This Old Troll

29 Jul

As Galedia walked away, Fil’ul watched her go.  For someone so tiny, she certainly could hit hard– and heal hard, when needed.  The old troll chuckled, and watched as she looked back at him with one antenna-like eyebrow raised before she continued onward, into her home.

It was a long day.  They spent hours together in combat, with her alternating between hitting heavy and healing, while Fil’ul kept the enemies angry at himself.  Whenever she wasn’t riding his shoulders, she was pulling more enemies into the melee while occasionally shooting a healing spell in his direction to keep him up.

The two fought hard, and it was a challenge.  At one point, They had twenty or more Alliance fighters surrounding Them.  They barely survived that fight.  The memory of that struggle brought a grin to Fil’ul’s face as he continued to stare ahead, his eyes comfortably finding Gallie’s rear.  Finally, he pulled himself from his reverie as she entered her house.  He climbed onto his prized ram and let it take him home at a comfortable, relaxed pace.

He glanced down.  His legs had to bed strangely to ride the smaller animal, but he found it nice enough, and let himself doze off.  The lazy beast would find its way home on its own, he was sure– especially since it saw him prepare its dinner before they left.

Fil’ul swayed side to side, and the motion relaxed him.  His thoughts turned back to the strange attraction he felt toward the blood elf paladin.  She was pretty enough, though he didn’t find her figure sexual.  Her main attraction was her strength and fighting ability, he reflected.  She wasn’t as breakable as the rest of her kind.  When the pair dueled, she typically lasted longer than most against his onslaught.

All of this felt so strange to him– especially the sexual attraction.  Her body looked breakable, and besides that, she was a female.  That alone usually kept her from his attentions.  The old troll saw his own farm up ahead and climbed off his riding goat.  With a slap, the beast charged into its pen hungrily.

Fil’ul paced into his small, cozy house and laid down on the too-small Pandaren bed.  Once more, he reminded himself that he needed to make or buy a real bed, and once more, he fell asleep before he could think any more on the subject.  Sleep… so unneeded, but so pleasant.

A familiar cold sensation settled into his belly as he slept, and his eyes snapped open.  At the foot of his bed, the Lich King, long dead, stared down at him.  Worse– it was Lich King Arthas.  Fil’ul’s glowing eyes narrowed at the vision before him, and he grasped his large Mogu spear, stolen from the ancient stone cat-men.  As he swung his spear, it sliced through the image and slammed forcefully into the wall of the small house.  The image faded with a laugh as Fil’ul recalled that Arthas was dead, and the remnants of his whispers should have been long-gone by now.

With a grunt, he pulled the heavy spear from the wall and stared at the hole.  He would fix it tomorrow, he decided as he abstractly watched a sliced piece of paper fall down to his already-cluttered floor.

In the darkness, he couldn’t make out what was on it, but he knew– it was a shitty painting of the woman he killed in his trials to become what he was now– his own sister-by-marriage, drawn from fuzzy memory of her face when he cut her down.

His eyes closed, and he saw her again, more clearly than before.  She was on her knees, ready to swing her sword at him.  He was on his feet.  Both were exhausted and in pain– almost evenly matched.  Fil’ul was stronger. His blade cut forward into her chest.  He felt her bones crunch under his blade, and relished the sight of her blood.  He laughed as the unholy glow faded from her eyes, and she stared up at him with shock as her body shuddered.

Her expression wasn’t sadness, fear, or anger.

It was heartbreak, and it was surprised.  Her eyes were clear.  She remembered everything in the moment of her death, and her eyes tried to tell her brother of the horrors.

Her brother didn’t listen.  Fil’ul snapped himself away from his reflections and stood.  The dead had no need for sleep when it was not pleasant.  He walked from his house and looked around.  His crops were still growing.  His animals were cared for.

Heavy feet suddenly jumped as a small cat rubbed against him.  He knelt and petted its soft fur with a grunt. “I almost stepped on you, idiot.” His voice was gentle as he stood and walked off.  He needed to do something to get his mind off his dreams and memories.

His mailbox caught his eye, and he pulled it open to look for anything new– perhaps requests from the rest of the guild.  There it was– lucky day.  Ezramdone wanted a drink and frost-woven cloth.  A drink sounded wonderful, and then some mass slaughter in Northrend would be a great way to get his mind off things.  Perhaps this time, Ezra could come with him– he was good company, for a lesser undead, demon-lover, and weakling.  They got along decently enough, at least.

It took only a short time for Fil’ul to arrive at Dalaran– Ezramdone’s current capital of choice– and less time to find the cries of his succubus objecting to his flirtation.

“Get off me, you gross corpse!” was followed by “I’ll end the contract!  I’ll do it!” She whined like a snobbish child, and Fil’ul laughed.

“Ey, Ezzsssie mon.  Cut de girl sssome ssslack.  Ssshe be new, ya?” His slow speech immediately caught the jawless warlock’s attention.

“Finally made your way here, did you?  I sent that note days ago.” The warlock’s voice invaded Fil’ul’s mind.

“I vasss-” He trailed off. “Busssy.” His grin was predatory.

“Killing things, I assume?  Must have.  Your armor has new parts, and I haven’t seen that spear before.”

“Of courssse, mon.” Fil’ul grinned and waved a barmaid over to bring him something to drink as the pair chatted the night away, alternating between gossip, updates on their latest kills, and more.  Fil’ul kept quiet about their paladin guildmate and his attraction to her, however.


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