#i have basically no kin memories but i do remember the current stripe was stripe 4th

[everythingwasnormalhere]

:)

hi :) hru?

Hi :)

And I'm good, hru?

[cloudbattrolls]

The Altar

Fauteuil is not a large Alternian region, but its name often passes the lips of others derisively as ‘that hick region full of watered-down clowns’. Certainly Lyalar Kalibut, its heiress and esteemed Jack of its circus would object.

The non-circus trolls disdainful of the constant pressure to join the faith and resentful of the better treatment even its lowblood devotees receive, would not. They don’t worship at all, or put their faith in divinities that have never known the inside of a tent.

Among the region’s cities lies the capital of Coney Island, the home of fried food and every type of performer imaginable, be they clowns or otherwise. Tucked away in a cave beneath its piers and markets, an old stone altar still stands.

It has been carved with care, small isopods decorating it all over. A horned skull is set reverently into its arcing back rising above the flat, bed-like part big enough to fit even a full grown indigo.

It was new over four thousand sweeps ago, glistening with seawater as the high tide lapped back and forth over the rocky floor it rose from. Lit only by tendrils of bioluminescent plants, it could be reached by three ways: a boat, the surface passage leading to it, or from the ocean itself.

Many scratches mar its surface, as limestone tells not only of the fossils and shells trapped within it, but of the remains it has seen since forming. Yellow-white, it bears an old inscription sunk deep into the porous rock:

Leave a healthy troll here alone to receive the worth of their life in exchange.

It was new and glistening and trolls tied their fellows to it as they fought tooth and claw, or drugged them into compliance.

Then they left their offerings.

They would return the following nights to find metals, stone, tools of all kinds, baskets of fish, even rare woods and shells from far away. Each offering was worth a single gift in exchange, and while they could not choose what it would be, the giver seemed to know what they needed.

Whether it was a time of famine or sickness, or whether the messiahs’ faithful wanted more wealth to spread their influence, the altar tender always provided.

If, of course, the agreement was honored.

Some tried to leave sick or dying victims, and most died after, torn apart and drained of all their blood. The offerings did as well, but their remains would be left upon the altar as a warning and complaint of their low quality. Corpses were also rejected, bones scattered about the room in contempt.

The tender did not like what they saw as subpar flesh, it seemed. 

Some tried to stay and watch, and the few who were escaped went mad, screaming in their sleep, their throats raw. They jumped into the sea in the end, unable to stand it.

The wiser ones learned to leave it alone. What did they need to know exactly who or what the giver was? The important thing was that it was consistent. You could set a clock by its behavior and tendencies. It did not ask; it only stated.

It let troll greed do most of its work for it.

Eventually the messiah worshippers grew to distrust and despise any figure that was not their own gods, and they chased away any who tried to offer at the altar. Even those who simply wanted to pray, as some did.

For the altar maker had never expected that some trolls might come for comfort. For reassurance. To speak to someone they thought might be listening.

It had intrigued them. How could trolls offer up their own kin for personal gain and then babble of their anxieties and regrets? It didn’t seem to make sense, and they had outlined the deal plainly on the rock. There was nothing there about soothing anyone’s worries - especially those who came and wept because they had lost someone they loved to the altar.

How could they assure such trolls? Physical gifts could not take away grief, even if they had wanted to try. They examined the trolls from their many eyes, from infinite angles and perspectives, trying to figure out how the blood carriers thought with their thinkpans of flesh and electricity.

They had friends, enemies, quadrants. Such a myriad of things they were to each other, so many different kinds of people they they prayed for and cursed and even left not-troll offerings about in the hopes that it would help. The maker left some (the disgusting or incomprehensible), but took others, examining them, trying to understand their purpose.

A necklace. A piece of driftwood carved by hand. They began to keep things from their victims as well instead of tossing them into the currents or leaving them for the crabs and undersea zombies to play with.

Often it all seemed so pointless. They could examine something for a sweep and not get the significance and by that time the troll might be dead. Perhaps they had claimed them on the altar, perhaps any of Alternia’s many dangers had. Troll life was so impermanent it was hard to see how it had any meaning. Like spiderwebs that could have a rock thrown through their silken threads at any time.

