From: dac@prolix.apana.org.au (Andrew Clayton)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Tryssa's Troll. Continued.
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 1992 02:27:25 GMT
Organization: More like Dis~, really.
X-Newsreader: Arn V1.00

Tryssa's Troll was originally placed in LTUAE, by Nikolai
Kingsley.

    Chapter 5


    In the days that followed, the general mood in the keep was
somewhat hectic as Tryssa's father, the King of the Elves, was going
to be visiting later that week.  Captain Pyraf was in charge of the
security detail; he had decided that Kulyar was an unacceptable risk
and should be put back in solitary confinement for the duration of
the visit.  Tryssa, who had grown far too attached to her new toy,
objected strenuously and used her influence to override Pyraf's
decision.  She refused to speak to Pyraf in person and used Kulyar as
an intermediary to convey beautifully handwritten notes, to which
Pyraf responded with curtly scribbled battle-reports.  When Kulyar
didn't return from delivering her most recent ultimatum, Tryssa was
obliged to visit the Captain herself.

    Pyraf was completely absorbed in examining a scale model of the
Keep on which he had placed tiny, animated representations of the
important figures currently in residence.  He was placing the figures
in different configurations when Tryssa swept in.

    `Where is he?' she asked coldly.  Pyraf didn't look up.

    `Where is whom?'

    `My Troll slave.'

    `I had it interred again.  I can't afford to have a Troll running
around the Keep with your father here.  I can't take that chance.'
Furious, Tryssa didn't bother arguing with him; she turned and left.
Standing at his model, Pyraf watched the miniature of Tryssa as it
left the room to stand outside.  He allowed himself a smirk of
satisfaction.

    Tryssa stood outside Pyraf's room for the space of half a minute
while she composed herself.  She smiled and gestured with her right
hand, casting a cloaking spell over herself; she then left for the
prison level.  Pyraf's model showed her still standing at the door.

    At the very bottom of the Keep's prison was a single corridor
which was interrupted at regular intervals by square shafts, one
metre wide.  She walked around them, glancing down each one in turn,
until she came to the last, which had a chain bolted to a ring set
into the wall nearby.  She called down the shaft:

    `Kulyar?' after a few moments, a reply came, weakly:

    `Mistress?'  She frowned, plucked a crow's feather from her
headdress and dropped it down the shaft.

    `Slave, catch the feather... do you have it?'

    `Yes, mistress...'

    `Hold it between your hands and close your eyes.'  She closed her
own eyes and murmured a spell.  There came the sound of clanking
chains and within moments, her magic had lifted Kulyar from the hole,
whereupon she received a shock; he had been blinded.  Her eyes
widened; then her expression settled into a blank mask which, had he
been there to see it, would have given Captain Pyraf ample reason to
seek employment elsewhere.

    Tryssa led Kulyar to Synda's work-rooms and woke the sorceress
from one of her frequent cat-naps.  Rubbing the sleep from her eyes,
she cast a desultory glance at the Troll's ravaged sockets and then
flinched in sympathy.  She sat him down in front of an elaborate
sundial which had been set in the middle of her apartments for no
apparently good reason.  Tryssa watched as the sorceress fetched a
set of charcoal-black rods, each the width of Kulyar's little finger
and half a metre long.

    `Hold these,' she advised him while drawing a ragged septagram
around him in yellow chalk.  She placed her hand on his forehead and
muttered an incantation; finally, she gestured dramatically and, with
a grin, warned him, `Now, this is going to hurt a -great- deal.'  He
grimaced.  She touched her index finger to the middle of his
forehead, and he was momentarily outlined in crimson fire which swept
around his body in tiny lightning-bolts which finally arced into his
wounded eye-sockets.  He screamed in agony and clawed at his face;
when the magical energy had dissipated, he slowly withdrew his hands.
His eyes had been restored.  Tryssa crossed the room to stand next to
him; he threw his arms around her legs and hugged her in gratitude.
She patted his head and absently stroked his course hair, a distant
expression in her eyes.

    That evening, she made him take another bath just before she
retired for the night.  His balls still ached somewhat from their
previous encounter; as he approached her apartments, he shuddered in
anticipation of what she might do to him this time.

