for your trial. You buy them directly from her now, chatting a while every time you come to replenish your supply.

"Hello Burzgob," You speak up so she can hear above the metal clanking. "Amazing job you're doing there."

“Thanks, little guy. I'm guessing you're not here to buy? Don’t think you used up all those arrowheads from the other day already. …At least I hope."

"Nope, I'm here to collect tax dues. I'm helping Boss out since he's still injured. Two hands better than one, or so they say."

She guffaws, setting the hammer down and pulling her gloves off before wiping her hands on her apron.

"Oh, damn. I was expecting him to be the one to drop by." She rubs her cheek with the back of her hand, still managing to smear soot there as well. “Bummer.”

"Spirits, you're not the first to feel that way today!" You say in exasperation. "I'm starting to think no one wants to see me…"

"Hahah! Nothing personal, trust me!" She grins and pats your shoulder, getting soot on your shirt as well. "Had something I needed to ask him."

"Oh, I see." You nod, and without missing a beat, nonchalantly add; "About what?"

"Hah! So nosy! Sorry, little guy. I like you, but it's a secret."

"Drat. Well, I tried…" You let out a performative sigh and shrug.

"Hey, uh… you're pretty close with Boss though, right?"

…Are you…?

You hadn't really considered it before, but over the course of training and especially after the hunting trip, you've definitely gotten used to his presence. You have something akin to a friendship now; or at least, what must look like one from a spectator's point of view. He’s quick to help you with anything, but he seems to be that way with all of the people in his charge. Though, at the very least, he trusts you enough to let you help him with this task, when asking for help with his own tasks seems to be something he does very seldomly..

"I suppose you could say that." You conclude.

"Can you deliver something to him for me, since you're going back there anyway?"

"Sure, I don't see why not."

"Great! I owe you one, bud." Burzgob's face lights up as she grins, the silver caps on her tusks glinting. She returns and hands you a tied bundle with a letter tucked under the string. It smells like perfume. "Uh, promise you won’t read it, okay?"

You fervently promise you won’t, then bid her goodbye and leave the blacksmith's.

You have a similar experience at the tanner's, then the baker’s… and then the chandler’s…

Somehow, this seemingly easy task has left you feeling like a withered corpse. Luckily for you, however, seeing which family runs the last business on the list fills you with a sense of ease. 

The shop bell jingles as you enter, and you’re immediately awash with the pleasant scent of soap, as well as a heady mix of any sort of cosmetic salve, wax or powder you can think up.

Your self care routine took a little adjustment, being out in the wilds, now. So many of their products were completely foreign to you at first. But despite the slight learning curve, you’ve honestly never felt better. You weren’t exactly taking the best care of yourself while hopping from flophouse to flophouse that belonged to your guild; you barely had the resources to keep yourself fed, let alone buying overpriced soaps and perfumes. But here, things aren’t too expensive, despite being handmade and about as locally sourced as something can be.

Lurog is sitting behind the counter of her family's salon, seemingly counting out the till while the shop is closing down for the evening around her.

"Hey." If she's surprised to see you, she doesn't show it. "We're closed. But if you want your hair done I can do it for you when I'm done here."

"Oh, is that Boss?" You hear one of Lurog's several younger sisters call out from farther inside the shop.

"Is he finally here?!" Another one chimes in and peeks her head around the divider.

"No! False alarm." A third one sweeping her station sighs. "Just the little kitty cat."

You quirk an eyebrow at the reception, but everyone but Lurog has gone back to chatting over their tasks.

"I might just take you up on that offer, I'm getting a little scraggly… Not what I'm here for, though. Boss sent me to collect your dues."

Lurog nods in understanding, but your attention is on the loud, spirited gossiping in the shop behind her as the women discuss their displeasure at this development amongst themselves.

"Don't mind them." Lurog shakes her head in admonishment. "They're just mad because they wanted the chance to flirt with Boss."

“Flirt?” You scoff. “Taxes really get their motors running, huh?”

“Hah.” Lurog rolls her eyes. “No, they’re just all desperate to find men to torment.”

"Oh." You say, wheels starting to turn in your head. "Do you think that's what's going on with everywhere else I've stopped today too…?"

