Author: Tristraam
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-- Begin Part 2 --
VII
With a massive jolt, Bartleby the gnome heaves forward. Outside, the miniature outline of a face appears against the sack as Rockfist drops it to the earth. The diminutive inventor awakes with a start, eyes blinking impotently in the darkness.
"Whazzit? Are we there?" he says groggily, pushing back from the wall of the troll's luggage.
Suddenly a great howl rips though the air, starting low and rising to a horrid screech - like a large bull in the midst of being neutered by a very inexperienced farmhand.
Springing upward, Bartleby pokes his head out of the sack, wincing as the afternoon sun hits his face.
"What was that?" he squeaks in confusion, his still-sensitive eyes scanning the area fearfully.
Rockfist, distracted enough to forget that his prisoner has just performed an impromptu jail break, raises a hand and points in the direction of the sound.
"Mices," the troll grunts excitedly.
"Big mices," adds Clobberface, his voice also dripping with delight.
"Woman!" Ken seethes.
"Hungry!" the three trolls cry in unison.(7)
Bartleby's eyes follow the trolls pointing finger, coming to rest upon an extremely bizarre scene. He sees what appear to be several dozen giant rats fervently attacking a large and very animated bramble bush. Each time a rat lunged toward the mass of thorns it would give a shudder, and a large green hand or foot would come flying out, sending the rat sprawling back amongst its pack mates.
Squinting his eyes, the gnome picks out the shape of a rather worse-for-wear troll tangled amongst the thorny branches. Thanks to the troll's violent thrashings, her clothes had become shredded in several key areas and, despite a complete lack of knowledge concerning troll anatomy, Bartleby could tell that she was quite obviously female.
From what he could later gather, he deduced that the brambles were a rather large rat's nest. The female, with typical trollish confidence (8), had laid siege to the rats. Such a potentially large meal was hard to pass up. She had lost her footing on the initial charge, and somehow landed right into the middle of the patch. The angry rats decided, like her, that such a potentially large meal was hard to pass up, so they in turn laid siege on the troll.
Raising their clubs, Rockfist, Clobberface and Ken emit a battle-snarl (big trolls don't cry) and charge ponderously into battle. They wade into the swarm of rats, swinging their clubs with abandon. Bartleby's eyes squinch as he watches the fray from behind the sack. Occasionally he utters a small "eeewwwww."
I won't bore you with the details of the battle, as it was a lot like watching the Qeynos Titans versus the South Karana Gypsies in a Hack the Gnoll match (9). Needless to say, the final score was Trolls 37 - Rats nil.
(7) Well... Rockfist and Clobberface anyway. Ken cries another word, which starts with an H, but rhymes with "Corny." The other two trolls, in their hunger-lust, don't actually notice.
(8) As hinted upon earlier, trollish mathematics are quite straightforward, given that their number system essentially only consists of three numbers: One, Two, and Many. As such, they have become extremely desensitised to the notion of being "outnumbered".
This reckless disregard for maths has lead to two misconceptions. The first is that trolls are a berserker-like race who laugh in the face of Death. This is false. They simply don't see odds in the same way as other races. And no one laughs in the face of Death. His jokes are rubbish.
The second misconception is that trolls are an inherently war-like race. Their unique blind spot to poor odds, combined with a voracious appetite and the knowledge that money can buy them a lot of food has lead to the assumption that trolls love war. This is untrue. Trolls do not love war; They just understand it. "Hit those people with your club until they all stop moving" is probably one of the most simple concepts to grasp. Much easier than, say, "turn the other cheek." or "'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush".
(9) An ancient pre-cataclysm sport, quite popular among most races of Norrath (except the gnolls of course). The game involved two teams of three, one extremely nervous gnoll, and two large baskets. In its heyday, Hack the Gnoll became a huge fad, with teams sprouting up all over Atonica. The most famous of these teams were the Qeynos Titans, who lead the league in both decapitations and limb-collection for five years on the trot.
VIII
With a look of tenderness, Ken reaches into the bush, grabs the she-troll by her ankle, and drags her roughly from the brambles. Behind him, Rockfist and Clobberface have already begun dividing up the spoils of battle.
Grasping the female by the arms, he pulls her to her feet and steps back. From his vantage point by Rockfist's luggage, Bartleby can see she is in bad shape. She teeters a moment, gives an exhausted grunt, and collapses in a heap.
Reaching into the luggage, Bartleby pulls out his tiny rucksack. He trots over to the injured troll, whom Ken is now poking affectionately with his club, attempting to seduce her. Gently grabbing the infatuated male's arm, Bartleby ceases the love-prodding(10).
Ken looks down to at the gnome, a look of forlorn befuddlement on his face, "Me not think she likes I."
"I'm sure she likes you, Ken, but she's in quite a bad way, and I need to treat her. I am a full professor of alchemy, and should be able to fix her up nicely."
The troll looks hopefully at the gnome, "Winkie fix woman?"
"Yes, but I will need your help. I need you to fetch some wood. I will need a fire to heat the potion I need to make."