How to understand the dreams and cares of a thing that died? There was little point. Trolls were interesting in the same way animals were; they scurried about having all sorts of adventures, then stopped with little to mark their passing, merely shallow prints on the dunes of time that would soon fade.

They tasted good, and they were vital to survival; the altar maker had learned early to not feed indiscriminately. It was more trouble than it was worth, and Mother would chastise them for it.

Hunger drives us, not defines us, she’d chided after the infestation and slow drain of several villages over a few perigees, back when they were young. Don’t let it rule you, isopod. Let it fuel greater things.

What if I don’t know what those are yet? They’d admitted.

Many of their siblings had had all sorts of ideas. The wasp was out traveling on the frontiers of wars, switching back and forth from one side to another to encourage the fighting. The flea was planning a whole city. The fly was making sculptures and paintings that the isopod privately found silly, but had to admit took a lot of effort to create.

Even the otherwise useless worm was off doing their work for mother, gathering people who would make offerings.

Take your time, child. I know you’ll do wonderful things, find something only you can offer us. You are so hardy, so strong. You’ll manage, and I am always here to talk to. You can come visit whenever - you don’t need to bring any tribute.

The isopod remembered the words now, all their segments curling in as their pincers waggled in thought.

They rose from the ocean in their troll shape, and tripped a lot at first. Only two legs, such bulky things - so much of them filling the skin, rising so high off the ground! They didn’t have as many to grip the sand, and here it was so much more than sand and rock - grass, roads, all the odd surface things they hadn’t dealt with in a very long time.

The pink and green moonlight hurt their mere two eyes, the glare off the water practically blinding. They wanted to go back under the soothing waves, be comforted by the currents and the seaweed.

No. Mother had said they were strong.

They changed their eyes from their usual white to the purple of clowns as they slipped into a tent.

Honking, laughing, troll food stench sticking in their sniffsponge, music, bright light -

They ducked out again, curling up into a ball as all their individual parts longed to do - but they had to keep their shape together, had to support the bones.

“Hey.”

They were kicked roughly and hissed, jumping up.

A clown stood adorned in stripes and spots, massive and bearded, wearing a hat dangling with bells. His - they were fairly certain he was male, given what they could remember of troll genders - eyebrows rose as he saw their face. He smelled of troll food and sweat. Hardly appetizing beyond the basic hunger they felt toward all prey.

“Well, well. A sib of the canvas? Why you sittin’ all huddled? You shunning us? And where’s your paint? Shit - you come to join? Get the fuck in then, don’t be shy.”

His voice was deep and rumbling and entranced as much as it irritated the isopod swarm.

They stood up, suddenly conscious of their plain gray clothing, ragged and musty from its sweeps of disuse.

He’d turned around but swung back.

“You got a name, you silent fucker? I’m Gallen. Gallen Cavorr, and don’t you forget it.”

“Gallen.” They repeated, once they’d remembered how to speak. They were used to chewing tongues for blood, not using their own. Such an odd bump of flesh, so flexible and yet so clumsy. “Ggg-ahlleeen.”

“Fuck it, just calling you Galley.” He said, flapping a hand in indifference. “Fuckin’ half-feral thing, ain’tcha. That’s all right, we can fix you up.”

Insulted but fascinated, the rainbow drinker couldn’t help but follow him back into the tent.

—

The isopod learned all about the church, all about indigos and how vital they were to controlling Alternia. They remembered how to speak so well they preached for them, and Gallen grew so proud of them he called them his best sibling, pride of his career, the messiahs’ perfect joke delivered to his hands.

They stayed for many sweeps, realizing that troll lives mattered in what they passed down to to others. Their meaning came in dreams that could span infinite generations such as the search for a paradise planet, the welcoming of the blessed messiahs.

When there was no more the clown could teach them, and he was about to leave for the stars, they ate him in thanks. Now he could go to paradise early, and his name would always live on with them - no, him now. The isopod had decided to be a man as well.

Now he was Gallen, and the memory of the original would last forever.

—

Many, many sweeps later, Gallen was just dousing his incense when a message flickered on his palmhusk. He turned to see it better, the screen’s light bright in the dimness of the underwater cavern as it rested on a nearby rock.

HB: I can’t get the worm interested. Could use your help, Gal.

He blinked slowly as the last breath of lavender-scented smoke burned off.

