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A young Troll soldier is taught a piece of the secret history of the underground world he lives in. This story is part of a plotline from the (now defunct) ElfQuest RPG group River Twine Holt ( https://www.rivertwine.com ) . Focusing on the Troll side of the world of that ‘verse, which has a different timeline (on a slightly different planet) than the comics. With trolls that have a much darker view of elves.
This story is a few years old, but I’ve given it an overhaul to make it an introduction to its plotline rather than a continuation of one without context.
The PDF version features an illustration I made which is visible on its own here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26306256/
This is a submission to the Thursday Prompt writing group. This week’s prompt was the word ‘connotation... Which got me thinking about the baggage that can be loaded up onto a name. You can find the Thursday Prompt group here: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/thursdayprompt/
And the other stories generated from this prompt here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26245309/
<--- PREV | FIRST | NEXT ---X
Face Of The Enemy
Story and Illustration by: DankeDonuts
https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dankedonuts/
25th Night of the First Summer Moon, in the 1829th Year of Underhaven…
Firelight glimmered off the torch in Brightwood’s hand. Highlighting the curls in her warm brown hair. The curvature of her triangular, green nose. The shine of her chain-mail armor. The creases in the red and gold tabard she wore atop it. And the amulet she wore atop that. Shining steel, embossed with the icon of a hammer, painted stark red. The sigil of the most honorable House of Tactics and Arms.
Her student wore the same tabard and amulet, though over more modest armor of padded cloth. His hair was shaggy sand, yet to be joined by a beard. He kept his hands strictly to his sides.
The maze of stone corridors the cadet was being led through would not be the same twenty-four hours hence. This particular solution was only arranged for when someone had reason and authorization to visit the secret depths of the Hall Of Artifacts. Visiting this place was a privilege; unless the twenty-two-year-old proved himself, he would never find it again.
And what secrets must be down here? Ingot couldn't help but wonder. A powerful weapon never to be revealed unless it was truly needed? A new chemical formula whose practical use and value had yet to be determined? ‘Perhaps one of the Writhing Cylinders!’ He'd heard rumors of the two elven artifacts, stories passed from one grub to another between classes back in the days of general schooling before he formally entered his House’s specialized training. The tales grew more unbelievable and contradictory with every telling. Whatever wonders there might be in this place, Underhaven’s military faction -- to whom the pair belonged -- was meant to protect and secure them against all enemies. Beyond that, answers weren't really necessary.
Ingot knew better than to ask questions anyway, or say anything at all, as Brightmetal's current silence demanded his own. He followed her steps carefully, well aware of how delicately balanced the traps surrounding him were. Too much weight on the wrong floor stone, a gust of motion too close to the wrong torch, could set off a chain of reactions within the hallways beyond the door. One false move and they could be trapped here, or worse.
The passageway was barely wider than the paths they had taken to get here, three adults across at most. As they made their way, the tone and texture of the stone walls darkened slowly. Another corner and Ingots eyes were assaulted by a blast of light. Ingot quietly hoped to glimpse a shard of the elven crystals, but that was not to be. Brightmetal held out a hand, an order to stop. Then pointed with the other. They had reached their destination. The lesson. A lone door, a little too tall and too thin than a troll who cared about architecture would consider fashionable. But Ingot knew he was not here to see what lay beyond the door. He was there to see what loomed above it.
Standing against the wall, he had to crane his neck to take it all in. The stone figure sat in a concave throne, ensconced in the glaring light of too many lanterns. Smooth alabaster, it reflected so much of that light it was almost painful to look at.
Even after his eyes adjusted, Ingot needed time to discern that the figure represented a female. Where there should be the firm lines of manly muscles or a rolling drapery of feminine roundness to make such a thing obvious there was only… less. Less muscle, let fat, less everything. Its elaborate and multi-tiered robe could not hide the sheer wrongness of a nearly skeletal form. Its gown was sleeveless, revealing emaciated arms and sharp, knobby elbows. Deathly thin hands clasped the arms of its throne like a predator’s claws.
Its sculpted head was utterly alien. Like the neck it was unnaturally long; cone shaped, and lined with deep ridges that defied explanation or purpose. The cheekbones were equally deep, casting shadows that framed its terrible eyes. Eyes that were oversized and misshapen, they come to sharp points at the wrong angle. Most disturbing of all was the tiny nose, perched unnaturally over a thin mouth twisted in sneering, lipless, contempt.
Rubbing his sore neck, Ingot faced his teacher. His eyes were tearing up from the intensity of it all. “Is this… thing… what I think it is?”