"Ken will fetch," the troll responds. With a purposeful grunt he turns and bounds away.
"That should give us a few minutes," the gnome mutters to himself. He reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a small jar, filled with a whitish jelly. Uncorking the lid, he dabs a finger inside, then rubs a bit of the pallid ointment under the she-trolls sizable nose. After a few moments she stirs, eyes blinking back into consciousness. She gives a weak gurgle and tries to sit, but collapses back to the ground.
"Easy there, my dear. You've have quite an ordeal. But don't you worry! I'll have you right as rain again in no time!"
The trolless give a weak grunt of confusion, but Bartleby just dips his fingers in white ointment and begins to apply it to her wounds.
She utters a yelp of pain and twists away from the gnome's meddlesome hands as he rubs salve into a gash on her arm. "Now stop that," Bartleby chides, smacking the she-troll lightly on her nose. She looks at him in anger for a moment, her hands curling into fists. Either due to her weakened state, or her seeing the mask of determination on his face - a look that only mothers and medical personnel can give , she wilts.
Lowering her eyes, she mutters, "sorry."
"Some of these are quite nasty, and rats are wonderful carriers of disease. Why, Bertoxxulous himself would be impressed with the delightful pestilence that a rat can spread!"
"You knows Bertox-a-mus?"
"Well, not personally, but as an alchemist, crafter of poisons and collector of diseases, He is the god I find the most affinity with."
"Me am Bertoxxer! Have Finny-tea too!" (11)
A harsh scraping sound from behind them interrupts the conversation. Bartleby turns to see Ken returning with the firewood. The troll approaches them, dragging a fairly large elm tree behind him, complete with roots, leaves, and an extremely startled family of racoons.
Ken drops his cargo as he notices the she-troll. "Winkie! You fix woman!"
"Err, yes Ken. Just like I told you. Still a ways to go, but she's well on the road to recovery now!"
"Winkie?" says the female inquisitively.
"Ah, my apologies, madam. I am Bartleby Winklethorpe, professor of alchemical studies, crafter of fine poisons, collector of rare diseases, and inven...."
"Winkie!" interrupts the female, patting Bartleby on the head. His feet sink slightly into the soft earth.
Bartleby sighs, surrendering. "Ok. Winkie. And forgive my manners. What is your name, my dear?" he asks, trying to pull his left foot out of the ground.
The she-troll pauses a moment, scratching her stomach, then says, "trollish-word." (12)
"Hmmm," the gnome ponders, forgetting his feet for a moment, "I really must learn trollish. Would you mind if I called you by something else?"
Both the she-troll and Ken smile brightly. "Winkie give trollish-word good name!" exclaims Ken. Turning to the she-troll he adds, pointing to himself, "Winkie gave Ken name!"
"Let's see..." ponders the gnome. "You're covered in thorns.. but "Thorny" or "Nettle" just don't sound right for such a brave, if somewhat clumsy warrior. How about "Barb"? It sounds more vicious, think. Very fitting for such a mighty fighter!
Barb's eyes light up. "Barb!" she says, looking at the gnome. She pats the gnome on top of his head, driving him a few inches deeper into the earth, "Good Winkie!"
The other two trolls, finally noticing that their party had increased by one more, postpone their dinner for the moment and come ambling over to investigate. Rockfist sees the gnome crouched by the she-troll, still struggling to unearth his subterranean feet. A rat tail still dangling from between his teeth, he lisps with annoyance. "Winkie. You thoud be in thack. What you doing out? Thtay in thack til garden."
He reaches out, but Barb grasps the gnome in her hands, plucking him from the ground with a plop and clutching him against her bosom like a doll. "Winkie friend." she says.
"Winkie haths home in Rockfith'th garden," argues the troll in the bitter tone of child who has just had their favourite toy taken from them.
The trolless' look hardens. "Winkie friend," she hisses. "Winkie save Barb. Winkie friend. Winkie have Finny-tea with Bertoxx-a-mus. Winkie friend. Winkie live with Barb. You find new gnome for garden."
Rockfist takes a step forward. "Rockfith want gnome," he demands.
The she-troll lowers her eyes. a slow smile creeps onto her face. "Rockfist big troll. Barb like that." She winks seductively, her lips forming a kiss.
And with that the argument is over. Rockfist tries to speak, but stops abruptly. He clutches his head and slips to the ground as a wave of dizziness overtakes him. He rolls onto his back and tries to think about smashing things or Clobberface naked. (13)
"Winkie live with Barb," the trolless repeats in a final I-told-you-so tone.
"Why that's... very... nice of... you, Barb," squeaks the gnome, struggling for breath under her warm but strangling embrace. He again thinks about how much the literature he has read about trolls is wrong. They were the most friendly people he had ever met!
(10) Some races emit pheromones to attract the opposite sex. Others use body language or verbal seduction. Trolls (and, strangely, a disturbing majority of human males) tend to be a lot more pragmatic in their wooing. Love-prodding is a bit like a child who continuously tugs on his mother's shirt until she finally gives in and takes him into the sweet shop (or swings around and smacks him, which also happens quite often in trollish (and human) love play).
