#troll slop tag

[tyziaspilled]

[davekat-sucks]

I have my troll headcanons, and this is gonna be a long one, I’m doing all the Beta trolls. Also note these headcanons assume all characters survive and exist on Earth C.

Aradia Megido is trying to puck back up on the hobbies she abandoned when she became a ghost, and with her luck Earth has a vast archeological expanse of history and paleontology that Alternia destroyed to legitimize the Condesce’s rule, and to erase any mention of organized rebellion against the empire. Of course, history still existed, but is almost exclusively known by highbloods who have the class and age to study writing, own journals to write on, live long enough to document dozens of sweeps of their life history, and have less of a chance to get culled by drones controlling population growth. Reassembling Alternian history on Earth C is like finishing a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces hiding across the empty void of space. Aradia likes to search for fossils, but her interest in the dead and telekinetic connection with ghosts make her a professional paranormal investigator as well, she once snuck into a haunted house being filmed for a ghost hunters TV show, and was caught on camera. Her ripped clothes and ruffled hair from attempting a breaking and entering made her look like an undead troll.

Tavros thinks Pokémon is too simple and amateur for him, when in reality he’s mad he still loses in competitive matches in both card game and online game. He still likes the Pokémon anime! A boy who never grows up going on adventures against an organized crime syndicate trying to steal a powerful ally and nonverbal creature! Not to mention that the Ash character has friends to tag along on their perilous journey! When it comes to fighting with mythical magical monsters and complex bullshit with cards, Tavros has a soft spot for Yu-Gi-Oh, and Seto Kaiba reminds him of a troll that kept on meddling with him… and still does.

Sollux is possibly the best software technician on Earth C. He is an admin for a forum that discusses obscure desktop/master software. He obviously uses Linux and Gnu, and codes .ath viruses as practice for whitehat hackers to disarm. His Earth C hive is entirely themed by bifurcation. His curtains, his furniture, his goddamn toilet are themed by 2 colors. Karkat calls it ugly, Kanaya calls it creative. To cope with his psiionics and his loss of them, Sollux teamed up with Aradia, Karkat, and Feferi to code and design a walkie talkie that can talk to the recently deceased, this was also done so people could stop running specifically to him for predictions of armageddon.

Karkat is trying very hard to accustom himself to human culture, he has watched a lot of human film (mostly American, a few Fench and Soviet films and a bunch of Tokusatsu and Anime slop) to get why humans were like that, and if everyone was like Dave and Rose. He finds human film boring and generic, but continues to watch it anyway, to connect with the human way of life. He also follows John’s Youtube account… to leave hate comments, they don’t even attack John’s appearance or the points John makes about the film, it’s general allusions to how frustrated he gets watching John’s videos.

Nepeta has been banned from New York C’s central park zoo for scaring the bears at their enclosure and intimidating them into smashing the glass. Nepeta was allowed back in 2 years later when she promised she would not harm any animals because “it would be too easy to hunt them.” Nepeta is a professional huntress who is unique in that she doesn’t use firearms, she just catches the animal in her mouth and slices their neck if it’s big game like deer or wild boar. She meets her maximum bag capacity within a day. She is the scourge of human huntsmen and she is known as “the green lioness” to many.

Kanaya was able to pass on the duties of brooding cavern patrol once the first Jadebloods reached maturation after 9 sweeps. On Earth she was introduced to a new series of monsters and beasts after being accustomed to the animated corpses she’d hunt during the Alternian day and rainbow drinkers in her trashy teengrub erotica. Since she was always around Rose, a girlfriend and devout student of zoologically dubious, she became a cryptozoologist and eventually a bigfoot hunter. Her agility, strength, night vision, and rainbow drinker hearing made her perfect for hunting North America C’s most hidden animal. She would mostly stalk the rustling of leaves and moaning from the shadows of the forest to find it’s a human hiker or a bear, until she actually caught Bigfoot in an open Brush 30 miles West of Marquette C, Michigan C. Notably sightings were made days after Kanaya caught the creature, and after a week on news channels, talk shows, radio interviews, getting a nobel prize in biology and ecology, and getting a giant golden trophy called the “first big step” she now is treading westwards for possible other bigfoot sighted from California to Idaho. That is, when she can schedule it, she has a girlfriend she also wants to be there for. Of course, Rose has joined Kanaya on a few bigfoot searches to support her girlfriend.

Terezi IS the law. Professional trollcop and private investigator, she has her own TV show like that of Chris Hansen where she roleplays as different people, ranging from kids that pedophiles prey on to lone wolfs and depressed deadbeats that drug cartels search for to hire as peddlers and soldiers. Terezi’s strongest expertise is hunting down anti-troll hate groups, since she gets to be herself instead of roleplay as a human. She struggles the most catching anti-human troll groups and Neo-Condescites considering she has to fight against her own species, which have an easier time sniffing out if she’s faking her human archetype and some of them are super strong indigobloods.

Vriska haaaaaaaates how boring and fake human roleplaying games are. In FLARP you had real costumes, stat bats, real loot, month long continuous sessions, and dire consequences if you lose. To keep herself not bored she has become a practitioner of the extreme sport of rock climbing, since Vriska hated walking down and up all those stairs just to get to her lusus, and climbing a shear face would be more safe than slipping on those infernal steps! She also wanted one day for her lusus to watch her climb, as spidermom laud down in that pit of webs, too fat and loud to crawl up herself. Spidermom has been dead for sweeps now so Vriska still won. GET F8CKED FUSSYF8NGS!!!!!!!!

Equius was an unfortunate troll who got caught up in strange human subcultures, and that subculture was human hypermasculinity and “alpha” male mentality. He has a Youtube channel, Twitter, and Instagram dedicated to exercising routines, habits, and hobbies that make male trolls, humans, carapacians, and even denizens respected leaders in their community. Equius tried to co-opt My Little Pony as being masculine and sigma despite the protagonists being all colorful horses. Equius believes all of the protagonist ponies (the mane 6 as they’re called in fandom circles) each hold masculine traits that can correlate with the masculine archetypes in alpha men. Think how Twilight Sparkle exemplifies intelligence and planning, AppleJack has strength and stoicism, Rarity appreciates natural beauty and appearence, etc. Also they are horses, and Equius is frustrated that humans took the maned roarbeast (lions) and striped fangbeast (tigers) as the mascot of alpha males. Equius made his own personal gym in his hive because he was banned from all the gyms for excessive sweating and never cleaning up his station. He films fighting tutorials with his combat robots, but they all break in one punch, so Nepeta has to be invited for any successful demonstrations on how to demonstrate Equius’s fighting style and not break in one punch.

Gamzee is in a mental Asylum becaise of the whole murder thing and has only broken off from Lord English’s control for the first time in his life. He expresses himself by rhyming the GREGCLOUROIAN WICKED RHYTHMS for THE FROWNING MASSES to proselytize the NEW COMING OF THE DARKER CARNIVAL. After 5 sweeps in a straitjacket Gamzee was deemed sane and pacified, so he can finally start his real life. He immediately asked Tavros to start dueting some sick bars he wrote in the brig to bring forth the new prophesy of the evanjesters. Tavros agreed without hesitation. “Mike Club” and “Wild T” sell albums as the “UNHINGED PAGLIACCI TROUPE” and have gotten many a negative review as “the worst rappers in all paradox space” but in the end, built up a dedicated fanbase of clownfolk and followers of the true faith.

