BURN IN THE FIRES OF CONVICTION

*annoyed noises*

The massive troll eyes the can with intense suspicion. He is NOT the sort to put everything he finds in his mouth -- he outgrew that behavior long ago, and he knows it’s some sort of likely vile human drink.

“we have a deal.” she grinned holding out her hand to shake. She was seemingly pleased the negotiation went well.

Grindor sighs. Shaking hands is still weird, but it isn’t the only human custom he’s adopted over the years. He bends down and grasps the strange half dragon’s hand in a shake, trying to be sure he doesn’t snap every bone in it on accident. 

“they’re durable, and contain a bit of the fire of the dragon they came from. grind them and meld them into metal and they’ll give an edge.” she explained. “in armor, they will deflect most blades. much like dragon hide. in weapons, they’ll add a spark and flame to a cutting blade or a blast of energy to a warhammer”

“I am half dragon, but live with a full blooded dragon who sheds these things rather commonly, so i have a ready supply, i brought a decent amount of those he lost in the last two weeks.”

Grindor considers, tapping his chin with a claw. He isn’t much of a fighting troll anymore, besides the occasional bloodsport in the Forge of New Trollmarket. Still... he likes making weapons with an edge. 

Were this any other day, the simple act of taking a drink from a server-troll, sitting alone at a table and drinking it would be routine, but here and now he can’t even get a sip in.

Lifting his tankard to draw a swig, he stops, “I do hope you’re joking.” Offering Grindor an affronted snarl and a scoff, he continues, holding the tankard at his mouth before dropping it down to his side, spilling even more. “It is Draal. Several hundred years, and yet not once you would have heard my name? I am notorious!”

“Drool.” With an disbelieving sigh, he finally takes his sip. Parched mouth now moistened and his brief temper quelled, Draal chuffs, “Original, I like it. Drool the Deadly. I have heard better from whelps!” 

A contented sigh soon follows, forearm wiping the foam from his mouth and smearing the grime along with it. He looks down to the Krubera once more - the grey mass wasn’t going to be moving any time soon. It’s while he’s staring at the twitching, splintered mess that something finally clicks.

His free hand points, “You are from the Heim, aren’t you?” 

Grindor’s ears are hidden in his mane, but they’re tucked back against his skull nonetheless. Draal, that’s it. Of course Draal is notorious -- a notoriously loud and obnoxious drunk with no shortage whatsoever in ego and hubris. His moniker is, of course, the deadly, so there’s some weight to his haughty heart, but Grindor finds it largely unimpressive. 

The dark colored troll curls his lip in distaste. But the subject abruptly changes from the Kitlar bitching about his name to Grindor’s own origins. It’s a jarring change, which leaves the GummGumm titan rocked back on his heels a bit. 

“A choice was made to throw him in this direction, wether you realised it or not, beast.”

At least they could agree on something, though both would think the the agreement would lie with the opposite. Draal was content enough to get his own drink, halfway towards rising to fetch his own refill before the opposing troll had already dealt with it. 

“Thank you…” He raises the fresh tankard in thanks, its contents spilling over the sides in response, though his eyes narrow as he slowly catches onto who this troll really is. Features he could recognise were equally matched by ones he did not, but then any troll of clear mind would be wise to remember a titan like Grindor. Seems Draal really was exhausted. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”  

The word beast makes his hackles raise. Curling his lip as he hands his tankard to the Kitlar, Grindor gives him an ugly face but doesn’t pursue the matter. He’s been with these idiots for four hundred years and still some of them call him “The GummGumm”. “The Beast”. It makes him wonder why he bothered to come back from Iceland at all.

Grindor’s long tail curls around his feet when someone trips over it, baleful stare settling on the blue troll. 

Hours, days, he had waited for this - a satisfyingly frothy ale to wash away the soot and dust from his parched mouth and throat.

It had been even longer since he had the opportunity to set down axes and daggers in favour of tongs, anvil and fuller. His tenure as protector to the Trollhunter and resident pub dweller often occupied his time as of late, save for this brief window.

He could never attest to being anywhere near as skilled as his father and tutor, in fact the troll would often say his skills are better placed in detailing, but this is besides the point.

Staring at the bubbling foam of his ale, the blackened troll loosely clung onto the handle, lost in a tired array of thoughts. A happy, contented place to be drifting into, all until his vision was away with a blur of illuminated gray hide, splinters, and an empty hand where the tankard once was.

He slowly looks up at this goliath who was responsible, then down to the mess at his feet, before turning back to Grindor.

Sorry.

Draal relents, rolling eyes, “There are a dozen empty tables and half of an arena of space in this pub to fight in, and you chose my table?”

He frowns, soot and ash breaking apart as hide creases at the sight of the golden amber dripping down the Krubera lump. He would have to get himself another.

Bjorn was going to be pissed. Grindor did have a tendency to break tables and chairs when he got into fights, but in his defense, he never starts them. He only finishes them!

The firemaster grumbles, orange eyes narrowing. “I chose nothing. He did.” 

After jabbing a claw at the crumpled troll on the floor, Grindor turns and goes back to the booth he had been sitting at when the idiot decided he wanted to fight the GummGumm. He snatches up his tankard -- largely untouched -- and brings it over to (Drill? Drell?) the sooty blue Kitlar, holding it out. 

At least he didn’t start the fight. 

No, Grindor is a troll who tends to keep to himself. But when drunkards want to start booze-soaked fist fight with the fourteen-foot-tall GummGumm, he’s more than happy to finish it. 

Which is what he has just done. 

Growling, the titan stands over the lump of knocked-out Krubera and shards of broken table that someone had just been sitting at. The son of the slain Trollhunter Kanjigar, no less. What’s his name? Drill?

Grindor looks at the blue Kitlar, offering a one-shoulder shrug. 

Kat blinked at him then sighed a bit “fiiine.”

she pulled out some fresh scales, the size of her fist and larger. dragon scales. Newly acquired from god knows where.

“Know what to do with these? if not, I have the typical gems and gold. But since i’m asking for a blade made of unique material, i figured i’d offer something more unique and valuable as payment.”

He’s a fourteen foot tall GummGumm warrior. Grindor isn’t afraid of much. 

Orange eyes gaze down at the objects, which look like scales. Quite possibly dragon scales, by the looks of them. He tilts his head, considering. 

“ooh, that got your attention!” she grinned. “I want to replace one of my summoned blades. I recently had a dagger made and have an excess of metal left over, enough for a saber.”

She glanced over her shoulder “It’s… a rare type of metal, if you catch my meaning. discussion better left for indoors before i get us both shanked and robbed.”

Grindor rolls his eyes a bit, and crosses his arms.

“If anyone here is brave enough to attempt to stab me, they deserve what comes to them,” he grumbles. But, on to business. 

“I need use of your skill!” she chirped happily, excited and out of breath, her wings flared open and she fluttered about. “I have metal, I have leather, I need a blade made!”

The giant GummGumm turns to look down at the odd individual, orange markings glowing. 

Grindor sighs and glances over one shoulder. 

// sketchydoo design of my firemaster GummGumm Grindor

him big boi