"Wouldn't doubt it. Boss would be a catch for a lot of the women in the stronghold." Lurog says simply, retrieving the gold pouch and sliding it to you over the counter. "Midsummer festival's coming up. Big time for romance. But Boss is either real picky or just not into it. Hasn’t taken any of them up on the offer yet… But he also hasn’t explicitly turned anyone down.”

“Ah, but then… Why are they all still asking? Wouldn’t he just ask who he’d like to and be done with it, if he wanted to court anyone?”

“Because with orcs it’s up to the one that’s gonna be taking it-“ She smirks and makes an incredibly crude gesture with her hands. “To ask to start the courtship, or whatever you wanna call it.”

“Really now?” You feel your eyebrows raise in curiosity. “Why is that?”

“Unh-uh.” Lurog shrugs. ”Just how we do it, I guess." 

Well, that certainly explains why you haven’t been getting invitations to share anyone’s bed, despite being as gorgeous and alluring as you are. What would a full-fledged orc want from you, with so many massive, hunky orc men around to choose from?

But that means you have the power to try to lure a man in.

Hmm… if you were to ask out one of the right orcs, you might have better access to off limits areas for your search…

Lurog must notice the spark of an idea in your eye of how to use your newfound power, because she quickly adds; "You should wait until the festival to harass any men. Better success rate."

“You know, you’re actually very helpful when you want to be.” You grin at her. “It’s a shame you don’t often want to be.”

“Thanks.” She snorts in a deadpan tone. “I wish I could say the same.”

You finish your friendly ribbing with Lurog, more than ready to haul back the large rucksack of gold and the almost nearly as large, cumbersome pile of offerings for Torg, and be done with this task.

You can't help but get into your own head about what's happened during this excursion while you make your way back. You can feel the irritation growing the more you dwell on it, your tail twitching behind you. 

All of the shop owners on your list were women. Specifically, women that seem to be interested in Torg. It seems far too unlikely to be a coincidence- you doubt that many of the shops in the settlement are run by eligible women fawning over Torg.

More importantly, why does it upset you so much? 

Jealousy…?  Because you’re lonely?

It must be that- because he apparently has a queue of women asking to court him when none of the male orcs in the settlement even look at you twice.

…Right. That must be all it is.

You're still a bit grumpy about it as you return to Torg's office.

"Here you are." You set down the pack with the gold pouches inside and the bundle of gifts on his desk with a heavy sigh. 

"Thanks for the help." He says, then noticing your clearly negative mood, he looks up from his task. "I hope it wasn't too much of a pain."

"No, it was easy enough.” You grumble, and go on to quip as you nonchalantly examine your cuticles; “Though… if you wanted me to host a meeting of your fanclub, you could've just asked."

"That bad?" He looks genuinely sheepish, scratching the edge of his beard.

"It was pretty bad." You put your hands on your hips, deciding that you'll give him a bit more of a hard time. "A lot of disappointed ladies giving me shit for not being you."

"I'm sorry. If I knew it would bother you, I wouldn't have given you that task."

"Apology accepted, but it seems…” You make a noise in disgust. “A tad unkind to lead so many people on like this, doesn’t it? It's not like you at all."

"I'm- Ugh. I'm not leading anyone on. At least I'm not trying to-" He runs a hand through his hair in discomfort. "I am Chieftain, I can't have so many of my people holding a grudge against me for rejecting them romantically. It would be disruptive, so I thought it would be best for me to just ignore any of these crushes some of the younger women have on me."

"It must be difficult being so popular with the ladies…" You say dryly.

"Hey, poke fun all you want, but it can be. Someone will be hurt regardless of what choice I make."

"Why not… Oh, I don’t know… pick one, then, and get it over with? Then the ones you don't pick can accept it and move on, rather than holding onto false hope."

"It's not that simple…"

"It sure seems like it is!" You chuckle. "How is it not the simplest thing?"

"Because I am not interested in any of them."

"You're telling me you have your pick of half of the young, gorgeous Orcish women in this stronghold throwing themselves at your feet," You lean over the desk and gesture to the bag of offerings on his desk. "And not one of them meets your standards?"

"No." He says heavily, clearly weary from the ongoing nature of this conversation. “Are you satisfied? Can you end this interrogation now?”

"...Okay." You relent, incredulous, but still accept his words. You've grilled him enough, you suppose.

A small smile has taken up residence on your face. 

Did you really enjoy hassling him that much…?