Rhyssa really was intent that this was somehow their worm, the youngest child of Ozryel miraculously returned - if apparently without their memories, which meant they were someone else entirely now.

It was true they’d never found their sibling’s remains, but they hadn’t ever regenerated from their eggshell, and what other explanation could there be for Lleios’s endless silence? Mother herself had lost her connection to them.

Gallen mourned them, yes, just as he mourned the other ten who had died. He supposed Rhyssa and Lleios had been particularly close...though privately he’d always felt his sister was fonder of them than they were of her, not that she’d ever believe it.

Though he was never sure exactly how fond Lleios had been of any of them. There had always been a distance about them, a certain lack of focus even when they were happy. They always wanted to get back to the trolls they found so fascinating, spending longer and longer away from the others, not leaving any contact information. They’d been the most loyal to mother, yes, but even that had changed.

And Gallen knew he was the only one who’d forgiven them for being spared her punishment after the rebellion. It had taken him time, but he’d realized not being able to speak wasn’t so bad. He could still communicate as a swarm, use his hands to sign, or write. Inshii wasn’t much one for forgiveness - it took energy they tended to put into business.

Rhyssa, for all her affection, had never fully stopped begrudging her sibling the loss of her troll form’s eyes - even though Lleios never would’ve condoned such harshness, had they any idea mother would do such a thing.

The isopod thought, and then tapped back his response.

SA: What do you need?

HB: Some way to make them stop fawning over the trolls they love so much. It’s crazy. Even Lleios was never this moon-mad.

HB: They slam the door in my face, spit insults no matter how I try to join in their hobbies or such, but when I follow them all discreet they prance around with anyone.

HB: Bet if I wait long enough their troll friends will leave or die, but they could just make others. I’d kill the trolls, but I’d never hear the end of it. They’re so weird.

SA: sure they’re not keeping them for blood?

HB: I asked that, they shrieked fit to crack the damn heavens. Acted like I was crazier than a can of cricket juice and had the manners of a desert woofbeast.

SA: why such self-denial?

HB: oh they got a haystack of issues, they basically want to BE a troll. But I bet we could get them to come around, if they just got to know you and Inshii.

HB: well, maybe not Shii. But I bet they’d like you.

SA: would I like them?

HB: I...dunno. Maybe? Ugh. What am I supposed to do, Gal.

SA: you need people to gather information.

HB: you trust trolls with that?

SA: lesser drinkers.

HB: thbbbpppt.

SA: Grow up. I have some in mind.

HB: who?

SA: the DeVille coven. Where the spiral is.

HB: don’t have my memory hives on me Gal, who in tarnation is that.

SA: she saw mother’s fall. She’s a furthest rings being. She found some lesser drinkers and lives among them. If anyone could understand and gather more info about this strange worm, it would be her and her group.

HB: huh. Yeah, makes sense.

SA: we find out what the worm wants, more about their friends, how to get them away from them.

HB: huh. That might work. Except they’ve said they don’t expect trolls to care anyway. And if they KNOW why don’t they stop caring about their meals? Crazy critter.

SA: Maybe they’re insane. What made them lose their memory could have done it.

HB: Aw no. If they are how are we gonna fix them?

SA: Need to know more before we do anything.

HB: I just like to buzz around and get into stuff but that’s not working this time so I guess you’re right.

SA: I am. Here’s their contacts.

— silentAltar has sent list.pdf to honeyBee —

HB: yeehaw

SA: good luck.

Gallen closed the chat. Hopefully that would work. If it didn’t, they could have to take more drastic measures. Inshii might have to get involved, and they’d hate that. 

Gallen, thinking, turned away from his phone. On a whim he swam up through the caves to stand before his altar.

Rarely visited these days, the cavern lay quiet aside from the muted sound of the sea. The once-pristine structure in it showed the wear of the last four thousand sweeps, plus a few centuries.

A scuffling came. Gallen turned quickly, water droplets flying off his skin.

A little troll - a pupa, all big gray eyes and pigtails. She looked at him fearfully, clutching some sort of doll.

He put a finger to his lips, and hesitantly she put one to her own with a curious expression. He nodded and she did as well, the girl running toward the winding stone stairs that led back to the surface.

Too young to be worth eating. Might as well let her go.

There would always be others.