Eridan doesn’t go out much, if at all. He plays a lot of video games, grand strategy, roleplaying games, a few puzzle games. He feels mixed about First Person Shooters and asks for a good story in an FPS campaign. He sees himself as honorablenand only shoots with a reason, like how he killed lusii to feed G’bolg’lyb and stop the vast glub. He doesn’t want to shoot people because some authority tells him to! Honest! Ask Sollux and he’ll agree Eridan shot in self defense! And Sollux is still alive and happier that he doesn’t hear the boices ofbthe dead doesn’t he?! Maybe Sollux should THANK HIM FOR BEING CONSIDERATE. Sorry what was I talking about? Eridan does not regret a lot of things, but he will still talk about them when you bring them up to insist he does not regret anything, nope, he’s fine. He does hang around with the people, or rather, person he tolerates. Karkat. Everyone else are lowbloods that don’t like him because he’s better than them so they insult him and say he smells bad when that’s the natural smell of the ocean and they don’t understand how important he is, or Feferi who toyed with his emotions and left him for some bipolar mustardblood and avoided him after ALL HE DUD FOR HER AND WAS SO NICE TO HER AND SHE DIDN’T RECIPROCATE THOSE FEELINGS wait what was I talking about? Eridan insists he does not need help. He’s fine. He’s fine fine fine fine fin.

Feferi loves Spongebob Squarepants, it’s a match made in heaven, but she’s not obsessed with it. She still went far enough to paint her recuperacoon blue with the colorful flowers that dotted the oceans of Bikini Bottom. She is an advocate for saving all the coral reefs and has sued many companies with her nonprofit organization and vast personal wealth for spillover of hazardous chemicals into protected waters. Considering how often CrockerCorp gets into these environmentalist lawsuits, Feferi gets under Jane’s nerves. A lot.

Final thoughts. Eridan, Karkat, Nepeta, Vriska, Tavros, and Terezi (sometimes Sollux but he’s busy most of the time) all run a discord for roleplaying and video games. Eridan Karkat and Tavros like to play the Elder Scrolls series, Sollux likes to play the Fallout series, Vriska, Nepeta, and Terezi like both. Sollux tried to get Eridan to play Fallout: New Vegas once, but Eridan got bored after a few hours and thought the morality system was too simple. Between the organized disciplined and stable Caesar’s Legion or the corrupt incompetent bureaucrats of the New California Republic, or the selfish authoritarian Mr. House, or you thrusting the wasteland into chaos as you throw all 3 of the remaining lighthouses of civilization into collapse. Sollux has a let’s play channel but the only uploads on it are Nepeta’s playthrough of Postal 2 she shared on the discord server.

Karkat does a lot of human movie watchparties with his old friends to keep his trollian friends close enough that they don’t kill each other or wander off on this new weird alien world, and to his surprise they like some of the human films even though they are bottom of the barrel compared to peak alternian film. Each of the trolls favorite films are:

Aradia: Carrie (1976)

Tavros: Pokémon the First Movie (2000)

Sollux: The Matrix (1999)

Karkat: Con Air (1996)

Nepeta: The Lion King (1994)

Kanaya Maryam: Harry and the Hendersons (1987)

Terezi: Trolls (2016)

Vriska: Pirates of the Caribbean (2005)

Equius: Spirit (2003) and Fight Club (1999)

Gamzee: Killer Klowns from Outer Space (1988)

Eridan: Waterloo (1970)

Feferi: Atlantis the Lost Empire (2001)

Final fact: since films from the beta kids library still had a chronological year, the release year of films gets confusing, so to make up for it, films on Earth C are released on a separate calendar, the year on the Earth C Planetary Film Board is equal to current year (number of years after the original kids touched down on Earth C) plus 2009. Old Alternian films are hard to chronologically measure since they were made billions of years before April 2009.

This is a long one!

These are all amazing!

[lathez]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Thank you @sulphuricgrin and @pocket-vvardvark for tagging me this Wednesday :3 Obvi I tag my dearly beloved @hadvarandralof , @kiir-do-faal-rahhe , and @gavalaa (if you wish, this might have other motivations hehe)

I've been too busy hating myself too really do much other than cry and rot in bed and be numb at work so I haven't got much done on Epistle & Elegy. I managed a meager 1.3k words of utter slop last night, so I gave it an equally meager edit. Anyway! Yeah! Here's my trash!

It’s half past the twentieth hour when exhaustion settles heavily on the boy priest’s shoulders, eyes half-lidded, writing growing woozy on the page. He rubs his weary eyes and tries to make sense of his most recent scribbles: Fire=hot? WEAR GLOVES. 

Profound, really, so much so that he flips the leather backing of his book about the page and makes to change into his nightrobes. No Mika yet; a blessing on this occasion. Lately, Mika has consumed his thoughts so ardently that he’s driven to the point of distraction in his presence. And it isn’t just the matter of Morokei’s book; impossibly, frustratingly, Mika is like…a flower? A bee? A sky on a sunny day?

It’s not quite the eloquent metaphor he hoped for; he had never claimed to be a poet. He has little time to push Mika from his brain before a fluff-and-tumble scurries across his unsocked toes, a distinct, high-pitched coo its gentile manner of excusing itself. He shivers and shakes the feeling from his foot. He thought surely Mika had given up on that awful spider by now. 

Thankfully, the subject of the crime is the adorable matter: a tiny horned owl, eyes wide in a perpetual state of starstruck awe, patters about the floor beside Mika’s bed, wobbling on uncertain feet. Loukas’s heart could melt at the sorry state of the disheveled fluff. He scoops it up, much to its confusion and abject displeasure. 

“Foolish creature, you. How lucky you are to have found a friend,” He lectures as the downy bird trembles in his hands. “Come. We will have to find your mother, then.” 

Lacking the blessed visual rotation of an owl, Loukas makes for the door to find himself face to face with a notably flustered Mika, hands clutching tightly to a rustling basket, a mess of tail feathers poking out rather suspiciously from the side. His suspicions are confirmed as the lid shifts just slightly, revealing a feathery brother to his unfortunate friend in hand.

“Mika,” Loukas starts slowly, not breaking eye contact with the basket of baby owls scrambling to escape their root weave prison. “Good evening,” 

Hands occupied, Mika winces, embarrassed, setting the basket of owls on his bed. Gingerly, he returns Loukas's discovery to the pile, another gladiator for the fluffball arena, burrowing into the comfort of his sibling's wings. 

[No mother. Nest fall.] Mika signs before readjusting the lid to cover the furious hatchlings. [Helping owls]

“Kind as that may be, I'm not entirely convinced at the thought of hiding a basket of owlettes in our quarters,” He says, eyeing the basket warily. “Have we so soon forgotten Spots?”

