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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 1 year ago

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'Regret'

THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD, why? because im lazy and tired, I spent a a while writing this, and if you notice it has more words and details then the john dory au? that's because this is an au that iv been working on for longer, and is the one I enjoy more(although I enjoy both but I have bias for this one)

WARNING:/ Blood, gore, near-death experience, Thalassophobia

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Five days. It might as well have been a lifetime since Brozone fell apart, scattering its members like leaves in a storm. Five whole days since Floyd had seen the faces of his brothers, their laughter now just an echo in his memory. But what really gnawed at him, deep in the pit of his stomach, was that it had been exactly five days since he had last seen Branch.

The forest floor beneath Floyd's feet crunched loudly, breaking the tranquil silence that enveloped the forest, His path was a winding trail through an explosion of colors, under a canopy of trees that seemed to stretch up to touch the night sky. Around him, the forest was alive with the chatter of critters and the rustle of leaves, painting a vivid picture of an ecosystem thriving in its magical bubble.

Bioluminescent flora cast an eerie, beautiful glow across the path, lighting up the darkness with hues of blues, pinks, and greens. The air was filled with the rich aroma of blooming flowers and the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of magical sap that seemed to seep from every nook and cranny of this enchanted world. Yet, despite the overwhelming beauty and the vibrant life all around him, Floyd couldn't shake off the cloak of loneliness that draped over his shoulders.

With each step he took, the weight of absence pressed down on him, a constant reminder of the void that Brozone's breakup had left in his heart. But even more so, Branch's absence cast the longest shadow on his soul, maybe he shouldn't have left, maybe he should go back.

As the teenage troll wrestled with his thoughts, a fierce battle between the urge to push forward and the longing to return, he concluded. The solitude was unbearable, an aching void that no amount of pride could fill. He yearned for the familiar warmth of home, the comforting presence of his grandmother, and the camaraderie with his brothers, but above all, he ached to see baby Branch. With a heavy heart but a spark of resolve, Floyd turned around, ready to retrace his steps back to the troll tree, back to the place he belonged.

However, the moment his feet pivoted, a sudden stillness enveloped the forest. The vibrant life that had buzzed and hummed around him just seconds ago seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving behind an oppressive silence. The only sound that dared to break the quiet was the gentle murmur of the river nearby, its flow now sounding ominously loud in the absence of the forest's chorus.

This eerie quietude sent a shiver down Floyd's spine, igniting a flicker of concern for his safety. The forest, once a kaleidoscope of sounds and colors, now felt like a different realm altogether, one where every shadow could hide a threat and every whisper of the wind seemed like a warning. Floyd's heart began to race, not just with the fear of the unknown, but with the realization that this sudden silence could mean something was amiss.

Torn between the desire to rush back to the safety of home and the instinct to tread carefully in this changed environment, Floyd took a cautious step forward. His eyes darted from one shadow to the next, trying to pierce the suddenly thickening gloom, while his ears strained for any sound that might signal danger. The forest, with its sudden mood swing, had transformed from a friend into a foe, and Floyd knew he had to be vigilant if he was to navigate his way back home safely.

As Floyd cautiously navigated the forest path, a palpable tension hung in the air, thickening with every step he took. The usually vibrant and luminous plants seemed to retreat into shadows, their glows dimming as if to hide from an unseen menace, plunging the night into an even deeper darkness. The magic that once painted the forest in ethereal light now appeared to be snuffed out, replaced by a suffocating gloom that seemed to swallow everything in its path.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a sound so chilling, it froze Floyd in his tracks. A distorted cry, eerily reminiscent of a woman's scream, pierced the night, its source unclear yet unmistakably close. Floyd's heart hammered against his ribcage as he turned toward the sound, his eyes scanning the darkened foliage until they landed on a sight that would haunt his dreams for years to come.

Perched atop a giant mushroom, was a creature so ghastly, it seemed as though it had crawled straight out of a nightmare. Its body was a grotesque patchwork of shadows and twisted limbs, with skin that shimmered like oil on water, reflecting the faint moonlight in unsettling patterns. Its eyes, if they could be called that, were hollow voids that seemed to suck in the very light around them, radiating malice and hunger. Long, spindly fingers ended in claws that resembled the thorns of a rose bush, sharp and gleaming in the dim light. The creature's mouth was a jagged tear across its face, from which the distorted cry seemed to emanate, a sound that mimicked human anguish yet was devoid of any true emotion.