It's messy, with walls smeared in colorful blood depicting archaic looking doodles of stick figures and clown faces. This rings alarm bells for you; a purple-blood is TERRIFYING to deal with by yourself. You NEED to get out-

A low, rumbling noise. Like the broken, crackling purr of an old engine revving.

"OOooOH! LoOks LIkE I GoT A VIsItOr!

He's here-

Behind you.

You're afraid to turn around but you force yourself to. There's still a chance to run if you can slip past him-

Even in the darkness, you can tell he's…. Huge. Skinny, but intimidating as he looms a bit closer. There's a glint from his teeth as he continues talking.

"MoTHErFuCKIng GREAT. A MoTHERfUCKEr WAs AbOUt To NeED to GeT SOmeONE SoOn AnYWaYS."

He takes a step. The shadows slowly spill from him, giving you more details thanks to the low light in the room. His dirty clothes.

Another step.

His shaggy hair.

Another.

His distorted face.

A smile contorted with low eyes that looked tired even under his makeup.

The already distorted smile became more ugly as he met your eyes. He lifted a hand to his cheek, scratching it and smudging it more.

"WOaH." A hoarse laugh erupted from his chest. "AND yOu’rE CuTe! FuCKiNg sCorE!"

You didn't like the turn in his expression. His eyes glinted with excitement and his breathing had gotten rougher. You HAD to get out.

You got your weapon. He laughed again and licked his lips.

"MmmMmM, GReAT." He’s once again moving towards you, teeth showing, arms outstretched. "I WaNt yOu tO SqUIRm.'

~

Cut to Gamzee picking you up and fucking you from behind against the wall, both feet of the ground as he grunts in your ear, screaming and growling and laughing as he tells you how grateful he is for the help in 'taking the edge off'. How lucky he is YOU found him. How you may keep struggling and crying but he’s NOT LETTING YOU GO, he grips your thighs so hard it pierces the skin at the very thought of being without you again. You’re too good, too fun, the perfect new substitute for a good time :o)

~

Gamzee NSFW Headcanon:

(Y/N) had been chatting with multiple of their friends on their husktop, when the stupid machine had stopped working. It went as far as to start smoking and making suspicious noises. This was normal of course, and normally the troll would have gone to Sollux for help. But during the conversation (Y/N) had been having, Rose and to some extent Kanaya had been helping them with their flushed feelings for a certain anime shade wearing human.

(Y/N) felt colour rise to their cheeks as they thought of Dirk. The normally stoic human had wormed his way into the trolls Blood pusher, and caused the troll to struggle with feelings they had never felt before. During the game the two had had quite the complicated relationship, in the words of the other humans. But to (Y/N)s fellow trolls it had been quite normal.

(Y/N) and Dirk had disliked, but respected, each other in the beginning, the feelings soon brewing into a kismesis relationship. But as the game ended, the black feelings melted into red. A bright burning red that made the troll dizzy at times. (Y/N) knew Dirk didn’t feel black feelings anymore either, but they were sure he felt pale towards (Y/N).

They shook off their suddenly spiralling thoughts and got to their feet. They pulled on a jacket, and tucked the now non-smoking husktop under their arm. Making their way through their new hive, which they built after the game, and soon arrived at their transportalizer. Stepping ontop of the circle, the troll was gone with a flash.

(Y/N) materialised near Dirks entrance and began their climb to where they assumed the human would be, His workshop. Some of Dirk’s machinery must have told him of the troll’s arrival, since he seemed to be expecting them when they entered. He had his face buried in whatever he was working on, but he at least greeted them with a “yo”.

“Hey Dirk, need your expertise. My husktop fucked up again, and Sollux is busy” (Y/N) announced, making their way over to the table where the human was tinkering. Actually, (Y/N) didn’t know if their gold-blooded friend was busy or not, but it was a great excuse, because the troll didn’t want to admit that they just wanted to spend time with Dirk.

Dirk glances up from his work, and it was then that (Y/N) noticed he wasn’t wearing his shades. Their eyes met, and the troll immediately felt colour gather in their face as the bright orange eyes turned in their direction. (Y/N) was at a loss for words, but Dirk didn’t seem to notice as he reached for the broken machine. “Let me see, give it here” he said, the troll dumbly handing it over as they kept staring at Dirks face.