Spots had been a three-legged fawn Mika became bent on domesticating, a plot Ahzidal put a decisive end to when it hobbled into his laboratory and ate his entire supply of fire salts. Thus, Spots was forcibly relocated to the pine groves, which sent Mika into a mess of teary despair. Loukas had comforted him and promised Spots would fair well; honestly, trolls probably ate her. 

He bites his lip and waves his hands in denial. [No. No hiding. Baby escape.] He explains, gesturing to where Loukas had picked up the owl. [Taking outside.] 

“So you've brought them inside, basketed them as an unpleasant bouquet of rage, and now intend to take them outside once more?” Loukas questions reasonably. His answer comes in the form of a sheepish smile. 

[No. Show you. Come.] He suggests, hoisting the basket of owls into his arms. Mutism has a singular perk: one must only occupy one's hands to indicate the time for talking is past. He nods at the door encouragingly, turning in a flurry of layered royal robes and loose feathers. 

With the season's tide, one would expect warm nights and wet grasses, but there is almost always snow at Labyrinthian. As such, there is nothing Loukas wishes to do less than deliver a basket of owls to the snow-covered wilderness at nearly the twenty-first hour. But it's Mika -- and so he finds himself throwing on his over-robes regardless and tailing along hurriedly behind his owl-encumbered friend. 

Their weavings go long into the corridors; Loukas hurriedly makes an excuse to an attending night watch regarding their late-evening traipse. However, the ordinarily sour-tongued Deacon only offers a friendly wave to Mika in response. It's amusing; he's not sure even Archbishop Hevnoraak, in all his brutality, could resist Mika's good nature and better intention. Ahzidal certainly can't -- he'd procured Mika an elegant set of robes as consolation for the loss of Spots -- and even the solemn-mannered funeral Bishop seems to have a softness for him. It's by Mika's power alone that they find themselves stepping beneath the snowy stars without too much hassle to show for it. 

Their path had not been unlike the one Loukas usually takes to the crest. So it comes as a surprise to him, when Mika thrusts the basket of owlettes into his hand and flicks a ball of mage light in and out at once from his fingers, that he had so many times missed the fairly ample crevice nestled in the side of the mountain barrow. 

“Surely you don’t mean to-,” he begins moments before Mika slides into the rock, gesturing for his roommate to follow. Though Loukas had succeeded in putting some weight on Mika, he’s still obnoxiously thin, a waif, really, this being an advantage Loukas does not possess. He sucks in his belly and stances his shoulders, still finding it to be a tight squeeze. 

Once popped into the corridor, he follows the steady flow of mage light blooms accompanying Mika’s far more familiar pace, hands feeling on either side of the passage for support. What exactly he intends to do with a basket of rowdy owls in a cave the size of a birthing canal evades him entirely. But he’s in no position to communicate with his guide, being bound entirely to the mercy of his hands. 

Yet as they continue to move forward, he feels the walls bearing down a little harder, his chest growing tight, his stomach twisting -- tight spaces have never sat well with him, particularly freezing, damp ones that render him sightless. When he feels the ceiling crouch down further overhead, the cut of the rock requiring him to enter another crawlspace, he seeks to swallow his pride. 

“Mika, I can’t go further,” he chokes, hanging his head below his heart to try and slow its unruly flutters. Thankfully, Mika seems to have heard him, his quiet footsteps echoing between whatever further cavern walls await. A few moments pass before a hand slowly creeps back beneath the crawlspace—Mika, or rather, Mika’s hand, waves. [Open inside] he signs before beckoning him forward and slipping away like a tease. 

The silliness alleviates some initial terror, and he begrudgingly slides onto his belly. From this angle, he can see a strange glow coming from the side of the crawlspace and the just-there shadow of Mika waiting at the entrance. He sucks in hard, suddenly regretting having three servings of grits, and hoists himself up through the hole. 

“Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” 

Loukas doesn’t think any of the three would blame him for cursing, not now. Illuminated by dancing towers of candlelight cast upon salvaged baskets and urns, pulsing with the glow of fireflies and luminescent faunas, tens of animals chirp and chatter amongst their tiny stony home, blanketed soft with brush and leaves. He catches the gaze of a one-eyed wolf, a cracked-beak hawk, many bent-leg spiders; this is a proper sanctuary, each animal cast in an unfamiliar purple gloam. 

At the center, on a mossy stone bench, Mika sits with basket beside him in favor of nuzzling a little deer. Upon closer inspection, a three-legged deer. 

“Dragon’s fire,” He breathes in something akin to disbelief. “Spots?”

[juicebox-junkie]

*elevator ding!!!*

hello ! welcome to my page . enjoy your stay, and don't mind the mess.

floor tips :

• hi!!! i'm soda. i use he/him pronouns, along with a lot of neos. i'll make a long list of them eventually .

• my posts are semi-organized(??) by the tags? my tumblr is laggy as hell all the time so ones further back may not be tagged as well as my other ones (which r usually under smthn like 'my [blank]' or 'juicebox [blank]') but take my slop plz its all i have

• this account serves as both an art account and a scene-making account for my ocs and interests. always feel free to send in asks about anything/any character i post!!!

• the reblog button is my favorite, so if u want to see what i reblog at any point, my spam account is @juicebox-junkiiii !

• tumblr is a safe space for me! if i feel like someone is judging me, i'm simply blocking them. i don't want to start any fights, i'm here to have fun :3

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V

DNI :

- basic dni : racists, homophobes, anti-palestine, creeps, pro/comship, fandoms surrounding ACTIVELY BAD content (l0lit@, alfred's playhouse, etc)

- people who think animal cruelty is funny

- 30+ people !! i'm still young, guys

COME ON IN !! :

- most fandoms !! i'm in lots. just to list a few (which aren't my mains) are fnaf, scooby doo, tdac, dhmis, tdi, creepypasta, scp, tmc, tma/tmagp, welcome home, class of 09, hh, trolls, nerdcore, minecraft, nitw, tsp, animal crossing, stardew, little nightmares, dialtown, and MORE!!!

- stupendium + matpat fans!!!

- rp accounts! i'm a roleplayer & writer myself and i love interacting w/ my own oc's or in-media characters (if i know the media) <3

- beginning + experienced artists !

- photo/fashion/food/xenogender blogs !!

- overall funny people!