(11) Bertoxxulism is a very popular religion among the trolls. Most scholars believe this is likely due to the sad state of affairs of trollish hygiene. At any one time, at least three separate infections and one potentially catastrophic plague can be running though a single troll village. Now, if you were living in a town where doctors all had the prefix "witch" in front of their title, and health insurance meant being the last one at the table to eat so you could see if the food killed anyone, which god would you worship? The god of tulips and happy unicorns, or the one who probably created the disease in the first place?
(12) Roughly translated, "No more pickled dwarf." (or whatever food gives you the worst case of the trots the next day. In trollish cases, this is usually pickled dwarf, most likely due to the high mineral content and the beards.).
(13) Trolls live in a heavily matriarchal society. The female troll uses what other races call "womanly wiles" to the most direct end. Trolls have two impulses that drive their actions: hunger and sex. Their brains have little enough capacity for anything else when they are thinking about one of these two focuses. If a male troll is thinking about both of them, forget it. There isn't enough blood left in their brain for them to think about which foot to put in front of the other, let alone try to form an opinion. This is the essential reason why the female troll will always win an argument. She has one less parts to supply blood to.
IX
"There we are. Good as new!" exclaims Bartleby, stepping back from the troll female.
Gingerly, she rises to her knees. Ken stumbles forward, grasping her arms and helping her into a vertical position. Her head swimming, she leans into him. "You fixed." he says to her. "Err.. pretty."
Barb looks up at him, smiling. The troll feels a rush of embarrassment and pulls away from her. Scratching his head, he stares purposefully at the ground, searching for something interesting.
Bartleby smiles to himself and turns to walk towards the other trolls, leaving the couple alone. Rockfist and Clobberface, who are busily finishing up the remains of their rat-feast, raise their heads at the gnome's approach.
"Winkie," hisses Rockfist, a touch of bitterness in his voice.
"Rockfist... there was something I wanted to talk to you about. As you know, I am the inventor of the fantabulously contractible, utterly self-motivating tri-cyclical clockwork horseless horse..."
The troll stares at him blankly.
"That shiny thing I was riding on when you met me."
"Big metal bug," the troll confirms with a nod.
"Err, yes. Well, I plan on selling them when we reach Freeport. The problem is that I am not a very good salesmen. I don't have the people skills."
The troll continues to stare at him blankly.
"Err.. So I thought you might be interested in going into business with me. I make the..umm... big metal bugs... you sell them. We could make a lot of money."
Something passes over the troll's face. If one had looked into his eyes at that moment, I swear they would have seen, instead of his normal vomit-orange pupils, two copper pieces slowly revolving on their axes. The coins then gradually transformed into two large legs of mutton, spinning round and round beneath the drowsy umbrellas of his eyelids.
"Money," says the troll dreamily.
The basic principle that money can be exchanged for goods and services was not unknown to trolls. They were, after all, an inherently lazy race, and if they could pay someone to bring them food, it was better than wandering around for hours looking for an animal with poor enough senses of hearing and smell that they didn't see the troll coming for miles.
"Lots of money," confirms Bartleby, slapping Rockfist on the leg and leading he and the other trolls back to the road.
"Let's be off then, shall we?" Bartleby chirps, climbing into Rockfist's sack. He pops his head out the top and continues, "Still a long way to go until Freeport, and now I have a business to plan! Rockfist, my good troll, with my brains and your impressive brawn, I think we will have the most successful Horseless Horse dealership in all Atonica."
"Brains," says Rockfist confidently, picking up the sack.
"Yes, my friends, we are all going to be very very rich. The finest clothes, a huge house, expensive meals. We'll have it all!"
"Meals," say Clobberfist. Now the gnome was speaking trollish.
Bartleby continues his sermon as Rockfist and Clobberface lead the way down the road, listening intently and interrupting occasionally to ask more about the food part of the deal.
Behind them, some distance back, the other two trolls walk along, hand in hand, Ken telling his new mate about the Dream House he is going to build her.
Epilogue
A few miles down the road, the party is ambushed by bandits. The leader of the gang springs out of the bushes, shouting, "Ha-HA! You're surrounded, Trolls! Give us all your money or we'll cut you into tiny pieces and feed you to the squirrels!" (These were not the most successful bandits around, but they made up for it in sheer creative intimidation).
"No money yet," grunts Rockfist, shaking his head. "Make money in Freeport."
"No money, eh?" the bandit sneers. He wasn't going to fall for that old trick (like he had those other few times), "What's in the sack then, hmmm?"
Rockfist stares at him a moment, considering.
"Brains." he says, matter-of-factly.
The bandit leader pales slightly, "Oh.err.... well... I suppose we could let you go with a warning this time..."
Smiling, Rockfist sets his luggage down on the road and raises his club.
After that, they didn't really have any problems with bandits.
---end---
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