Brightmetal had a teacher’s most annoying tendency in abundance. The habit of answering a question with a question. “What does she look like? What does her expression tell you?”
“It doesn’t tell me anything! It’s a statue! It’s staring at the wall! Away from us… Above us… Like it doesn’t know we’re here. Or doesn’t care.”
Brightmetal nodded. “They didn’t. You know the stories of our bondage and freedom. How we were brought this land against our will, and rose up against them never to be driven to another shore. The Changing Ones they were called then. For each new world they landed the Palace upon, they gave themselves new forms to enjoy it with. While our ancestors toiled. Growing the food, sewing the clothes, shining the crystal walls.” She pointed up to the statue again. “This was the form they returned to time and again to ride out the black spaces in between. Look at it, cadet. It is their True Face.”
Ingot blinked, looking at the figure -- The Palace-Keeper -- anew. “Is it Suliep?” Also known as The Deceiver, Suliep was the Changing One’s mouthpiece to Trollkind in the ageless time of drifting on stellar winds. Precursor to the point-ears that lived upon the surface above, threatening this world below with their very existence. A name all young trolls knew to curse.
“It is. Sculpted before the coming of the Warlords. Rescued from destruction by Klant The Stalwart, and found within his tomb.”
“Why doesn’t everyone get too see this?” The four Houses of troll society all had their secrets. Intellectual properties that helped define one from another. But this? Such a piece of art and history -- horrific as it was -- was priceless!
”Because our House’s Founders deemed it so.” Brightmetal looked into the young troll’s eyes for the first time. “We are the ones privileged to hold this graven image, for we are the ones who must be prepared for its reality. Should they come at Underhaven not as point-ears, but as what they truly are.”
“How?” Ingot asked wide-eyed, as determined as he was disheveled. He wanted to help. He wanted to be ready.
The elder troll pointed. “Behind that door there are scrolls, diagrams, tools. The words of our elders who battled their oppressors and lived to tell of it. The knowledge and means to take on the enemy should the day come. One day you may see those treasures for yourself, if you continue to impress Hatchet. But not this day. No, I think you’ve seen enough for now. Learn well, and you shall be rewarded.”
“I understand.” Ingot straightened himself in salute.
Brightmetal straightened in return, then set her gaze back to the pale monstrosity. “Never forget that we were once slaves,” she intoned. “Never forget the honored dead who fought to free us from tyranny.”
Ingot completed the ancient affirmation without needing to be cued. “And never let it happen again.”
<--- PREV | FIRST | NEXT ---X
This story is a few years old, but I’ve given it an overhaul to make it an introduction to its plotline rather than a continuation of one without context.
The PDF version features an illustration I made which is visible on its own here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26306256/
This is a submission to the Thursday Prompt writing group. This week’s prompt was the word ‘connotation... Which got me thinking about the baggage that can be loaded up onto a name. You can find the Thursday Prompt group here: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/thursdayprompt/
And the other stories generated from this prompt here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26245309/
<--- PREV | FIRST | NEXT ---X
Face Of The Enemy
Story and Illustration by: DankeDonuts
https://www.furaffinity.net/user/dankedonuts/
25th Night of the First Summer Moon, in the 1829th Year of Underhaven…
Firelight glimmered off the torch in Brightwood’s hand. Highlighting the curls in her warm brown hair. The curvature of her triangular, green nose. The shine of her chain-mail armor. The creases in the red and gold tabard she wore atop it. And the amulet she wore atop that. Shining steel, embossed with the icon of a hammer, painted stark red. The sigil of the most honorable House of Tactics and Arms.
Her student wore the same tabard and amulet, though over more modest armor of padded cloth. His hair was shaggy sand, yet to be joined by a beard. He kept his hands strictly to his sides.
The maze of stone corridors the cadet was being led through would not be the same twenty-four hours hence. This particular solution was only arranged for when someone had reason and authorization to visit the secret depths of the Hall Of Artifacts. Visiting this place was a privilege; unless the twenty-two-year-old proved himself, he would never find it again.
And what secrets must be down here? Ingot couldn't help but wonder. A powerful weapon never to be revealed unless it was truly needed? A new chemical formula whose practical use and value had yet to be determined? ‘Perhaps one of the Writhing Cylinders!’ He'd heard rumors of the two elven artifacts, stories passed from one grub to another between classes back in the days of general schooling before he formally entered his House’s specialized training. The tales grew more unbelievable and contradictory with every telling. Whatever wonders there might be in this place, Underhaven’s military faction -- to whom the pair belonged -- was meant to protect and secure them against all enemies. Beyond that, answers weren't really necessary.
