Chained - 8

Though it was tempting just to leave them slumped in the tunnel, it was time to get to work. I’d mainly used Inventory to store materials until now; even the excavation to push its capacity for retrieving the egg had still been storage. The little run-in when I’d partially stored that tree had nearly been a downer, but it showed I still needed to push it along. The trip had brute-forced a bunch of levelling, but I needed to practice accuracy and visualization with it.

Looking at Quinctus, I nodded towards the others. “They can’t just stay on the ground. They need to eat, get fluids, and all the rest of Mortal business.”

“The tunnel—however you made it—doesn’t exactly give them room to move. While the wind is keeping the snow from filling it for now, it might not stay that way,” Quinctus says, and I give him a sharp nod.

I lift my chains to the ceiling and bring them to me, their scrapping and metallic slithering startling those who’d dozed off. Hands grabbing for weapons was at least something of a good sign.

“Get yourself together: food, drink, shit, piss, whatever; take care of it all before you fall asleep.”

My map shows I butted into a cliff-face, so I move back enough into the tunnel to form a doorway and put a hand on each wall. Removing a wafer-thin slice of stone from floor to ceiling, it doesn’t stay in Inventory long. When I eject it behind me, it doesn’t tumble away so much as shatter. The howling of the wind steals most of the noise, but I catch puffs as shards spray into the snow outside.

Settling my chains back around me doesn’t even cause a pause in my excavations. Instead, it just makes things easier, as when my arms are at full extension, the contact through the chains lets me continue. Though four meters wide is as far as I take the chamber without knowing more about the rock, that might already be pushing my luck.

The group is stirring by the time I’ve set the last pieces in place. I cut an alcove along the right wall, leaving a formation—a nearly free-standing bot-belly stove–with a carved funnel angled off towards the cliff-face. I hope it will prevent snow from falling through it, but the wind whistling across it is already making eerie noises.

Stepping past them, I cut another passage into the back wall and take it as twice as deep. At the end, I set another section and dog leg it before leaving a seat with a deep pit beneath it. I cut a separate slab of stone free to use for a front door—this one a fist’s width in thickness.

“Stove is there; toilet is in the tunnel at the back. Try not to die while I’m gone. Quinctus, I assume you are strong enough to stop any animal that gets inside.”

Dead-boy just nods, so stepping into the snow, I set the stone slab in place; it’s not a flush fit, but I didn’t intend it to be. An extra source of air flow beside the chimney in case something blocks that ventilation.

Extended chains lift me over the snowbanks, and I backtrack along my path. There isn’t anything I need out here except to be well away from them. Eternal Map shows me the little carved chamber, and after long minutes of experimenting, I get the overlay to zoom out. My course swerved around in places compared it to the previous day; we’ve come maybe four hundred miles due north if Titus’ estimate was even close.

Stone slabs extracted from the mass held in Inventory let me set up a little watchman’s hut more from boredom than anything else. Each section carved to slot into the previous one is still unstable, so I cheat. The addition of full-height blocks on three sides stops it swaying in the wind, with another block to serve as a roof. By the time I get my project steady I can taste wood smoke on the wind. There isn’t any sound of words buried in the wind, so either Quinctus is making camp for them, or they’re all just too tired to talk.

Tracing out a path towards the ocean is easy enough to figure out with Eternal Map, pushing out the fog of war and tracing the stone face. The overlay has one limitation: it’s not a heads-up display for anything but the landscape.

Moving from one boulder to another, an unexpected impact smashes me off balance. The full mass striking down on one shoulder twists me sideways, and I glimpse a glowing axe descending through the blizzard.

The wind coming from the cliff top should have held its scent, but even close it’s almost impossible to make out. I get more from the enchantment in the axe than the frozen matted fur popsicle with blue skin and yellow teeth.

[Name: Nal-Inka

Species: Ice Troll

Level:  21

Health: 840

Defence: 31

Melee Attack Power: 56

Combat Skills: Axe [J] (19), Bite [J] (22), Claw [J] (25) – Special Attack: Rend

Details: Nal-Inka isn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but he contributes well to his tribe’s food supply.]

His flesh doesn’t even stop my chains from driving through and into the cliff face. But even with ten chains punched through, the axe still gets guided down. Not the weighted drop of death, but purposefully, his red gaze shining with pain and rage. He should be dead, not still going, and the axe opens the arm I lift to catch it.