- herb smokers (shhh)

i think that's about it!!! i'll update this overtime . probably. idk teeehee

[the-madbox91plus-observer]

Note: here's your typical Madbox91plus non offensive post slop. The only unique thing that this post has is that gif. It is pretty unexpected but that's not saying much. His actions are becoming repetitive and boring at this point. Not even annoying from the slightest. Madbox91plus's insults have no substance at all. I don't get his goal but it seems like it's failing because he doesn't even try. Hell calling the better troll of @madbox91 a "edgy mother fucker" isn't even a insult 💀. In fact, he doesn't respond to me or the real @madbox911plusplusomfg or @madbox91 which confirms and shows that @madbox91 has won since he's too scared to do anything to him anymore. Also mf has tagged a fake mobox87 account for some reason. Like mobox87 doesn't own mobox83 💀💀. At least now I can finally rest in peace knowing and laughing at the fact that the mighty @madbox91 has won and how @madbox91plusplusomfg is now afraid to interact with him. No one is offended. We're just celebrating our true God @madbox91

@madbox91 edgy mother fucker

@mobox87 gay dick sucker

@mobox83 gay nigga

@nicolexd-boomchuyuwu-wu gay nigger mother fucker

All are shit of niggers

[foulserpent]

@fantrorillaz submitted:

Guys, guys you’re not gonna believe this, so I fuckin’ I fuckin go to Peynon Wir- Weypon pir- fuck. I’m going to Weynon Priory because the fuckin, he’s like, he’s like the king of all of Tamriel this is Uriel. Fucking. Septim. And you guys know I’m not a fan of his work, but like, Xikeel was like sitting there filing her nails or somethin ignoring every word he said but I shit you not this fuckin, goblet-swilling like imperial dude. Yknow how like the super rich imperials are always swilling goblets like “oh! It uh- fluctuates the subtle flavor notes!” Or whatever but it doesn’t really do anything I imagine if he had like, some wine with him he’d be doing that even though, and I forgot to say this, he had a VERY large stab wound; that he kinda deserved not just because he’s the emperor, but guys; guys he fuckin would. Not. Shut. Up. About how he was gonna die. Not in the like “oh I’m so old! Gonna kick the bucket any day now!” But this man was like, takin it like a champ. Whole time he was like “yep! Gonna get murdered, it’s my destiny to die in this very spot!” I shit you not he almost pointed to the exact fuckin, dusty-ass corner of the dungeon that’s practically IDENTICAL to all other dungeons and STOOD there while some guy who has to conjure his own armor sneaks up from behind with the grace of a fucking. Like a fucking cave troll with his arms like *this* and everything and stabbed the man right there before like thirty guys with curved swords hacked him to pieces.

But anyway- oh yeah. Xikeel was like picking up the knife, lookin at it, looting the other dead bodies like she really didn’t give a shit and Yknow what I didn’t either but this guy he was talking 1. End of the world 2. Everyone dying 3. Some other dark shit and then; and then this guy fuckin, lobs this jewel the size of my fucking palm, like, [shows hand] you see my hand here? It was like from like, the middle part of my fingers here like to joint to the bottom of my palm that’s how huge it was. Nearly fuckin. Beamed me in the skull.

But anyway he says if I don’t want all that very bad shit to happen to everyone including me; I need to take it to some - I think his name was Jeff? Jeff. What a stupid fuckin name. Anyway I need to bring it to Jeff in Weynon Priory so I go do that. Shit’s the first thing I do because I’m freakin’ out because it’s the fuckin oblivion crisis not like- the oblivion vacation or the oblivion... thing but like an actual, interplanar demonic invasion typea crisis. So guys I get there, and I meet this Jeff guy and he’s like a monk, like you know monks, right? Not even like the cool kind we’re talking shitty robes, stupid haircut, probably just... sits in a chair and eats bread and cheese all day and he’s not allowed to speak and he’s like, this secondary old guy. So I tell Jeff I show him the fuckin’. Stone. Which at this moment I realize is the amulet of kings cause the guy tells me it is and WOW it’s UGLY, like if I was emporer you would not catch me dead wearing that shit.

Do y- do you think all emperors have like really strong necks? Do you think they just have big, beefy neck muscles under those HYUGE fur collar coat thingies from wearing this fucking paperweight all the time? Every septim probably has a thick neck or a really bad back probably, would explain a lot. Where was I? Oh yeah so we- Xikeel’s still there she’s kinda tagging along we’re buds, and it’s the end of the world so we’re gonna stick together. We give Jeffery the fucking amulet and then he tells us to go to Kvatch and my feet already fuckin’ hurt cause I had to like step on rocks n shit barefoot until I could find real shoes cause they don’t give you shoes in prison, but I’m gonna go anyway, I gotta go find a priest in kvatch and bring him back because apparently he’s some secret bastard king deal.

So I get there. And there’s an oblivion gate. And there’s spiders and alligator things and dremora and all this other shit I want NOWHERE near me but like. It’s in the way I gotta get into the church I gotta get the fucker back to Weynon Priory cause it’s the oblivion crisis so I gotta fuckin- use my shitty sword and bow and stuff and I’m mostly there as backup Xikeel is KILLING it and I mean that makes sense she’s some kind of like, assassin... thing... so it was actually pretty easy with her and we get to the church. Guys. This priest is so fuckin hot. Like I’m not saying he was tall had big muscles a nice chin, I’m sayin like, he’s like very “30s-40s got his life figured out gay man” with like a- like a he’s gotta bit of padding he’s a bit- what’s the word kids are saying “”thick”” ? Am I saying that right? He was... “”thick””?! I don’t fuckin care dude was hot. Anyway we get back to this monastery yankin my collar the whole time, I- I may have undone a button or two Yknow just get the pecs- the pec- the one pec I have kinda out with the chest hair and the scar to kinda try to look hot. Anyway, we get back to Weynon Priory and shit’s on fire, people are screaming and there’s fucking wizards. Everywhere. Like you know how you can have like rats...? Or flies...? This place had like a huge wizard infestation and they were just. Beating the SHIT out of everyone. So I run in kinda. Flailing my sword and at this point I am HUNGRY like I have had not had 1. Lunch 2. Or dinner. Like I broke out of prison right when they were gonna feed me like the dude with the fuckin’ tray was coming down the isle like “here’s your slop you elven scum” and I’d be like “thank you very much sir for the delicious food!” But no I gotta deal with this fuckin. Wizard infestation on an empty stomach.

So anyway like we get rid of the wizards, almost everyone’s dead and Jeff is like. “[gasp] the amulet of kings!” Like he didn’t have it on his fuckin person and I’m like... what’s going on? What’s wrong? I follow this guy upstairs and he’s checking his like desk drawer. Guys I shit you not he put the amulet of kings in his fucking desk with like. His keys and his lozenges and stuff. He didn’t even lock- he didn’t even lock it! He hid it like- he hid it like one of those jokes you play on your friends like “Oh no where did my inkwell go!!” And you just sit there with a smarmy look on your face while your friend fiddles around for it for like- an extra two seconds. Anyway, now I gotta go infiltrate their fuckin- wizard cult base and get the amulet back and hopefully it’ll be just that easy... but probably not... because seriously this whole thing has been a slog. Anyway guys thanks for coming to the stream see ya.

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

To Slay a Dragon: Ch. 3

Summary: Three trolls, two chaotic Dwarf princes, one senile Wizard and an exhausted Dragonborn.

Warnings: like two curse words?

Word count: ~5800

A/N: We’re back, and we’re seeing this thing through. If anyone would like to be tagged, just let me know :)

part two || part four

A bright, cloudless dawn rouses me from the narrow bed in the Green Dragon’s pokey attic room the next morning. The sun warms my back as I dress and triple check my bags, but can’t thaw the dread in my gut.