    The room was darkened; his new eyes adjusted quickly and he saw
her, lying naked on her bed.  He moved towards his customary position
at the foot of the bed, where he kneeled.

    `Kiss my feet.' she ordered in a whisper.  He obeyed, running his
rough tongue along the soft soles of her feet, darting it over and
between her long Elven toes.  He thought of his own toes, which she
had ordered scrubbed; his toenails trimmed.  He recalled with a grin
that the latter had required the Elven equivalent of a bolt-cutter.

    He ran his calloused hands over the smooth curves of her calves,
and she gave a deep, languorous sigh.  Encouraged, he dared to kiss
her ankles, and when this incurred no protest, he moved up her legs
until he was carefully touching his lips to the soft insides of her
thighs. She moaned and twisted from side to side as he moved his
head, delicately touching first one leg, then the other, moving ever
closer to her cunt.  With his tongue, he drew a trail from the top of
one thigh, lightly brushing over the wisp of pubic hair and to the
top of the other leg, back and forth, each time pressing a little
more insistently, each time drawing a stronger gasp from his
mistress, who was writhing and clutching at his hair desperately.
Finally, he paused with his tongue over her; she moaned loudly and
pulled his hair wildly.  He allowed himself a small grin and then
plunged his tongue deep within her.  She cried out and lifted her
hips up to him, pressing herself hard against his face; he slipped
his broad hands underneath her, cupping her behind and supporting her
like a bowl.  With slow, even strokes, he parted her folds with his
tongue, darting around her clitoris, pushing down deep into her, then
retreating to nibble at her thighs until she almost screamed with
frustration.  On hearing her responses, he found that his growing
erection was uncomfortably confined within his pants, but did not
dare stop and free it.  He squirmed from side to side in an attempt
to lie more comfortably on his stomach, to no avail; however, he
forgot about it as Tryssa wrapped her legs around his head and ground
her cunt against his mouth.  As he thrust his tongue deeper, he dug
his thumbs into her legs, easily grasping her slim thighs in each
hand. He slowly drew his tongue up and took her clitoris between his
lips, sucking rhythmically; without warning, she arched her back and
screamed shrilly, squeezing his head between her legs and bucking
madly.  She shook violently for almost half a minute, her cries
gradually degenerating into a series of desperate gasps until she
finally fell back on the bed, sobbing.  Slowly, she unwound her legs
from around his neck, and he sank back gratefully, his jaw aching
with the unaccustomed effort.  As her breathing slowly returned to
normal, he suddenly realised what he'd done - he'd exerted control
over her, diminished her power over him.  No matter that it was by
such a fractional degree; such transgressions had, in the past, been
severely punished, and he saw no reason why this occasion should be
an exception.

    Captain Pyraf was idly inspecting the prisons (one of his
favourite pastimes), when shouts from the other end of the corridor
drew his attention.  He walked faster, and then started running as he
saw a stream of golden-red light issuing forth from a tiny cell
window, lighting the whole passageway.  He got to within three cells
of the light when he felt the heat; the door was smoking and, as he
watched, it fell out into the corridor and burst into flames. Humans
fetched buckets to assist the fire-retardant spells that Lieutenant
Jacyn was employing to contain the blaze which had, by now,
completely consumed the room's contents.  Pyraf stood by, watching;
he sensed that this conflagration had been caused by sorcery.  He
could smell it.

    Later, he examined the charred remains of the cell, the brittle,
blackened bones which were all that remained of its occupant; the
taint of sorcery was even more pronounced.  Jacyn reported, reading
from a scroll.

    `The occupant was a Troll, from the Westmarch region.  His name
wasn't recorded.'  Pyraf asked,

    `Do we have any other Westmarch Trolls staying with us?'  Jacyn
looked through the records, and replied,

    `Three others, two of them in the next block, and, er, Princess
Tryssa's slave...'  He stepped back involuntarily when he saw the
expression on Pyraf's face.

    `Inter the others.  I will see to the slave myself.'