And as quickly as he had turned towards them, he turned his back on them. It seemed he immediately went to work, pulling tools out and picking at the busted husktop. (Y/N) didn’t know what to say, as they felt feelings bubbling up their throat. They feared if they opened their mouth, they’d spill all their secrets, and end up confessing and ruining their friendship with Dirk.

(Y/N) finally just decided to flop down on one of the beanbags in the room, that was turned towards a flatscreen with a gaming system attached. They picked up a controller and started playing the weird skating game Dirk had plugged in, grumbling, and growling to themselves as the character on screen didn’t want to follow what they wanted.

Behind them at the workbench, Dirk finally got the husktop to work again. As the screen flickered on, the trolls Pesterchum appeared. The colours on the screen made it obvious (Y/N) had been talking to someone. From the looks of it, those being Rose and Kanaya. Dirk squinted slightly, starting to scroll through the conversation when he saw his name mentioned multiple times.

Normally he wouldn’t be one to snoop, but he couldn’t help but start reading it closer. A blush slowly rose to Dirks cheeks as his eyes ran over the words. There were long paragraphs of (Y/N) talking about their feelings for him, and how they didn’t know how to deal with them. There were even longer paragraphs of Rose and Kanaya trying to help them, in their own way.

Dirk glanced over his shoulder at the troll who was now raging at Tony Hawk being flung across the screen and glitching into walls. The warmth in his face grew, and he shut the husktop again as he saw Rose send another paragraph. He picked his sunglasses off his workbench, and put them on in an attempt to hide his expression.

(Y/N) glanced over as Dirk sat down in the beanbag beside them. “I uh… fixed your husktop. It looked like Rose really wanted to talk to you” the human said, softly clearing his throat as he glanced off to the side. The troll froze, the controller going still in their hands. Panic bubbled in their chest at the thought of dirk seeing their messages with the other person.

They drop the controller and turn to Dirk, their face going bright with their bloodcolour as they blush. (Y/N) starts waving their hands around and coming up with excuses, trying to cover what they were saying to Rose and Kanaya, in hopes of saving their friendship. Their face got brighter with their colour, as Dirk turned to them and was red in the face himself. Finally (Y/N) went quiet, and dropped their hands in their lap, eyes gluing onto the floor.

“I… im sorry Dirk. I didnt wanna… I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by telling you. Im sure you don’t feel the same, so id rather we stay friends than me forcing my dumb flushes feelings on you, you know. I-“ The troll kept rambling, fumbling with their hands as they claws dug at their nails. They were cut off by Dirk moving forward and softly pressing their lips together. The troll went silent, eyes wide as they felt the warmth of Dirk getting close to them.

Footsteps? There's something moving around on the ground below you.

You look down, expecting to see a band of enraged orcs gathering around to shake you out of the tree and beat you to a fine pulp, but instead you see the hulking, striped form of a young winter-coated hexopard, sniffing around the base of the tree. 

It uses the claws on two of its six massive paws to dig at the bark, leaving large gouges in the hard surface of the tree like nothing more than lukewarm, spreadable butter. 

Damn. That’s a problem!

You bite your thumbnail in worry, mind racing for a solution.

The overgrown creature below you rears up, leaning its full weight on the tree and causing the wood to creak and groan. It stretches out its neck, following a scent that’s drawing it up the tree. Its twitching nose would be a great deal more adorable if it wasn’t the size of your fist and above a maw full of razor sharp fangs that could snap your bones like brittle twigs.

The way it's behaving, it’s either going to climb up, or the tree is going to snap under its weight and bring you crashing to the ground with it from a tall height. 

Terror settles in your gut, but you manage to stay calm. You absolutely have to figure out how to handle this - lest you end up as this creature's next meal, or broken from a fall from this height.

LAST SPRING

“And remember, the most important part of staying safe is being aware of your surroundings.” Torg’s deep voice easily projects out over the group without being too loud. “That’s why we hunt in pairs; Two sets of eyes always see more than one.”

You're in a newly set up hunting camp, listening to Torg address your little group; you, and eight tweenaged orclings. All of them are somehow scarily buff, despite barely being out of single digits in age. Some of them are already taller than you, and all of them are already wider.

While Torg talks, you take one last chance to look over your new bow.