At that moment, every instinct in Floyd's body screamed at him to flee. The forest, with its sudden transformation into a realm of terror, and the appearance of this nightmarish entity, ignited a primal fear within him. His fight or flight reflexes didn't just suggest, but vehemently urged him to run, to escape this horror and never look back.

Without a second thought, Floyd turned on his heels, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm as he bolted down the path. The forest, once familiar and welcoming, now felt like a labyrinth designed to trap him in this nightmare. Branches seemed to reach out to snag at his clothes, and the ground beneath his feet felt treacherous as if it too was in league with the horrors that lurked in the shadows. But Floyd didn't dare slow down; the terrifying creature and the oppressive darkness of the forest propelled him forward, driven by the singular desire to escape, to survive, to see the safety of home once more.

Floyd's legs pumped furiously beneath him, propelling him through the darkened forest with a speed born of sheer terror. The creature, with its nightmarish form, was alarmingly fast, its twisted limbs carrying it over the ground with a grace that belied its grotesque appearance. Floyd could hear it gaining on him, the sound of its pursuit a constant, horrifying reminder of the danger at his heels. But just as despair began to claw at his mind, fate intervened.

A deer-like creature, innocent and unaware, crossed paths with the monstrous entity. For a moment, the forest held its breath, and then the creature's attention snapped to the new, closer prey. The diversion was brief, but it was all Floyd needed. He didn't look back, not even as the sounds of a terrible struggle reached his ears, a mix of the predator's ferocity and the prey's agony cutting through the night.

Pushing his body to its limits, Floyd darted farther into the forest, driven by a primal urge to survive. When he finally dared to stop, he found himself beside a large boulder, surrounded by tall, thick bushes that offered a semblance of hiding. His chest heaved with the effort of his flight, each breath a loud, ragged sound in the silence that followed the creature's distraction.

Fearing that any noise might draw the creature's attention back to him, Floyd pressed a hand firmly over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing. The distant cries of the deer-like creature, caught in the throes of agony, sent shivers down his spine, a grim reminder of the fate he'd narrowly escaped. The forest around him seemed to echo with the sounds of the hunt, a haunting symphony that kept Floyd frozen in place, too terrified to move, too scared to make a sound.

As the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, Floyd remained hidden behind the boulder, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts of escape, survival, and the hope that he would never again encounter the terrifying creature that hunted the shadows of the forest.

The silence that had reclaimed the forest was as ominous as the stillness that had heralded the creature's arrival. Floyd could hear its heavy footsteps, a sound akin to sludge or mud squelching under a great weight, each step accompanied by the foul stench of decay. For a moment, the sounds ceased, and the quiet returned, so profound that Floyd dared to hope the nightmare was over, that the creature had abandoned its hunt.

But survival instincts urged caution. Grasping for any semblance of protection, Floyd reached for the guitar strapped to his back, its familiar weight offering a shred of comfort. Yet, as he drew it forward, the end of the guitar brushed against the bushes with a soft rustle, a noise seemingly inconsequential in the vastness of the forest. However, it was all the invitation the creature needed.

With terrifying swiftness, it burst over the bushes, its maw clamping down on Floyd's leg. The sharp pain was immediate, Floyd's white pants soaking up the blood that flowed freely from the wound. The creature reared onto its hind legs, dwarfing Floyd in size, and shook him violently, exacerbating the bite with its ferocity.

In the midst of this chaos, Floyd's grip on his guitar never wavered. With a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, he swung the instrument with all his might, connecting with the creature's inky, shifting face. The impact shattered the guitar, sending splinters scattering through the air, while a significant portion lodged into the creature's face. Its scream, a harrowing blend of pain and rage, echoed through the forest like a distorted woman's shriek.

With one final, forceful shake, the creature released Floyd, sending him hurtling through the air. He crashed against the stem of a mushroom, the collision spraining his ankle and sending waves of pain through his already battered body. Lying there, dazed and injured, Floyd knew escaping would now be an even greater challenge. His adversary, momentarily deterred by the assault, might not be down for long. Pain throbbing through him, Floyd realized he had to move, hide, or do anything to survive the night. But with a sprained ankle and the forest shrouded in danger, every option seemed fraught with peril.

With desperation fueling his movements, Floyd's gaze locked onto the neck of the guitar, miraculously almost intact despite its violent separation from the rest of the instrument. Pain and adrenaline mixed in his veins as he crawled towards it, each movement a testament to his will to survive. Clutching the shattered neck, he used it to hoist himself up, the makeshift cane offering a sliver of support in his vulnerable state.