My new travelling companions are slow to rise and even slower to load and mount their ponies. As I wait astride Shadowmere, my fingers drumming on the saddle, the conversation between Gandalf and Bilbo echoes around my head.

I’m certain I recognised something in the Hobbit’s eyes during Gandalf’s lecture about goblins and golf. A long time ago, I saw the same innocent expression in the mirror—the desire for a quiet life, far away from fear and danger and disappointment.

I desperately hope Bilbo Baggins won’t make the same mistake I did.

Shadowmere nickers softly, nudging my shin with his nose. The Dwarves are already disappearing down the track. Gandalf casts a furrowed glance over his shoulder. Shadowmere breaks into a trot without prompt. The Wizard doesn’t say a word as I draw level with him, but his eyebrows make it clear I’ve already managed to annoy him and we haven’t even made it out of Bywater. I busy myself with admiring the scenery—green hills, green trees, green grass—and twine my fingers in Shadowmere’s mane.

I spent an hour last night studying my map of Middle-earth, trying to get a feel for where we were going. The journey will by no means be short. I’ll have to make extra effort to remain on Gandalf’s good side, and stay out of Thorin’s way entirely. It’ll be best for everyone if I keep my head down and don’t piss anyone off too much.

Guess I’ll have to try harder.  

“Wait!”

My stomach drops into my boots. Ponies snort in protest as the procession grinds to a halt. I hold Thorin’s glare for a heartbeat before twisting in the saddle to face the direction of the shout.

Bilbo flies along the track, bare feet smeared with dirt, curly hair in complete disarray. A length of parchment streams behind him like a banner. He waves the contract in triumph, eyes gleaming. A cold fist clenches around my heart.

“I signed it!” He hands his prize up to Balin, who pulls out a monocle to peer at the neat signatures.

Gandalf practically beams. His determination to drag Bilbo on this quest is suspicious, and I don’t trust his motives.

“Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo is less than thrilled with the offer of a pony, but his protests are cut short when Thorin’s nephews bodily lift him and deposit him in the saddle. I hide a snigger behind my hand at his disgruntled expression, and nudge Shadowmere closer to his pony. If he insists on being foolish, the least I can do is keep an eye on him.

We’ve barely been walking for ten minutes before Bilbo brings the entire company to a halt again, fretting about a forgotten handkerchief. I rub my hand across my forehead, warding off the brewing headache. At this rate the dragon will die of old age before we can get to it.

“You’ll have to manage without pocket handkerchiefs, and a good many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach our journey’s end,” Gandalf announces as we move off yet again. “You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you. The world is ahead.”

Very poetic, Gandalf, but dramatic speeches won’t make him any less flammable.

*

Two weeks into the journey, we stop for the night on a large, rocky outcropping overlooking a steep drop onto a flat expanse of grassland.

Dodging the flurry of nightly activities, I pull out a whetstone and choose a spot away from the fire for my nightly ritual. My body settles into the familiar rhythm of cleaning and sharpening my blades. A prickle on my neck alerts me to the eyes watching me, but I refuse to take the bait. Instead, I drag the stone along the blade with slow, deliberate movements, twisting my wrist so the edge catches the last of the sun’s rays. Not quite threatening, but it sends a clear message.

I haven’t forgotten Gandalf’s warning back in Bilbo’s parlour. I have no idea how he’s kept Thorin off my back so far, but I’m not about to question his methods so long as they work. Given the way Thorin bristles if I stray within ten feet of him, getting him on my side, as the Wizard suggested, is completely out of the question. As long as Gandalf’s around, there’s no reason to resort to arse-kissing.

Satisfied with my work, I raise my head to soothe my protesting shoulder muscles. A pair of eyes catch mine across the space. The fair-haired prince inclines his head towards the blade in my hand, then to the pile at my feet. One eyebrow arches, and the corner of his mouth curls into an almost-smile. A spark of pride ignites in my chest and spreads to my cheeks, warm, foreign and wrong.

Metallic warmth floods my mouth as I duck away from his gaze. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that, and for good reason. The only person foolish to harbour any sort of affection for me is far away, buried beneath a meadow of wildflowers.

A steaming bowl slides into my field of vision. My fingers tighten around the hilt of the Blade, a reflex I instantly regret when Bilbo’s eyes widen like a startled rabbit’s. His chin wobbles as I lower the blade from pointing at his throat.

“Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s – quite alright.” His voice catches on every other syllable, but his eyes crinkle at the corners as he offers a shy smile. “I brought you some food.”

Tucking the Blade safely out of sight, I take the bowl and cradle it close. His eyes drop to my hands—they’re shaking, the stew slopping gently in the bowl.

Before the concern can fully form on his face, my feet carry me towards the edge of the cliff. Cold stone bites through my trousers as I curl onto a rock. The bowl sits untouched in my lap as my mind wanders across the shadowy grassland towards the miles of saltwater between me and everything I once knew. The knife in my chest morphs into a hand gripping my throat. My breaths come shallow, and my eyes burn as I fight the urge to blink.

Of all the trials I’ve faced, all the times I’ve been inches away from death, my worst memory is of watching my husband draw his last breath.

I grip the bowl tighter and glance up at the circle of firelight, aware that I’m falling to pieces in front of an audience. Thankfully, most of them have their backs to me. They sit huddled close together despite the pleasantly cool spring evening, their laughter unusually restrained. An instinct I’ve learned to rely on taps me on the shoulder.

I sit up straighter, tuning out the chatter and casting about for any sign of danger. My gaze snags on the Dwarf-shaped thorn that is Thorin Oakenshield. He glances quickly away, but something in his expression echoes the voice in the back of my head. My fingers clench and unclench on my thigh, fingernails catching on the rough fabric. Gandalf continues to puff away at his pipe, the flames dancing in his restless eyes.

A full moon rises, bathing the landscape in silver. The Dwarves settle around the fire, leaving the two princes take the first watch. They sit close together, legs not quite touching. Restless rustling slowly descend into rhythmic snoring. Only the crackling fire and the princes’ murmured conversation disturbs the silence.

Movement catches my eye across the plateau. A short, curly-haired silhouette creeps around the snoring Dwarves towards the patch of grass where the ponies are tethered. Bilbo moves silently, almost unnervingly so. He locates his pony, Myrtle, and offers her the stolen apple he pulls from his pocket. As Myrtle happily crunches up the gift, Bilbo shushes her with a guilty glance over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and his cheeks flush pink.

A scream pierces the stillness. The sound shoots through my body like a bolt of lightning, vibrating through every nerve ending. Bilbo skitters back to the fire as a second shriek answers the first. His eyes are round as pennies.

“What was that?”

Kili’s brows knot together. “Orcs.”

The colour drains from Bilbo’s face as he scuttles closer to the fire. “Orcs?”

“Throat-cutters,” Fili says, peering at Bilbo over his pipe. “There’ll be dozens of them out there. The Lone-lands are crawling with them.”

A shudder bunches the muscles in my back. I’ve never liked Orcs.