It took some time and a lot of effort to finish it. Urguk’s family trade is carpentry, as it turns out. So, you spent a lot of afternoons trying to shape a usable riser and set of limbs out of hunks of wood, using machines in his family’s workshop that you’ve never even seen before, let alone knew how to use. But Urguk was more than happy to show you, and while he’s not the best at verbal instructions; he certainly makes up for that in enthusiasm. After several sessions, friction burns and splinters later, you ended up with a bow that was nearly functional. 

And even more lucky for you, Lurog is much better at giving instructions, and used their experience braiding to help you make your bowstring. She effortlessly knew the amount of strands you’d need for a light enough draw weight for you. Coating the strands in beeswax and braiding them together was the easy part, after that.

And now you have a new, practically shining weapon, tailor made by your own hand to suit your strengths. The first time you practiced with it after it was made, Torg was nearly blown away with how big of an improvement it made on your aim. You certainly didn’t have to quit mid-quiver, now.

And you have to admit, the admiration and praise from him felt quite nice…

Finally, it’s time to get to business after weeks of crash course training; you’re more than ready to see what the bow you slaved hours over can do. You’re aching to see the culmination of the daunting task of crafting an entire functioning weapon by hand, that you only managed to accomplish with the help of your friends.

Your friends…? 

Ugh. When did you start calling them that? 

It's not a good idea to get attached like this…

“Alright, is everyone ready?”

Your much younger compatriots' energetic voices sound around you in a loud and discordant, though affirmative, chorus. 

“...Absolutely!” You add a few seconds late.

Torg finishes addressing the group. The bubbling excitement of the youngsters you’re surrounded by is truly contagious, a pleasant buzz of activity in the back of your mind. 

The kids disperse with their chaperones - whom respectively give you a reassuring, tusky grin and a lazy thumbs up - as they pass with their charges in tow.

It seems that this year, things have been restructured to account for your presence. Urguk and Lurog are acting as chaperones for the four pairs of young orcs, there only to confirm their kills and to act as support if anything goes wrong. This is usually solely Torg's job, but they seem excited to be sharing the responsibility this time. You’re a bit surprised that some of the more seasoned hunters weren't the ones doing this job, but it occurs to you after some thought that they’re probably busy doing their own hunting, now that spring is here.

That left Torg open to act as both your chaperone and your hunting partner. Though you still have to make a solo kill, he'll be your second set of eyes. 

…You get the feeling he made things this way to shield anyone else from the potential mishap you're likely to cause, deciding instead to take any  resulting damage that may result himself. 

You huff at the thought. You’ll show him.

You suppose it’s for the best. Over the last few weeks of archery practice, you think he’s gotten a lot more relaxed with you, and he’s not the worst company to be stuck with in the woods for an extended period… At least you’ll be safe if anything happens, you try to convince yourself that’s the only reason.

The chaperones and pairs of orclings gradually depart from camp. You're left with only your own chaperone/hunting partner, alone in the newly verdant forest clearing.

“A rousing speech as always.” You grin and gesture to your own sleek face. “I like what you’ve done with the beard.”

“Hmm, thanks.” He rubs the short, newly trimmed shape of his facial hair. “I always cut it back this time of year. Otherwise it collects pollen and I’m sneezing all the time.”

“I see.” You smile, thinking of his thick, dark hair dusted yellow-green instead of the sleek, neatly-trimmed thing it is now. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Torg's mouth takes on a small curl of a wry smile before adding, "Boss."

You can't help but laugh, and make your way through the trees, as well, though you head in the opposite direction of the other group.

It takes you a long time to find any hint of a wild animal, even despite it being the season when nature is bursting at the seams with young rabbits, elk yearlings and various types of fowl.

You finally manage to find clear traces of a hooved herbivore grazing. Between the hoof prints in the soft areas of ground and the occasional mark of antler velvet being rubbed against trees, you determine it's most likely an elk. You follow the signs as best you can through the woods, following the path the creature took likely some hours earlier.

After a while of tracking, you crest a small incline, and through the twiggy branches you can make out the form of your quarry. A young male elk grazes in the fresh spring grass of the area below the overhanging slope you stand on.

It's a bit big for you to take down on your own with only your light bow, and you can basically hear Torg thinking the same thing behind you. You had expected to kill a hare or maybe a spring quail, but this elk is the first living creature besides Torg you've laid eyes on for several hours. 