Behind him, the creature's torment filled the air, its frenzied attempts to dislodge the guitar fragments from its face creating a cacophony of destruction. It slammed into tree trunks and mushrooms, blinded by pain and rage, its screams a distorted symphony of agony. This chaos provided Floyd with a crucial window of opportunity, one he seized without hesitation.

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Limping with the guitar neck for support, Floyd steered clear of the trail, aware that remaining within the creature's line of sight spelled certain doom. The forest around him was a blur of pain and determination, every step a challenge, every breath a victory against the darkness.

Then, as if emerging from a dream, Floyd stumbled upon an old bridge. Its wood was weathered and worn, groaning under the weight of untold years, the ropes that held it frayed and thin. It looked as though a single wrong step could send it tumbling into the ravine below. Yet, beyond this precarious crossing lay the possibility of escape, a chance to put more distance between himself and the nightmarish creature.

With no other options, Floyd approached the bridge, each step measured and cautious. The guitar neck, now a lifeline, steadied his shaky movements. He tested the first planks with a tentative weight, heart pounding not just from his injuries but from the fear of the bridge giving way beneath him.

The old wood creaked ominously under his foot, a sound that seemed to echo through the still forest, loud enough, Floyd feared, to attract unwanted attention. With the creature possibly still in pursuit, Floyd knew he had to cross quickly but carefully. Every step was a gamble, every creak a potential alarm, as he navigated the treacherous bridge, praying it would hold long enough to carry him to safety.

Floyd's heart pounded against his ribcage, a frantic drumbeat echoing his mounting despair. He was so close to the other side, to a semblance of safety, spurred on by the hope that the creature's liquid form might falter at the touch of water. The bridge, with its creaks and groans, seemed to mock his desperate flight, every shake a sinister whisper of his potential downfall.

"Why did it have to be a rope bridge?" The thought flashed through Floyd's mind, a fleeting moment of dark humor amidst terror. But then, the shaking intensified, transforming from a tremble to a violent quake that threatened to fling him into the abyss. Heart sinking, Floyd turned, and his worst fears were confirmed—the creature had found him, its grotesque form navigating the swaying bridge with unsettling speed despite its awkward limbs.

Tears carved paths down Floyd's cheeks, each one a silent prayer to any deity that might be listening. His mind raced with apologies, regrets flooding in as he faced the stark realization that he might never return home, never fulfill his promises, never see his loved ones again. The thought of Baby Branch, innocent and unaware of the danger Floyd faced, filled him with an acute pain that eclipsed even the fear of the creature behind him.

Time seemed to dilate, stretching each second into an eternity as the added weight of the chase proved too much for the ancient bridge. The ropes, worn by time and weather, began to snap, the sound a death knell ringing through the air. Floyd and the creature, locked in a deadly pursuit, plummeted towards the river below.

The fall felt like a lifetime, every detail etched into Floyd's mind with painful clarity. The river rushed up to meet him, not deep enough to cushion their fall, littered with rocks that jutted out like the teeth of some gargantuan beast. Floyd's descent aimed him headfirst into the water, a final, cruel twist of fate.

Impact. His head collided with a rock, and a blinding pain flashed before darkness engulfed him. Consciousness slipped away to the sounds of rushing water and the creature's agonized screeches, a haunting lullaby as everything faded to black.

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At the edge of Rock Troll territory, near the imposing yet vibrant Volcano Rock City, a young Rock Troll girl idled by the river. She appeared to be around fourteen, her distinctive large, fluffy mohawk transitioning from fiery red to a deep black, a mark of her heritage and vibrant personality. Engrossed in the simple pleasure of skipping rocks across the water's surface, her attention was abruptly captured by an unusual sight—a troll, strikingly out of place with his bright colors, floating aimlessly in the river's current.

Instinctively, she sprang into action. Unlike the troll in the water, she was a Rock Troll, naturally endowed with strength and resilience. Wading into the river with determined strides, she reached the brightly colored troll with little effort, pulling him to the safety of the riverbank. Her heart raced, not from the exertion, but from the urgency of the situation. Gently, she placed him on the bank, leaning in to place her torn ear against his chest, searching for the faintest sign of life. To her relief, a heartbeat thudded against her ear—faint but unmistakable. He was alive.

Realizing the immediate danger wasn't over, given the troll's recent submersion, she knew she had to act fast to clear any water from his lungs. Despite her age and the lack of formal training, she had a basic understanding of CPR from the stories and bits of knowledge passed down in her community. Determined to save this stranger, she positioned herself and began the procedure, driven by a mix of adrenaline and the sincere hope that she could make a difference.