“They strike in the wee hours of the night when everyone’s asleep.” Kili’s hushed tone covers the sound of my footsteps as I slink to the spot on Gandalf’s right. Only Balin notices me move, and has the grace not to draw attention to me. “Quick and quiet. No screams. Just lots of blood.”

Bilbo sways a little on his feet, his mouth hanging open. The princes exchange a glance and dissolve into sniggers.

“You think that’s funny?”

The grins vanish. Thorin looms over his nephews like a thunderhead.

“You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?”

“We didn’t mean anything by it.” Kili’s voice is barely a murmur. Fili’s shoulders curl inwards, his eyes on his boots.

“No, you didn’t,” Thorin growls. He turns to stride away, towards the edge of the plateau. “You know nothing of the world.”

I stare after Thorin for a moment, my gaze drawn to him without my permission. The moon’s ethereal glow illuminates his hunched shoulders and lowered head. Kili gently touches Fili’s shoulder, and the blond prince barely lifts his head to smile at his brother.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” Balin says to Bilbo, who looks on the verge of collapse. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs.”

Oh good, I’ve been waiting for an explanation as to why he’s such an uptight pain in the arse all the time. I shift into a more comfortable position, resting my back against the rock behind me. The Blade is a comforting weight across my palm.

“After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria,” Balin begins. “But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs, led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin.”

If Thorin’s shoulders get any stiffer they’re going to shatter. I can’t say I blame him – the words ‘giant’ and ‘Orc’ have already set my teeth on edge.

“He began… by beheading the King.”

Oh.

“Thrain, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing. Taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him.”

Balin lifts his head to gaze at Thorin. Powerless to stop myself, I do the same. He still has his back to us, fingers clasped behind him, a light breeze stirring his dark hair.

“A young Dwarf prince, facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield.”

Oakenshield. The heroic image doesn’t fit at first, but slowly shifts into place the longer I watch Thorin. He’s the same hero who kept fighting despite losing so much, and emerged victorious. Something stirs in my chest, as though to reach out to him, and I hurriedly shove it down.

“Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied, and we drove the Orcs back.” Beneath his bushy white brows, Balin’s eyes shine with something fierce and pure that grows brighter each time he looks at Thorin. “Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, nor song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one… I could call King.”

At some point during the story, the other Dwarves have woken up, and they’re all now gazing at Thorin like he’s a god in Dwarf form.

Which I suppose he is. Suddenly a lot of things make sense—the brooding, the short temper, why he’s so determined to see this idiotic quest through, and why twelve other idiots are all so happy to follow him towards certain death. He’s led them to victory against insurmountable odds before, and they believe he can do it again.

Admittedly, after what I’ve just heard, I kind of want him to succeed.

I clear my throat and look towards the forest, shaking off the spell. I can’t afford to be distracted and pulled along by Thorin’s current with the rest of them. The only thing that matters is getting my hands on that gold.

As the awed silence becomes unbearable, Bilbo pipes up, “And the Pale Orc? What happened to him?”

Balin opens his mouth, but it’s Thorin who answers. Growls, really.

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

No one but me notices the glance exchanged between Balin and Gandalf that clearly says that statement will come back to bite him in the arse.

*

The weather holds up until the last week of May, with only the occasional shower interrupting the pleasant sunshine. Then the sky cracks open like an eggshell. The ground dissolves into a bog. The ponies slog through it with minimal complaint, though the Dwarves do enough of that for all of us.

“Mister Gandalf?” a voice pipes up behind us. “Can’t you do something about this deluge?”

Yes Gandalf, do something. I can’t remember what dry feels like.

The Wizard’s waspish reply emanates from somewhere beneath the heap of sodden grey rags riding in front of Shadowmere and me. “It is raining, Master Dwarf. And it will continue to rain until the rain is done.”

Very helpful.

“If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard.”

“Are there any?” Bilbo’s voice is barely audible over the waterfall pouring from the canopy above, though last I checked he was right beside me. “Other Wizards?”

“There are five of us. The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White. Then there are the two Blueses—do you know, I’ve quite forgotten their names?”

My confidence in this so-called Wizard is dwindling by the minute.

“And who is the fifth?” Bilbo presses before Gandalf can lose the thread of the conversation altogether.

“That would be Radagast. The Brown.”

Who on earth willingly calls themselves ‘the Brown’?

“Is he a great Wizard? Or is he… more like you?”

The arm of my shirt barely absorbs my snigger. Ahead of us, Thorin makes a weird choking noise that sounds a lot like a poorly-disguised chuckle.

“I think he’s a very great Wizard,” Gandalf huffs. “In his own way. He’s a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forestlands to the East. And a good thing too, for always evil will look to find a foothold in this world.”

How he manages to be so dramatic while soaked through I will never know.

The rain eases up around mid-afternoon. By the time the sky begins to darken, I’m halfway to drying out, though the same can’t be said for my saddlebags. I’ll be wearing wet socks for days.

Eventually we come upon an open, grassy space bordering a dense copse of trees. Atop a small hill, a heap of broken support beams watches us, a weary silhouette against the greying sky.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” Thorin declares. “Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.”

As Thorin gives out orders and the Dwarves scramble to obey, Gandalf wanders up the hill towards the ruined building. Barely anything remains beyond jagged shards of wall and a sagging, half-collapsed roof. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what destroyed the house—no soot stains the wood, and despite an unpleasant odour, there are no signs of rot. The damage is recent—the air still hums with the lingering impression of chaos.

A prickle starts at the back of my neck and trickles down my spine. A terrible thought niggles at the back of my mind—only a couple of events can cause such a strong, long-lasting impression on a place.

“I think it would be wiser to move on.” The prickle surges into a fully-fledged shiver. If Gandalf concurs with my ill feeling, there’s no way I imagined the strange atmosphere. “We could make for the Hidden Valley.”

Thorin stomps towards Gandalf, out of the company’s earshot. He briefly glares at me as he passes, but for once his ire is fully directed at someone else. “I have told you already, I will not go near that place.”

“Why not? The Elves could help us.”

Elves. I’ve heard snippets about them during my year in Middle-earth, but never actually encountered one. Thorin never misses an opportunity to make his feelings regarding them clear, but I’m still curious. Surely they can’t be as bad as he says.

Thorin as good as spits in Gandalf’s face. “I do not need their advice.”

“We have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond could help us.”

“Help?” Anger pours into Thorin’s voice. He steps towards Gandalf, fists rigid at his sides. “A dragon attacks Erebor. What help came from the Elves?” Another step. “Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls. The Elves looked on and did nothing.” Toe to toe with the Wizard, Thorin glares up at him with enough ferocity to make a dragon balk. “You ask me to see out the very people who betrayed my grandfather. Who betrayed my father.”

The anger snags on the final word. His eyes flick to his boots, and I twist away before they can find me, pretending to fumble inside my saddlebags. Something quivers behind my sternum, echoing the faint tremble in Thorin’s voice.

Yikes. No wonder he was so against having me on this quest when he discovered I’m an Elf. My distant cousins sound like selfish bastards.

“You are neither of them.” Gandalf continues looms over him like a ragged thundercloud, white-knuckled fingers clenched around his staff. “I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past!”