You need to get this one. Your ego won’t let you pass it up.

But it’s angled slightly towards you. If you shoot it like this, your arrow won’t be able to get past the elk’s shoulder bone - resulting in a long, messy death, rather than a quick and much less painful one for either of you.

You nock an arrow and line up your shot, steadying your breathing and waiting for the elk to move to a better position. 

And finally it does, turning broadside to reach what must be a particularly succulent looking patch of grass.

Your arm doesn't shake anymore when you draw back the string. 

You hold your breath and loose the arrow - just as the deer turns slightly back towards you.

The arrow hits it and stays lodged behind its shoulder. Luckily the arrow didn’t glance off the bone, but it’s closer to the front of the animal rather than where it needs to be on the side.

The elk lets out an alarmed bellow and bounds off through the woods, leaving a bright red sanguinous trail to follow. 

"Dammit-" You hiss in irritation, rising hastily from your crouch to tail the wounded animal.

"Don't worry." You hear Torg encourage in uncharacteristic low volume as you pass by him. "You'll get it."

You track the cervid once again, this time slightly easier given the literal colored line leading you to it. After nearly another hour of following the trail through the brush, you come to a clearing. 

You walk out into the middle of the empty space, where the blood trail immediately stops dead, ending in a large collected pool on the grass with no indication of anything leaving it. Somehow, there is no sign of the wounded elk anywhere.

The clearing is devoid of movement and sound - all the sounds of small animals moving through the brush and bird calls have completely stopped.

It’s downright creepy.

You approach the bloodstained area, not caring to avoid the cracking twigs under your boot while you crouch beside the ominous puddle to investigate. 

It’s blood, alright. But the trail seemingly leads to nowhere. You stand back up, irritated. Your tail swishes angrily, slapping at the grass at your feet with the end of each twitching arc.

You did everything right! Why are things going wrong now?

“What in the hell-?” You motion widely with your hands, palms up. “Did it get up and fly away, then?! Maybe it ascended to heaven!”

“Wait-” Torg says your name in a stern voice as he reaches the edge of the clearing behind you.

A large glob of something wet drips into the middle of your outstretched palm.

Your eyes dart to the source of the wetness, a rivulet of red now slowing tracking down the tendon in your wrist.

Blood.

Your head snaps up, and you see the now lifeless corpse of the elk, now half-eaten, with one of your arrows still buried in its shoulder. It’s lodged into the crook of one of the branches of the large tree overhanging the clearing, legs and antlers dangling limply.

“W-W-What in the hell!” You wheeze out again, paralyzed by fear, your legs planted firmly to the ground.

“Don’t turn around. Back up. Slowly.” Torg continues, deadly serious.

Your legs just aren’t listening to your command to function. They may as well be made of jelly.

Even less so when you spot the culprit that stored the elk in the tree.

Glittering, fixed eyes meet yours. A silent behemoth- an adult male hexopard, still clad in winter coat- becomes clear in your vision through the camouflage of the underbrush. It’s crouched predatorily at the other end of clearing. Lying in wait, ready to launch itself at any moment. A ring of wet crimson coats the fur around its mouth.

You barely choke back the scream, only managing to because your life may depend on it.

“Listen-” Torg says your name again, much more desperate this time. “I know it's scary. But you have to move.”

You want to, but you just can’t. You can’t move, can’t bring any words to escape your choked-shut throat.

“It will be alright. Don’t turn your back on it,” Torg repeats, this time both firmer and more pressed, but still somehow comforting. “Slowly. Come to me.”

Unthinking, you tilt your head to look back at Torg- maybe to better plan your escape route, maybe for reassurance- but either way, it is a mistake.

In a snap, the stillness of the situation breaks. 

Everything moves so fast. The hexopard lurches forward at top speed, covering ground at an alarming pace with its six, agile limbs.

You’re about to be devoured.

But you don’t die horribly - instead you’re slung forcibly out of the way, nearly toppling over your own feet in the process. 

You stumble to regain your balance as Torg places himself between you and the hexopard. His spear is up between his hands, a horizontal bar smashed into the hinge of the beast’s jaw. It snarls and gnashes, trying to break free from the makeshift bit with fang and claw.

“Hrrgh- RUN!” He shouts at you, his arms straining with all they have to keep the massive creature impeded.”RUN NOW!”