Her technique was far from perfect, her movements occasionally hesitant, but her resolve never wavered. She was a Rock Troll, strong in more ways than one, and today, she was this stranger's lifeline. As she worked to save him, a mix of fear and determination settled in her heart. She might be young and inexperienced, but she was his only chance, and she wouldn't give up on him.

As the young rock troll administered CPR, the pop troll abruptly jolted to consciousness, his body reacting violently as he expelled water from his lungs. Between harsh coughs and the effort to breathe, his condition was dire. Swollen and bruised, his ankle was a stark contrast to the severe wound on his leg. His complexion had turned alarmingly pale, a clear sign of his physical trauma. Despite his brief moment of wakefulness, exhaustion quickly overtook him, and he succumbed once more to unconsciousness.

With no time to lose and the pop troll's life hanging in the balance, the young rock troll lifted him onto her back. Muscles tensed and determination set in her eyes, she dashed towards the nearest infirmary, her resolve unwavering.

Bursting through the infirmary doors, her entrance commanded immediate attention. "Help! I need help here!" she cried out, her voice echoing with urgency.

The doctors in the infirmary turned, their appearances distinctively that of rock trolls. One had a stony complexion with jagged, slate-grey hair that seemed to mimic the sharp edges of a mountain range. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were adorned with tattoos resembling tribal markings and musical notes, a blend of tradition and rebellion. The other doctor, a female, bore a striking lavender hue to her skin, her hair a cascade of deep purple and silver, worn in a style that was both practical and indicative of her strength. Their attire, though reminiscent of traditional medical garb, had a rugged edge to it—leather belts equipped with various tools and instruments, and their scrubs adorned with metallic accents, giving them an aura of toughness and capability.

Without a moment's hesitation, they sprang into action, their expressions a mix of concern and professionalism. They carefully lifted the pop troll onto a stretcher. Swiftly, but with care, they wheeled him into the back, where the infirmary was equipped with the necessary tools and medicines to treat his injuries.

As they worked, their movements were efficient, a testament to their expertise. The female doctor assessed the wound on pop troll’s leg with a critical eye, cleaning it meticulously before stitching it up with a precision that belied her rugged appearance. The male doctor, meanwhile, tended to the swollen ankle, applying a cold compress to reduce the swelling before carefully wrapping it in a bandage designed to support and heal.

Throughout the process, their demeanor was calm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the violent world outside the infirmary walls. They communicated in hushed tones, their focus entirely on saving Pop Troll’s life. The young rock troll watched from a distance, her heart heavy with worry but filled with gratitude for the doctors' swift intervention.

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An hour had passed since the young rock troll had raced into the infirmary with the injured pop troll on her back. Sitting in the waiting room, her mind raced with worry and anticipation, her legs swinging back and forth in an anxious rhythm. The door to the back swung open, and the doctors emerged, their expressions somber but not without a hint of relief.

"He'll live," one of the doctors began, pausing as if to let the words truly sink in. "But his ankle is sprained and swollen pretty badly. And it's not just the open wounds—whatever happened to cause those wounds also shattered the bones in that leg. He won't be leaving any time soon."

The young troll stood up, her relief palpable but her concern for the stranger's well-being growing. It was then the female doctor added, with a tone of caution, "He's a pop troll. He shouldn't be anywhere near here. I think it's time to inform your father. He needs to know about this situation."

Realizing the gravity of the revelation and the complications it could entail, the young troll nodded solemnly. She knew what had to be done next. The implications of harboring a pop troll in rock troll territory were not lost on her, and the need for discretion and careful handling of the situation was paramount.

With a determined step, she made her way to seek out her father, the leader of their community. The weight of responsibility felt heavier with each step, but she was resolved to see it through, for the sake of the injured troll and the delicate balance of their community.

As she found her father and relayed the information, the air was thick with concern and the unspoken tension of what this could mean for their tribe.

"Father," she started, the urgency clear in her voice, "there's a troll in our infirmary. He's in bad shape, but he's alive. The doctors... they say his injuries are severe. And he's... well, he's a pop troll." Her father, a figure of authority and wisdom, absorbed the news with a measured pause. "A pop troll, here?" he echoed, the weight of the situation settling in. "This is delicate, indeed. We'll need to proceed with caution. And you did well to bring him to safety, Barb."

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