Dragon’s blood makes itself tauntingly useful with the Troll’s weight bearing down on me. Information not provided by Analysis but the faint taste of frost, deeper than the blizzard—Ice Troll, and I know I need some damn fire to kill it.

His maw opens wider than a hippo’s as he tries to snap down on my head. I push sideways, only to find him following me. The wounds have healed already, with the chains still inside him, so my motion drags him along. The shroud goes into Inventory and his motion falters for a moment, so his teeth come down on my shoulder. I can taste his blood mingling sweet frosting on the air as the pleasure of bones grinding against teeth hits. Blood jets from his wounds for a moment and with the sudden blood loss comes a disoriented grunt. Infernal flesh doesn’t give way beneath his teeth despite the bite’s pressure, and no longer linked, I slip-free.

Tasting the air gets me an already fading hint of blood, and I pull the shroud out. It doesn’t go on but lays sprawling on the snow with a Chain Minion pushed into it with instructions. The troll charges across it and the minion drawing on my strength, lifts him from the ground. Chains enfolding limbs, it keeps him spread eagle in the air. I only waste a moment flexing the delightful feeling from my shoulder before I get to work.

I’ve runes to etch.

When the first batch is ready, I drop the flame rune in place and ask my question. There is only one I want him answering.

“Where is your tribe?”

I’m not expecting it to have actual words, but the mixture of half grunts and snarls, Analysis tells me, is it speaking Giant, and the memories in my blood agree. I’ve collected a list of languages I could learn to speak, and notice that Latin, and Norse are now among them.

I’ve not bothered to learn any of them as Tongues handles translation from Infernal. But seeing Analysis listing two dead languages, I take them both, and Draconic for good measure.

I never learned Latin properly, but the bits and pieces I knew my weird memory finds matches for in the language that spending a knowledge point loaded into my brain.

“Itane? Quid agitur?”

Focused on Latin, my mutter comes out in it and gets a roar of confusion from Mr Nah-Inka. But that’s okay as I just asked him: Really? What’s going on? I gift him another rune to remind him he has a question to answer. Most males get distracted when their dick gets burned. Mr Nal-Inka is no exception, but his rage makes it clear he’ll take a bit to crack.

[Ice Troll:

Like most trolls, this sub-species possesses amazing regenerative properties that enable them to recover quickly from almost any wound. Ice trolls will work as mercenaries to giants, and in various humanoid armies. They enjoy the taste of a sapient’s flesh and will often fatten up captives to ensure a fine feed before consuming them. Ice Troll groups are patriarchal, which makes them an exception to most Troll species. Like all except desert trolls, fire prevents their wounds from immediately healing.]

Without my senses it would be impossible to see in the pre-dawn light. The blizzard makes what should be fine for me almost impenetrable and only through gaps in the driving snow can I see its form. The Troll is long-limbed, with clawed fingers nearly double the length of his palms. The weird shape of his hands makes sense of the bloated axe haft it was using when I find it. With ice blue skin, he wears a treated bear’s pelt cut into strips wrapped around him rather than stitched into clothing—though something has been done to quash its smell into non-existence. While the troll’s hide withstands the cold of my chains fine, the bear’s pelt has already shattered in places. The enlarged teeth jutting from his bottom jaw would put a sabre-tooth cat to shame; they miss stabbing into his top lip only from his massive under-bite.

I work him over and eventually he cracks. When he does, it takes a little while to get a full answer from him with landmarks to navigate by, it’s clear their lair is all too close. By the time I’m done, I need something to cleanse the scent of burning Troll flesh. The slick oily residue that filled the air once his corpse caught fire is worse than having my tongue coated in rancid lard. Perhaps I can find a cat to piss in my nostrils, just to give it a better zest. The sensation isn’t even painful, so my distorted senses don’t change it to anything approaching pleasant.

[Combat Summary:

Ice Troll x1

Class specific Experience gained:

Artificer: +390 (Runes)

Total Experience gained: 1,950

Artificer: +1,170

Hunter: +780

Chain Minion [M] (4->5)

Embed Mana [B] (20)->[Ap] (8)

Torture [M] (16->17)

]

The randomness of its attack matches its taste and crawls under my skin like stinging nettles irritating my sense of Order in a way that isn’t converted to pleasure. The sense of it is as foul as any Demon, itching and stinging against my nerves, for the Chaos it contains. The flat of its axe comes in handy for shovelling snow over its remains, and I take it with me as proof.