You know you should flee, but -

This thing will outrun you in seconds if it gets past Torg, and you can’t withstand even a single hit the way he clearly can.

You make a split decision to disobey Torg’s instruction. Your legs instead carry you as fast as possible towards the nearest tree not containing a dead elk, and you hastily begin to scale the tree. If you get up here, you can probably at least hit it with some arrows-

“NO! IT CAN CLIMB!” Torg shouts at you between the snarling he’s doing in an attempt to intimidate the beast, noticing your change in plan. “YOU HAVE TO GET-”

Before Torg can complete his thought, the wooden haft of the weapon holding it back snaps in half with a sickeningly loud crack. The middle of the wooden shaft is crunched to splinters between the animal’s powerful, sharpley fanged jaw. The spear’s body is separated into two ragged pieces.

The hexopard uses the force of the stored up energy releasing to take Torg down, knocking him supine, where it bears down on him. 

Torg raises the back of his bracer-covered forearm, lodging it in its mouth in the spear’s place, to keep the creature away from his face and throat.

Torg has dropped the blunt end of his spear, but the tipped end stays in his hand as an improvised blade - anything to stab and gouge in an attempt to fight back as he struggles on the ground.

Shit, shit, shit- I have to do something- 

Or Torg’s going to- 

Going to-

You can't even bring yourself to even think about it.

You cradle your head in your hands, not even noticing the elk blood you’re smearing in your hair, desperately trying to squeeze a good idea from between your temples.

The hexopard’s jaw finally readjusts its grip and clamps down hard, crunching down full force on Torg’s forearm, and assumingly, straight into bone. Torg lets out a bellow in pain, still striking at the beast’s face and head one handed with all of the strength he has left.

But what can you even do? Your hands can’t be trusted to hold your bow with how badly they’re trembling in abject horror, let alone still being slippery from blood.

You’re weak and useless, as always-

The predator drops his arm to go for his neck. Torg’s opposite gloved hand holding the creature’s snout at bay is his last resort to keep the menacing jaws from fully mauling him. You can see cyan-hued blood running down his arm as it tremors, his strength threatening to fail any moment now.

That's when you remember the other weapon you have access to - your trusty dagger, resting concealed on your belt, like it always is.

The beast’s jaws slip past Torg’s grip and snaps forward to rip out his throat. Torg barely manages to turn his head fast enough to survive, instead the fangs piercing the leather armor covering Torg's shoulder and sinking into his flesh.

“Hhrngh-!” Torg grits his teeth, struggling in vain to pry the creature's mouth from his deltoid with his hand. 

Your hesitation is driven away - it may be a stupid idea, but you need to at least try to help before it's too late.

At least if you fail and you both die, you won't have a whole tribe of orcs seeking revenge on you for getting their chieftain killed.

You unsheathe your trusty dagger, holding it with both hands as you quickly adjust your positioning.

You take a deep breath.

Then, you pounce.

A dizzying spin of pale colors swirls in your vision as you descend. The weight of your body drives the full force of your fall through the knife. You land on your feet (of course) on the furred back of the creature with a thump. Your dagger buries into the back of the hexopard's neck, right below the base of the skull, sinking down to straddle the creature’s back to try to keep yourself from being flung off.

The beast releases its clamp on Torg in surprise. It thrashes and roars in a spray of blood, now fully focused on you. It tries to throw you off or twist back to bite at you, but it's too late.

You continue to leverage the blade with all your body weight until you feel a snap, and the creature lets out one last long, mournful waul before falling completely limp and silent. 

Breaths wild and heaving, you look at Torg's pale expression of awe below you, momentarily stunned yourself. 

Then you snap back to your senses, sheathing your blade and rolling off the hexopard's back to help Torg to wriggle free from beneath the beast’s deadweight.

Soon, with your moderate assistance, he's dragged himself clear of being pinned. He holds his palm to the weeping holes in his shoulder, staunching the heavy flow of cool toned blood from his wound. 

He lets out a low groan as he stubbornly tries to get to his feet with only the use of one of his thick arms.

"Don't stand up yet… I-" Your hands don't stop shaking as you dig through your pack, searching for your first aid supplies. The adrenaline in your veins is making all of the heavy emotions feel far away for now. "Let me at least patch you up first."