“I did not know that they were yours to keep!”

I hold my breath, not daring to make a sound. The two glare at each other like rival alpha wolves, neither breaking eye contact. Gandalf turns on his heel and stomps down the hill, his staff slicing into the soft, damp ground. Heads lift to watch him as he storms through the centre of camp.

“Gandalf? Where are you going?” Bilbo trots after him, but is swiftly left behind by the Wizard’s furious stride.

“To seek the company of the only one around here who’s got any sense,” Gandalf growls without even glancing at Bilbo.

“And who’s that?”

“Myself, Mister Baggins!”

Like a retreating storm, Gandalf leaves a blanket of eerie silence in his wake. Bilbo looks thoroughly alarmed, wide-eyed and pale.

“Come on Bombur, we’re hungry.”

Just like that, the evening proceeds as normal. The grey sky darkens to starless black and the fire crackles to life inside the decrepit house. Bilbo casts frantic glances over his shoulder every few minutes, skittering about the camp like a nervous doe.

Perched on a section of the crumbling wall, I check the locations of all eleven blades concealed beneath my clothes. If Thorin decides to rally a mob to chase me away, I’m not going down without a fight.

The smell of boiled vegetables and herbs wafts beneath my nose, prompting a ravenous growl from my stomach. The Dwarf with the funny hat stands guard over the cooking pot, ladling its watery contents into bowls. Bilbo flutters around him, still fretting, too distracted to bring me a bowl.

“He’s been gone a long time.”

“Who?”

“Gandalf!”

“He’s a Wizard! He does as he chooses.”

Which is both inconvenient and extremely bloody typical. The senile old coot has probably forgotten I even exist, and I’ll have to spend the rest of this bloody quest sleeping with one eye open in case I wake up with a knife in my gut.

Mud squelches under my boot as I drive the heat in my blood down through my heel into the earth. Never, ever trust a Wizard. Especially not an ancient, weed-smoking hippie who thinks Hobbits make good burglars.

Rustling grass draws my attention to the woods just as maroon coat-tails vanish between the trees. I sit up straighter, blinking away my frustration, and scan the bodies nestled around the fire.

No Bilbo.

I’ve lost both of my allies.

The skin beneath my collar itches. I sense eleven pairs of eyes on me, though no one even glances in my direction. One word from Thorin and they’ll all turn on me. After Balin’s story, I can’t underestimate the lengths they’d go to for him. Even the fat one and the one with the ear trumpet would come after me with pitchforks if Thorin gave the order.

Though I’m nowhere close to the fire and mostly exposed to the elements, I can’t bear to stay inside the stifling farmhouse any longer.

I trudge into the open air, shivering as the sparse warmth recedes and a chill nips at my exposed skin. Pulling the roughspun cloak around my shoulders, I glance up at the mountains looming above serrated black trees. According to my map, we’ll have to cross them at some point—how we’re going to do that with sixteen stubby-legged ponies and all the baggage, I have no idea.

Shadowmere raises his head as I approach him. Early on in our friendship, I learned the hard way that he doesn’t like to be tethered. He patrols the treeline like a sentinel, barely distinguishable from the shadows. I reach to pat his muzzle but he jerks his head away and stamps his front hoof. His red eyes glow bright with unusual intensity.

“What is it?”

He snorts, shakes his mane and points his nose towards the forest. In there.

The shadows between the trees are too dense to see through. I step towards the edge, bracken and nettles crunching under my boots. My ears strain to pick up any sign that something’s off—I trust Shadowmere’s instincts just as much as mine, if not more.

There.

Two bodies crash through the undergrowth. Fili emerges first, and stops dead when he sees me. Kili slams into his back, pitching him forward a step. Kili steadies him, and they both stare at me, white-faced and breathing hard.

“What’s going on?” I peer over their heads into the trees. The teeth gnawing my gut elongate into fangs when no Hobbit emerges. “Where’s Bilbo?”

“Trolls,” Fili gasps, “took the ponies. Bilbo’s gone to investigate.”

My heart tumbles over itself. Metal bites into my palm—I don’t remember drawing the Blade. Stinging heat sears my palm, and blood slides between my fingers. “You sent Bilbo towards a group of trolls alone?”

“They won’t see him.” Kili’s hand finds his brother’s shoulder. “If he’s careful.”

I shake my head. The thought of Bilbo—soft, sweet, tiny Bilbo—facing even one troll makes me feel sick. “He’s in danger.”

Kili swallows, fingers digging into Fili’s collarbone. He leans close, obviously hoping I won’t hear, and murmurs, “We have to tell Thorin.”

Fili grimaces, as though the thought of approaching his uncle gives him stomach ache.

“How many of them?” An idea niggles at me, drawing my focus away from Fili’s slumped shoulders and Kili’s twitching fingers.

Kili’s gaze flicks up to mine. “At least two. Three, going by the stink of them.”

Three trolls. I’ve taken on trolls before, but never more than one at a time. But if I can pull this off and save his burglar, Thorin might leave me be.

I can’t believe I’m considering risking my life for someone else’s approval, but in the face of Gandalf’s indefinite absence, it might be my best option.

Never mind that. I will not stand here and let Bilbo Baggins get eaten by trolls.

Squaring my shoulders, I look down at the two princes. They both stare back at me, eyes wide, waiting. It’s a little unnerving. People don’t usually look to me for instructions, even when they should.

“Stay here. I’m going back for Bilbo. If we’re not out of this forest by first light, tell Thorin.”

To my surprise, they both nod. Kili’s arm remains around Fili’s shoulders, though he throws several glances over his shoulder towards the trees. Sucking in a lungful of cool night air, I curl my fingers around the Blade and step into the forest.

Beneath the black canopy, the darkness is tangible. Air sticks in my throat, thick and stifling. The stink of rot, fermented earth and something unbearably foul threatens to choke me. Snatches of sound dance past my ears—deep, jagged grunts and grumbles that barely resolve into speech.

Apparently these trolls can talk.

Barely ten steps in, footsteps crash through the brush behind me. I whirl and almost slice off Kili’s ear.

“Mahal.” He stares at the Blade in my hand as he straightens, transfixed by the faintly glowing markings. I forget what a formidable sight my dagger can be to those seeing it for the first time. I swiftly tuck it into my sleeve, breaking him out of his trance.

“What are you doing?” Even my quiet hiss is too loud in my own ears.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you—”

He plunges into the shadows. With a reserved sigh, I follow the trail of rustling and faint cursing, praying the trolls won’t hear our not-so-subtle advance. A smudge of glowing yellow appears amid the gloom, and I get my first glimpse of the trolls.

These trolls are nothing like the trolls in Skyrim. They’re much, much bigger—at least ten feet tall—and strangely humanoid in shape. Completely hairless, their skin is grey and cracked like granite. They’re somehow ridiculous and terrifying all at once. Behind them, the stolen ponies cluster together inside a makeshift pen, whinnying and tossing their manes in fright.

My heart skips as I spot something squirmy and Hobbit-sized struggling against the grip of a gigantic, gnarled hand. They’ve found Bilbo.