Tracing the cliff face back makes it easy enough to find the doorway in the rock. The shuffling sounds leaking around the stone slab make it clear the others aren’t yet asleep, even if I’d been hoping for just Quinctus. Fatigue addled; they still go for weapons the moment the stone plate vanishes. Only Quinctus merely looks at me, the smell of a flatbread he’s cooking leaking through the foulness on my tongue.

“We have a slight issue.”

Immediately Vitus jumps down my throat. “How far off course did you drag us? Do you even know?”

“Condemnant quo non intellegunt.”

I don’t know if it’s a known saying, but with their Latin I can’t resist digging at him with the classic line. The sneer that I get makes it clear he’s quite happy to condemn what he doesn’t understand. I don’t know how this language is here, but then I’m speaking to folks that look like they should appear in Gladiator, and Vikings.

The others are all just slack-jawed, but Quinctus at least proves interesting. Maybe it’s just dead boy’s lack of fatigue. “That isn’t a translation from your Power. I can’t hear the Infernal undertones that were present previously. Did you always speak Latin?”

“Don’t burn their food. They’ll need the energy to recover from being towed, Quinctus. Do any of you have a weapon with a fire effect?” I ask into the growing silence. “I could just carve flame runes but seeing as we’re nearly on their doorstep, I don’t want to spend a lot of time.”

“Nearly on whose doorstep?” Horatia asks, in a voice heavy and slow.

“Not whom so much as what,” I say, and motion northwards. “A tribe of ice trolls, one of their number tried to get the drop on me. Thought I’d go meet the soon-to-be-deceased since they’re only just off North, if I understood the directions.”

Titus looks thoughtful, considering the situation. “How many are there? How will you find your way back?”

“I’ve got that covered now; it just took a bit to get my bearings. By the way, we’ve made twenty times the distance we covered on the first day, so say thank you,” I say with a dry smile.

“Praise Janus,” Martialis gets out first before anyone can say anything, and finds my glare fixed on his bundled form. If I drop a fire rune on the blanket wrapped around him, would that be impeding?

“Don’t think we’re on speaking terms. How about: Thank you Sidero?” I ask, but clearly sarcasm is lost on him.

“His power is over all travellers. No doubt he aided your steps purely on our behalf,” Martialis says pompously.

I sigh and savour the tingles of pleasure working up my forearms at the sudden tension in my fists.

“Gaius,” I start, only for his quick reply to interrupt.

“Please, I ache too much to stand.”

The groan he gives makes my lips twitch. I could make him stand at attention aching, I’m sure.

“Do you have any vinegar or spirits? I’m not insist on payment when you’re exhausted. For our next leg I’ll carve a sleigh before we start.”

“We crossed ice flows yesterday. How did you cross them when you crashed through the river’s ice?” Inger asks, and I wave off the question. I really don’t feel like explaining why I shaped sled runners, and chains with ice skates this time, and hadn’t bothered for the first. Since, in honesty, it wasn’t being downwind of Senca that had me feeling the need to bathe.

“Vinegar, flammable oil, and a fire item work it out,” I insist and click my fingers sharply.

The pursed lips of Senca’s expression do nothing to help his ugly mug, and I’m not surprised at the arrogance in his tone. “Who says you have permission to go attack them?”

“I’m not asking permission, fuck face and you stop staring at my cunt. I’m dealing with them now; the one that attacked me had a sense of Chaos about it as bad as any Demon. It’s fortunate he came for me. If he’d come in here, with the worn state people are in. I think Quinctus would have been your chief defender.”

“All things die, Sidero, their time is not at my choosing,” Quinctus’ reply doesn’t fill me with confidence for him to act as a guard.

“Just remember, that includes enemies that cross your path when it’s your turn to guard. Or do I need to play Hell-style word games with you and ensure you’re actually going to stand guard?” I ask, and I’m not the only one that fixes him with a hard look.

“I confirmed that I’m strong enough to stop things from coming through the doorway. You never actually asked if I would. Though I will ensure the expedition completes its goal to the best of my abilities,” says Quinctus, and I catch a smile flicker in the shadows of his hood.

“Why do you need oil and vinegar? Oil would burn better. I’ve a flame tongue dagger or an axe. Most things in the North are vulnerable to fire.”