    Tryssa and her Troll were not in her apartments, and his scale
model still showed her standing outside his room, which she
definitely wasn't.  He scowled, and had to content himself with
visiting the other two Westmarch Trolls, which had been dragged down
to the lowest level of the dungeon and dropped down the shafts.
Standing over the first oubliette, his highly-attuned Elven senses
caught a faint trace of the sorcery which had caused the blaze in the
cells.  His eyes narrowed; his pointed Elven ears twitched and caught
a faint stirring sound far below; then he briefly saw red light
glinting from the Troll's eyes.  He stepped back, just as a column of
golden-red fire shot up the shaft, splaying out against the roof.  He
hastily retreated a few steps, shielding his face with one arm, all
the while probing with his magical senses.  After five seconds, the
blaze receded, leaving a black scorch-mark on the ceiling two metres
across.  Pyraf warily approached the hole, probing the blackened
edges with the toe of his boot.  A fragment of rock broke off and
tumbled into the darkness.  He stood there for a moment, deep in
thought, and then, momentarily forgetting about Kulyar, turned his
attention to the other Troll prisoner.

    The next morning, Kulyar was allowed to take his breakfast in the
dining hall after Tryssa had dismissed him.  He sat alone at one end
of a mostly unoccupied table with a large bowl of gruel before him,
occasionally swilling liquid from an earthenware mug full of
particularly sour wine (which no-one else would touch) and taking
bites from the end of a loaf of stale bread.  He thoughtfully
regarded the green mould growing on one end of the loaf, and
(disdaining the use of a spoon) lifted another handful of cold gruel
to his mouth.

    Pengan entered the hall, crossed to join Kulyar and slapped him
on the back jovially.  The Troll winced, and Pengan hastily withdrew
his hand; he seemed to recall something, nodded to himself and drew
up a chair to sit down.

    `How goes it, Troll?' he asked with a smile which (he fervently
hoped) conveyed a sense of camaraderie.  Kulyar closed his eyes,
dipped a piece of bread into the wine (in the hope that it might kill
the worst of the mould), slowly ate it, and then allowed a faint
smile to expose the tips of his incisors.  Pengan almost fainted with
relief.

    `It goes well, Human.'  He paused, and then added, `My Mistress
has this idea: Trolls are disagreeable because we don't eat
regularly.  Ordinarily, a Troll will only eat when he's hungry, or
when he realises that he hasn't eaten for a week or so.'  Pengan
nodded enthusiastically, and kept nodding as Kulyar finished off the
wine in the jug, his nods gradually diminishing to vague motions of
his chin.

    `Uh-huh... indeed...'  Kulyar, who was an unusually perceptive
Troll, realised that Pengan wasn't there to share breakfast; he
stuffed the last of the mouldy bread into his mouth, and spoke around
it,

    `Say what you came here to say, Human.'  Pengan started, dropping
a crust of bread that he'd been playing with, and said in a low
voice,

    `Working in the Laundry, you know, I get to see, ah, well,
clothes, pillowcases... sheets,' he added significantly.  Kulyar's
smile widened by a millimetre.  `Now, this is probably none of my
business, well, I suppose that it is, indirectly, because, ah, I have
to wash them, so it is, really, but, um -'  Kulyar sighed,

    `Get on with it, Human.'  Pengan concluded, in a rush of
whispered words that almost fell over each other,

    `Do you have to get so much blood over the sheets?  You can't
imagine how hard that stuff is to clean!'  Kulyar's smile widened
again, threatening to become a grin.

    `Can't i?'  He spotted Tryssa at the hall's entrance, and
continued, `Perhaps you should take it up with my Mistress.  It's her
doing, after all.'  Pengan seemed mystified for a moment, until
Tryssa whacked the table with her riding crop, a finger's-width from
Pengan's clasped hands, making him jump up and fall backwards over
his chair.  She smiled coldly as the terrified Human scrambled out
from underneath the chair and scurried from the hall.  She gestured
to Kulyar, who rose from his seat, wiping his hands on the front of
his tunic.  Tryssa regarded this ruefully.

    `Pig.' she accused.  He bowed, grinning, and corrected her:

    `Troll.'  She allowed this minor infraction of manners to go
unpunished, and they left.


[to be concluded]

Dac
--
dac@prolix.apana.org.au              David Andrew Clayton.           // _| _  _
dac@prolix.sserve.cc.adfa.oz.au      Canberra, Australia           \X/ (_](_](_
                    <Using ARN on an Amiga 4000. Yay!>
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