A hand seizes my wrist and yanks me to my knees. My shins bark in protest as they collide with the ground. Clenching my teeth against a hiss, I shake Kili off and peer through the thicket.

Bilbo dangles from the biggest troll’s fist like an absurd bat, coattails flapping around his head. The pointy end of a curved blade jabs his soft belly.

“Are there any more of you little fellas hiding where you shouldn’t?”

“Nope!”              

A troll with a lazy eye sticks its ugly, rock-like face close to Bilbo. “He’s lying!”

“No I’m not!”

“Hold his toes over the fire! Make him squeal!”

Kili goes rigid beside me. Before I can grab him, he launches into the clearing, slashing at Lazy Eye’s calf. The troll shrieks, hopping backwards as Kili makes another swipe at its foot. He’s surprisingly good with a blade.

“Drop him!”

And also a complete idiot.

“You wot?”

Kili deftly twirls his sword. There’s a mad glint in his eyes that says he’ll willingly take on all three of the trolls if they don’t co-operate. “I said, drop him.”

This isn’t going to end well.

Something huge thunders through the trees behind me. I turn, and freeze.

A dozen Dwarves swarm into the clearing, and everything dissolves into chaos.

Thorin’s company attacks as a seamless unit, bounding off each other and hurtling in every direction like hairy cannonballs. Yells and whoops bounce off the trees, filling the night with savage joy. I can do nothing but watch, fascinated, as every single Dwarf throws himself wholeheartedly into the fight.

My eyes find Thorin of their own accord. His fighting style combines brute strength and a surprisingly graceful agility in a way that’s utterly mesmerising.

I shake the thought away, tearing my gaze from Thorin and searching the clearing for Bilbo. It’s impossible to pinpoint anything in the carnage, and I’ll never find him just sitting in this bush like a moron. I haven’t been in a fight for over a year, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

Rising from my crouch, I roll my shoulders and step into the fray.

The trolls smell even worse up close, their screams and howls deafening. Bodies catapult around me—Dwalin’s tattooed head, Balin’s white beard and Fili’s golden hair flit about my peripheral vision, but there’s one curly head I don’t see.

Where the hell is Bilbo?

With a chorus of joyful whinnies, the ponies break free from the pen and bolt into the trees. A green waistcoated figure clutches the trolls’ curved dirk, urging the animals to flee. The largest troll notices the commotion and, with an enraged bellow, lumbers towards Bilbo.

I launch into its path, skidding on the loose earth. The Blade sinks into the meat of the troll’s thigh, the force of the blow wrenching it from my grip. A boulder-like hand catches me squarely in the chest. The force of my back smashing into the ground punches the breath from my lungs. Fire twines around my ribs. The noise of battle submerges beneath roaring agony, the scene blurring into indistinguishable smudges of colour.

“Bilbo!”

Kili’s panicked shout hauls me back to consciousness. The Dwarves cluster to my right, their gazes fixed on something several feet in the air. Thorin’s arm is an impenetrable barrier between Kili and the trolls. The young prince’s eyes spark, his jaw tight.  

Pain lances through my chest as I twist to look over my shoulder. Two of the trolls have Bilbo by his arms and legs, stretching his small body between them like he’s strapped to a torture device.

“Lay down your arms! Or we’ll rip his off!”

Thorin stays unbearably still, eyes burning. Then he drives the point of his sword into the ground. Grumbling and muttering, the others follow suit. Kili throws his sword down with clenched teeth.

What follows is a fairly predictable downward spiral, during which I struggle to hold onto consciousness. Half of the Dwarves are tied to a spit and hoisted over the fire. The rest are stuffed unceremoniously into sacks and chucked into a pile. My ribs scream as thick fingers seize me and my limbs are encased in burlap. A blur of red catches my eye—the Blade is still lodged in the troll’s leg. My pathetic attempt to lunge for it earns me a sneer and my vision plunges back into darkness.

A debate about how to cook us comes to me in jagged pieces punctuated by the ringing in my ears.

“Never mind the seasoning, we ain’t got all night! Dawn ain’t far away, so let’s get a move on! I don’t fancy being turned to stone.”

I try to sit up again, and discover I’m wedged between two solid Dwarves. My shins and ankles are pinned beneath a third and rapidly losing blood flow.

Dwarves are heavy.

“Wait!” Bilbo’s voice pipes up near the fire. I can see well enough over the bundle of bodies to tell he’s unharmed—the relief is almost worth the rush of nausea from the concussion. “You are making a terrible mistake!”

“You can’t reason with them, they’re half-wits!”

“Half-wits? What does that make us?”

It’s quite difficult to glare at Kili from this angle, but I manage. This whole thing is basically his fault.

“I meant with… With the seasoning.”

A migraine bunches at my temples. Coupled with a moderate-to-severe concussion and what has to be at least four cracked ribs, it’s getting harder to focus on what’s going on.

“What do you know about cooking Dwarf?”

“The secret to cooking Dwarf is to… skin them first!”

A boot catches me in the ribs, the taste of metal flooding my mouth as they all shout and struggle at once.

“Traitor!”

“He’s right!” Lazy Eye snatches up the nearest Dwarf, lifting him high above his ugly face by the toes. “Nothing wrong with a bit of raw Dwarf!”

Behind the trolls, something grey and distinctly Wizard-shaped darts behind a large boulder. I blink, squinting at the trees. Am I having pain-induced hallucinations? And why Gandalf, of all people?

“Not that one, he’s infected!”

Lazy Eye squeals, and the Dwarf slams directly on top of Kili.

“They’re infested with parasites. It’s a terrible business.”

“We don’t have parasites! You have parasites!”

Beneath the pain fogging my brain, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Nothing this ridiculous could possibly happen in real life.

A boot thumps Kili’s back, cutting him off mid-yell. Kili twists to glare at his uncle, and the realisation visibly dawns on his face. I can almost hear the rest of them catching on, like a cascade of coins pinging off the ground.

“I’ve got parasites as big as my arm!”

It might be the concussion, but I have a sudden, bizarre urge to laugh. I glimpse Thorin’s head poking out of the sack behind me and almost inhale my own tongue.

The biggest troll jabs a finger at Bilbo. “This little ferret is taking us for fools!”

“Ferret?”

“Fools?”

“The dawn will take you all!”

Oh, thank the gods. I’d recognise that dramatic, booming voice anywhere. Gandalf looms into view atop the boulder, a Wizard-shaped silhouette against the lightening sky. Every pair of eyes in the clearing turns to towards him.

“Who’s that?”

“Can we eat him too?”

Gandalf’s staff cracks down, cleaving the boulder clean in half, and the first rays of dawn spill into the glade.

With a series of rumbling groans, hisses and cracks, the trolls’ grey, craggy skin solidifies into stone. It’s over in a few seconds, and we are all left staring between three life-sized troll statues and the Wizard who arrived just in time.

The glade erupts into cheers.

@bluelinkmp ; @moloko-tyan ; @inumorph

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merry christmas ill queue shit soon dont worry. ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

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