Gaius is the only one not glaring; instead, he’s setting amphorae on the floor. With the amount of space now, I don’t endanger anyone moving to his side.

“I can’t taste a thing at present. Which is the vinegar?”

He gives me a confused look but points at the first he’d set down, and I take him at his word. Breaking its seal I take large gulps, glad when it clears my mouth. It’s good vinegar, at least once I can taste it, though drinking a half litre might have been excessive. I can taste the air again; lovely—burning troll is just the worst. Exhaustion, pain, and divinity are heavy in the chamber, though the partial fading of pain is curious. I lick the air and notice the pain is still around Gaius, but not around the others.

“Burning ice troll tastes horrible, but their wounds seal fast without fire. Nice of you all to take care of yourself but not tend to another. Now I know Gaius is a follower of Vulcan. Are you just being a dick, Senca?”

“Vulcan’s fire is part of life’s pain, hence why muscles burn. It will do his Soul good to have a purifying effect against you,” Senca says, and I want to redecorate his face; if only I could be sure it wouldn’t improve it. Maybe I can find something like woad to draw dick pics on his face.

Rather than continue digging, I turn back to what’s set out. Gaius’ dagger has a ruby in its hilt that tastes of clean fire, not Hell’s infernos.

“The blade ignites the moment it’s clear of the sheath and stays lit while held unless you go to sheath it. If dropped, the flame will snuff out within heartbeats,” explains Gaius as I pick it up, and his eyes fixed on the genuine smile on my lips.

“Is this worth less than the favour I asked in exchange for that scroll?” I ask happily.

“Yes, it is,” says Gaius warily.

I turn it over as I consider the exhausted pain on his face. “Do you have more of these?”

“Two more prepared, and materials to make more, are among what you’re carrying if need be,” Gaius admits, with a sigh.

“Are you willing to consider this repayment of your favour?” I ask, testing the balance.

Confusion and suspicion spike from him; the taste of his emotions clear after having pushed him. “Yes, but why would you let me off so easily?”

The chamber’s focus is suddenly on the pair of us, but only Titus speaks up. “What favour did you do him, Sidero?”

“Nothing to do with the expedition, I just despise those being breaking their word.”

“Like your words to Vitus?” Senca asks slyly, but actually continues as I look his way. “Or your insults to the rest of us?”

“I don’t consider factual assessment cruel Senca, but nice try. Maybe grow a spine and do something about your face. Like a nice hood like Quinctus uses, or a bucket,” I offer, and savour the rage mottling his complexion.

Senca sputters, as if he doesn’t know what to say, and he opts for a question that’s a complete mistake. “You dare call me a coward?”

“Then stop sneaking looks at me whenever you think I’m not watching. Seriously, I step over you and your eyes locked onto my cunt as if I asked you to check my womb. You’re not getting your dick inside me, no matter how much you smell of lust,” I say, and enjoy Horatia’s and Inger’s gazes digging hard into the ugly pervert.

“Sidero, please answer my question?” Titus’ tone is insistent, but at least he’s polite.

It’s tempting to blow him off, but he’d likely dig the truth out of Gaius. “Flavius was waving the scroll with the clearance of Gaius family’s debt near a brazier. This after declaring he wouldn’t replace it if he destroyed it. Gaius had already signed my contract so I could act outside the circle. I could smell Flavius’ enjoyment of Gaius’ fear, so I took the scroll from him. I traded it to Gaius for a favour worth less than the smallest property covered by the scroll or harming another but not to the point of killing them.”

“Why didn’t you just give him the scroll?” questions Titus, still acting the group’s sensible representative, as he motions Vitus and Senca to be quiet.

“Are you stupid? Do I look like a hero to you? I expect to be paid! I don’t like the smell of the trolls, and this gives me the means to kill them quickly, so it’s a fair trade.”

Titus was about to ask another question when Inger butted in. “So, you’re killing the trolls because they smell bad to you?”

“Yes, I’ll do all manner of things to something that offends me,” I promise, and don’t even smile when Inger’s gaze flickers at Senca. I wonder if she’ll warn Senca, the way she smells of contempt rather than concern.

The moment I rise Gaius’ gaze follows me up, but he doesn’t look at my body, just my lips, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I know.” I enjoy the change in his scent at my purred words. I had never planned to use the favour against him, but he didn’t have to know that.

The glaze on the oil amphorae presents a slick surface to my toes as I secure it in Inventory, and I turn away.