He grunts affirmatively and leans back against the base of the tree you were just perched in. 

The first thing you do is hand him one of the healing draughts tucked at the top of the kit.

"Thanks." He pops the cork from the vial with his thumb, draining it one handed before handing back the spent bottle. "Have a feeling I'll need it."

“Yeah. I… think I would’ve much preferred the elk maul you.” You say, trying to make light of the situation. “Are horribly dangerous big cats usually skulking around baby’s first hunting trip?”

“No, they are supposed to have woken up from hibernation and migrated for spring by now. Big guy was probably a late riser and driven mad by the hunger.”

You start to tend to his wounds; you’re not the best medic, but you at least know enough to manage to clean a wound and put on a bandage.

“Your blood is blue too.” You observe with a small laugh, though you’re not sure why you said that of all things.

“Yeah-” Torg sucks in a hiss of air at the sting of the antiseptic coated cloth meeting his cuts. “Mom’s a troll- A giant.” 

“Well, that certainly explains a lot about you.” You work to bandage the large wound first, then any other ones on his arms, hands and face that are profusely leaking. “A bit surprised you didn’t mention being half troll by now.”

“Completely different kind of troll than what you are. Didn’t seem important.”

“A troll is still a troll!” You laugh incredulously.

Torg simply rolls his eyes at you, apparently too exhausted to continue to argue.

Then you come to his left arm, which doesn't seem to look quite right.

“Your arm…”

“S’broken.” He says simply, as if he was telling you what he had for breakfast instead of something this upsetting. “Not my first broken bone. Shaman will fix me up.”

After you’ve cleaned and bandaged the bite wound under his bracer, you help make a makeshift splint with your unstrung bow.

“At least this came in handy in some way today.” You chuckle as you begin to tie the strips of cloth to secure his arm to it. It earns an amused snort from him, and you’re happy as long as he’s conscious and interacting.

You work in relative silence after that. You glance up to check he’s still lucid when you see his dark eyes resting on you.

Maybe it’s the flood of emotion rushing back into your brain as the adrenaline wears off, but you can’t help but feel incredibly fond of him right now. 

You also can’t help but think - maybe a bit strangely, given the current circumstances - that he looks very handsome, even like this.

“Yes?” You say, smirking, your ears twitching as you try to banish the strange thought.

“...You didn’t run when I told you.” Torg admonishes you with a grunt, his voice hoarse.

“Oho, is that really something you’re going to scold me for? Right now?” You say incredulously, gesturing to his general state of injury. “That stinking behemoth would’ve bitten your head off next if I hadn’t disobeyed you, you know!”

“I know. You made the right call.” He nods. The smile he gives you exudes pure pride. It's a foreign expression for you to see him with- to see anyone with, when it comes to you- and one you're not used to being on the receiving end of in general. “Thank you.”

"Sure." You try to ignore how flustered this makes you, and help him get to his feet. It must just be your emotions being unhinged from the ordeal. “I would’ve been an appetizer if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way first, so I suppose we can call it even.”

Luckily, his lower body is generally unharmed, so he can still walk unassisted. Once he gets some stronger pain medicine from camp, he’ll likely be able to make the trip back to the settlement with little issue. 

Torg stubbornly insists on giving the dead hexopard a look over before you leave. He has to confirm your kill, apparently.

You don’t even want to look at it anymore, the remorse heavy in your gut. You’re a thief, not a murderer - you don’t personally relish in killing living things, even animals. Hopefully hexopard meat is edible, so it nor the elk’s death isn’t pointless, but… At the end of the day, between the hexopard dying or Torg, you much prefer that it wasn’t Torg.

“Imagine that, a little cat killed that huge beast on his first hunt!” He remarks in amazement as he looks over the huge carcass. “Never seen anything like it in my years of being Chieftain so far.”

“I mean, usually this trial is done by children, right? That would be quite a feat.” You chuckle in turn. “I’d hate to encounter the little bastard that could manage this...”

Torg seems to find that quite funny as he bellows out a laughing fit, having to wipe a tear from his eye with his good hand.

“You should be proud.” He adds when he’s composed himself. “It’s a great achievement to take down something so large, all on your own.”

“I didn’t do it on my own.” You assert with a smile. “I had an excellent distraction.”

You think, perhaps, you’ll leave this out of the next message to your guildmaster as well…