Ingot knew better than to ask questions anyway, or say anything at all, as Brightmetal's current silence demanded his own. He followed her steps carefully, well aware of how delicately balanced the traps surrounding him were. Too much weight on the wrong floor stone, a gust of motion too close to the wrong torch, could set off a chain of reactions within the hallways beyond the door. One false move and they could be trapped here, or worse.
The passageway was barely wider than the paths they had taken to get here, three adults across at most. As they made their way, the tone and texture of the stone walls darkened slowly. Another corner and Ingots eyes were assaulted by a blast of light. Ingot quietly hoped to glimpse a shard of the elven crystals, but that was not to be. Brightmetal held out a hand, an order to stop. Then pointed with the other. They had reached their destination. The lesson. A lone door, a little too tall and too thin than a troll who cared about architecture would consider fashionable. But Ingot knew he was not here to see what lay beyond the door. He was there to see what loomed above it.
Standing against the wall, he had to crane his neck to take it all in. The stone figure sat in a concave throne, ensconced in the glaring light of too many lanterns. Smooth alabaster, it reflected so much of that light it was almost painful to look at.
Even after his eyes adjusted, Ingot needed time to discern that the figure represented a female. Where there should be the firm lines of manly muscles or a rolling drapery of feminine roundness to make such a thing obvious there was only… less. Less muscle, let fat, less everything. Its elaborate and multi-tiered robe could not hide the sheer wrongness of a nearly skeletal form. Its gown was sleeveless, revealing emaciated arms and sharp, knobby elbows. Deathly thin hands clasped the arms of its throne like a predator’s claws.
Its sculpted head was utterly alien. Like the neck it was unnaturally long; cone shaped, and lined with deep ridges that defied explanation or purpose. The cheekbones were equally deep, casting shadows that framed its terrible eyes. Eyes that were oversized and misshapen, they come to sharp points at the wrong angle. Most disturbing of all was the tiny nose, perched unnaturally over a thin mouth twisted in sneering, lipless, contempt.
Rubbing his sore neck, Ingot faced his teacher. His eyes were tearing up from the intensity of it all. “Is this… thing… what I think it is?”
Brightmetal had a teacher’s most annoying tendency in abundance. The habit of answering a question with a question. “What does she look like? What does her expression tell you?”
“It doesn’t tell me anything! It’s a statue! It’s staring at the wall! Away from us… Above us… Like it doesn’t know we’re here. Or doesn’t care.”
Brightmetal nodded. “They didn’t. You know the stories of our bondage and freedom. How we were brought this land against our will, and rose up against them never to be driven to another shore. The Changing Ones they were called then. For each new world they landed the Palace upon, they gave themselves new forms to enjoy it with. While our ancestors toiled. Growing the food, sewing the clothes, shining the crystal walls.” She pointed up to the statue again. “This was the form they returned to time and again to ride out the black spaces in between. Look at it, cadet. It is their True Face.”
Ingot blinked, looking at the figure -- The Palace-Keeper -- anew. “Is it Suliep?” Also known as The Deceiver, Suliep was the Changing One’s mouthpiece to Trollkind in the ageless time of drifting on stellar winds. Precursor to the point-ears that lived upon the surface above, threatening this world below with their very existence. A name all young trolls knew to curse.
“It is. Sculpted before the coming of the Warlords. Rescued from destruction by Klant The Stalwart, and found within his tomb.”
“Why doesn’t everyone get too see this?” The four Houses of troll society all had their secrets. Intellectual properties that helped define one from another. But this? Such a piece of art and history -- horrific as it was -- was priceless!
”Because our House’s Founders deemed it so.” Brightmetal looked into the young troll’s eyes for the first time. “We are the ones privileged to hold this graven image, for we are the ones who must be prepared for its reality. Should they come at Underhaven not as point-ears, but as what they truly are.”
“How?” Ingot asked wide-eyed, as determined as he was disheveled. He wanted to help. He wanted to be ready.
The elder troll pointed. “Behind that door there are scrolls, diagrams, tools. The words of our elders who battled their oppressors and lived to tell of it. The knowledge and means to take on the enemy should the day come. One day you may see those treasures for yourself, if you continue to impress Hatchet. But not this day. No, I think you’ve seen enough for now. Learn well, and you shall be rewarded.”
“I understand.” Ingot straightened himself in salute.
Brightmetal straightened in return, then set her gaze back to the pale monstrosity. “Never forget that we were once slaves,” she intoned. “Never forget the honored dead who fought to free us from tyranny.”
Ingot completed the ancient affirmation without needing to be cued. “And never let it happen again.”
<--- PREV | FIRST | NEXT ---X
Category Story / Fantasy
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 391.3 kB
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