Before I return the stone slab into position, I give Quinctus a fixed look. “Dead boy, Gaius best be unharmed when I get back; though if something breaks in, I wouldn’t cry if it ate Vitus or Senca.”

The cliff face isn’t high, and I set hooks into its lip once the slab is back in place. At the top I set out to find the various scarred rocks and trees Nal-Inka spoke of in his directions.

* * *

I don’t find the first landmark he mentioned or the second, and I’m about to turn back when I stumble on two badly frost damaged trees. Claws have shredded deep into the bark, and the downward angle of the marks point in the direction I’m sort of expecting.

The first set of marks led me to others and eventually I’m looking at a rough wall of stacked stone. They’re not even there for defence, knee high to a Troll as they are, simply a final boundary marker, around the natural cave they call home. Racks of fishing nets flap about in the breeze, beside rocks that taste of old blood, brine, and viscera.

Wind from the north carries with it the scent of blood and fat. Following it along the inside edge of their compound, I find a Troll butchering a skinned polar bear. Though butchering seems too clean a term, with hunks being ripped from the carcass by the troll’s claws.

[Traceless Walk (1->2)

Stealth [Ad] (35->36)]

The system even appreciates me playing a personal game of lantern-stalk. So nice it’s paying attention even though I ignore so many of its messages.

So many things out here that aren’t in the memories provided by Mother.

[Name: Hapi-Inka

Species: Ice Troll / Warrior

Level:  21 / 19

Health: 1,720

Defence: 42

Melee Attack Power: 72

Combat Skills: Axe [Ad] (30), Bite [Ad] (22), Claw [Ad] (25) – Special Attack: Rend

Details: Hapi-Inka is one of the tribe mercenary members and has recently returned from being hired out to a Frost Giant clan.]

[Analysis [J](6-7)]

I could easily fight him, but why be honourable? At the thought, chains lash out and yank him over backwards. A loop of a chain goes into his maw before changing into a ball gag and freezing to his tongue. Chains waiting beneath him catch his toppling form. Surprise isn’t a fun thing when it comes along with metal loops binding your limbs for the slaughter. I pause and listen, but there isn’t a hint of an alarm.

Chains lift us over the wall, and I ease back into the blizzard to get to know my new friend. We chat for a little while. It’s fun to enjoy his insightful boasts and wasted lies about his tribe in between his muffled screams of pain. Pity for him we don’t have time to share tea and scones.

[Combat Summary:

Ice Troll

Total Experience gained: 3,020

Artificer: +1,510

Artificer Level Up!

Hunter: +1,510

Hunter Level Up!

]

With all the information I want, I go to the sloping entrance and bellow my challenge. The reaction is as if I’ve kicked a hornet’s nest, all noise and stinging fury; even the young come out to play. A metal portcullis they’ve salvaged together stops being a fall-back defence, rather gives me more weapons to use. My power pulls it apart, and as defenders arrive it looks more and more like a twisted meat processing line.

Spiked hooks through their backs hold them in the air and simply twist with their thrashing. I don’t hold them steady, giving them no leverage to pull themselves free. Blue-skinned fur-clad pinatas float freely about as I hold them above the entry.

The additional screams just bring more defenders forth as they don’t even try to warn their kin away. Just bellows of piss and rage, only their closeness to the cave mouth preventing the noise from being lost in the wind. Finally, I get to meet their grand chief, and I’m not impressed.

The shaman’s spirits are the only thing that hurt, and I enjoy the meagre pleasure of their strikes for a moment before my chains rip them apart. Infernal-steel digging through the Souls held on this Plane, provides more than enough damage to send them on their way, to whatever Troll afterlife they’ll call home.

I should feel like a bully, the mean infernal coming to teach the wicked children a lesson. Instead, I feel no mercy the malevolence and Chaos that issues forth amid their bellows of rage, makes my blood hiss its disgust. None of them even look at another in concern for all their noise and yawling. What few words they direct at each other are merely casting blame. I even get offers from the Shaman to sacrifice tribe members to my power if only I let him live.

Next on master chef finely sliced flame-roasted Troll, not yum, but I love Gaius’ dagger. With my mind holding onto the metal, it stays burning, but I should have brought the vinegar with me. By the time I’m done, the trolls are neatly dead. Cracked bones stacked in a pile, and their ashes scattered to the blizzard’s winds, or buried beneath the snow. It’s unsurprisingly still dark beneath the hovering clouds, but I can taste its morning.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Heaven doesn’t want them, and I don’t give a fuck where they’ve gone. Twisted as they are their Souls are likely feeding the corruption in the Abyss.

It was honestly a torture session, no matter how quick I make their end. Hung up on hooks the initial ones just bait for the rest, who’d joined soon enough. At the end, all of them floating, bellowing their useless rage and begging for release. I’m sure they would have preferred to be released far differently.

Regardless, the system announces the tally for the event, handing out experience and level-ups once the last is dead. Others speak of an energy tingling across their skin after killing in battle—or just for fun—but I’ve only ever seen the numbers—when I don’t have the notifications off.

[Combat Summary:

Ice Troll, young x 3

Ice Troll, juvenile x8

Ice Troll x15

Total Experience gained: 60,309

Artificer: +30,154

Artificer Level Up! x4

Hunter: +30,154

Hunter Level Up! x5

]

Seriously, this is a fucked-up existence. I thought I’d get out of Hell, instead I just bring it with me. I carry it inside me now, yet my Profile still says I have a Soul hidden within. Maybe I should apologise to it for the company it’s keeping. Maybe.

* * *

Troll children are so cute when they’re burning with excitement.

Or perhaps the tribe’s youngest is just an exception, with the way he’s flailing about, looking for all the world like a break-dancer flopping on the stone. While the others among the tribe attended my welcome bash, munchkin had stayed to breakfast with a friend.

After seeing what he’d been up to his wailing screams just wash over me, but the occupants of the rough cell seem disconcerted. Though maybe it’s not the burning brat. I’ve not made a move to release them since I flung the turd into this pantry and set fire to him using all of Gaius’ oil.

Surely, they wouldn’t hold my skin tone against me. I’m blue but they’re so white to be nearly colourless. Bleached white copy paper, the only exception being a hint of ice-blue along their lips, and the silver of their eyes. I’d seen albinos in pictures, but never someone so starkly white in real-life. Even their clothing, what little they have, is the same stark white beneath the stains. Each has pixie-fine features, standing maybe one-forty odd centimetres. They have a delicate air about them, especially after the scene in the kitchen.

I know it’s cold in here, and I can see their breath forming dragon plumes in the air. Yet, neither of them is shivering, though they’ve only the remains of loose, three-quarter length pants and tops whose sleeves don’t even reach their elbows. I don’t know what the cloth is, and the taste triggers no memories. Does their species have natural cold immunity or resistance?

Elven, they’re both female. Then again, so is what’s left in the other room. Is it a luck of the draw or a species thing? Are they all female? My Dragon memories don’t give me anything useful in relation to their skin tone. Elves apparently turn up in a full range of colours and gender configurations, always a new breed popping up in a distinct colour pattern. Like a unicorn farted a different rainbow blend over them when they got popped out, so I push aside all the memories offered and cheat instead.

[Name: Rúthel Nínimiel

Species: Mountain Elf

Class: Fighter

Level: 4

Health: 48

Defence: 15

Melee Attack Power: 16

Combat Skills: Longbow [Ad] (4), Hatchet [J] (14)

Details: Captured in a Frost Giant attack on a Mountain Elf enclave, the Black-Ice Fangs’ Chief received Lossë and four other youths as payment for his tribe’s work. Lossë is only thirty winters old and normally would be located far from danger. However, the advanced forces surprised the enclave’s sentries, and they caught several groups outside the perimeter tending to early winter duties.]

Analysis coughs up similar details for her cellmate Silevien Gador.

Mountain Elf. Inger had spoken of some living in the northern region. I’m still waiting for them to say a word, any word, then I can learn Elvish. Julia would have been jealous. Not yet sure why they think I’m going to kill them, but they smell that way. Or that could just be their bladders having cut loose when I flung the youngling into sight ahead of me.

In the light of the dying flames, a chain rips his head off. The experience tally shows five-twenty experience points. For a single level, he sure was worth a bit. Must have been a racial adjustment for his regeneration capabilities and natural weapons. Then again, I could picture him tearing his way through humans, his flesh sealing as bullets ripped through. I can picture the scenes so vividly of him working his way through a child-minding area, or shopping centre. The meagre experience gained bulking him out bit by bit, as he killed the next kid trying to hide from the monster.

I have such lovely morbid thoughts now. Maybe I should talk to someone about them.

Keeping a sharp eye out in case the body or head starts regrowing, I settle in to wait. Though after seeing the experience presented, I doubt it will happen.

If the body regrows its head, would it have any memories? If so, how would that work? I might have to experiment another time, now I’ve thought of the question.

The creeping frost coating the head, and my basic Time Sense have progressed a few times by the time the first speaks up. Disappointingly for science, the Troll doll stays dead.

“What have you done with Iarien?” Rúthel asks, having finally given in to impatience.

Just like that, and at the cost of another knowledge point, I have a dialect called Pelóri Elvish. It’s weird, a language I didn’t know a second before and yet its musical tones slide effortlessly from my lips. “I did nothing to her. This little one was eating her when I entered the kitchen,” I paused only to wave the head at them before I continue. “Pretty sure Iarien had been alive until his teeth ripped out her throat. Trolls have quite the under-bite. Don’t imagine she enjoyed it, but she was tied down on the chopping block so it might have been quick. You likely heard her screaming or begging. Been here long?”

Silence was the stern reply, a momentary glare from each. The pair turn to each other and lean forward to touch their foreheads together, hands lightly resting on each other’s shoulders. Memorial gesture, or is that their form of a hug? It only lasts a few breaths before they turn back to regard me sullenly.

Elves, my memories say, are pure pridefulness and such fun to break, but Rúthel’s gaze only has sorrow in it. I’m not sure when I lost that emotion, anger and pleasure, those I still have plenty of left in the tank. I’m considering making them speak when she finally pipes up. “What are you going to do with us, Devil?”

The child’s head hits the stone wall like a melon smashing open on concrete, bits go spraying around. “How rude! I asked a quite polite question. Would you consider answering it?”

“Weeks, the rangers are sure to find us soon,” Rúthel reply is more feeble denial than hopeful.

“Yet three of you are dead already. Do you think it would have been soon enough for either of you to be alive? It seems the trolls gave up on fattening you up.” I say and get a wince from them both, and the tears overflow in Rúthel’s eyes.

Silevien strokes a comforting hand across Rúthel’s back and takes charge as her cellmate clutches at the crude bars. “If all the trolls are dead, then just tell us what you’re going to do!”

Their hearts pound away, a wet lush texture to the sound, the air thick with life and despair, yet I stay silent as I think and consider. Mother’s blood has so many interesting things to say about Elves, most of them unflattering, but they’re long-lived. It doesn’t take long to decide. The moment I draw breath to speak, their heart rates surge. “My name is Sidero, and yours are Rúthel and Silevien.”

Their shocked looks are priceless, and I file the scent away with the sorrow and misery I’ve tasted from them so far. New flavours of emotion are lovely fun, it seems each race is slightly different.

“I thought we’d play a game. It’s called Let’s Make a Deal! Are you interested?”

“No!” yells Silevien, her face twisting in shock.

“Okay, take care.”

Flowing to my feet, I don’t even make it to the door.

“Wait, don’t leave.”

Silevien lost her defiance so quickly, I wonder if the Elven youth lack emotional resilience? I’d planned to stand out of sight, to listen to the beg and cry. A faint razor blade twists itself in my gut, eliciting a smile, the warmth in it feeling strange on my face.

I can still feel guilt?

“The deal is simple. I get you out of here, take you to somewhere you can get food. Sorry, but it will be among humans, not complete black-hearted arses—though watch out for the ugliest of them. We’ve got a mission to complete, but I’ll do my utmost to get you back to your people intact. In return, you both owe me a favour, up to and including taking two lives for me.”

“Not an Elven life,” insists Rúthel.

“That’s fine, there aren’t any Elves I intend to kill—yet.”

Silevien, her hand still resting on Rúthel's back speaks up again though I can hear her heart hammering away. “Can we take Iarien with us?”

“For another two lives, I’ll take you and the remains to some High Priest types. I can taste her Soul by her body, maybe they can bring her back.”

A new lively scent runs through the air from them both as they ask more questions. Hope perhaps?

I don’t point out that they owe two lives extra regardless of that occurring. Nor other little details. Their agreement when given binds them to owe me four lives each.

[Achievement: Don’t hit someone when they’re down. Kicking is easier!

Condition: Push emotionally distraught kids into a choice when you have the upper hand.

Reward: Dominance is its own reward. Isn’t it?]