From: dac@prolix.apana.org.au (Andrew Clayton)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Tryssa's Troll 
Date: Sun, 13 Dec 1992 10:29:42 GMT
 <1992Dec4.194844.25818@netcom.com>
Organization: More like Dis~, really.
X-Newsreader: Arn V1.00 beta rel2

In article <1992Dec4.194844.25818@netcom.com>, richh writes:

> It's true, DAC.  I concede.

Oh, come on, reiterate your stories of the past, stop being an
eructing hothead of uncontrolled passionate hatred!

You seem to be overheated, Rych. 

Here, I'm feeling generous, I'll post some non-dac stuff that I
think you'll appreciate.

Original posting information:

   From: nikolai kingsley                          LTUAE 
   To:   Phillip Warrell                           Msg #104, 09 Nov 92  17:29:53
   Subj: Re: fair play for trolls

PW> <"I hate trolls" tm: Willow>

i think trolls have been terribly misrepresented:

    Tryssa's Troll
    --------------

    Chapter 1

    Things had not been going well for the Trolls.


    Encouraged with their most recent victory over the Humans, they had
begun an ambitious program of expansion in all directions (except north,
which would have taken them directly into the sea, and they weren't -that-
stupid), sweeping over territory previously held by Humans and Halflings, until 
they edged onto an area held by the Elves.  Here, they more than met their
match; having provoked their opponents into a vicious frenzy, they found
that they had bitten off a great deal more than they could chew.  In fact,
the Trolls soon had their new-founded empire divided cleanly down the middle 
in retaliation; the Elves then made a right-hand turn and proceeded to
ransack the Trolls' castles and strongholds, taking thousands of prisoners...


    Kulyar, former Captain of the Westmarch Trolls' "Bent Sword" Battalion,
sat crouched in one corner of his filthy cell and morosely fingered the
rough iron collar that had been fastened around his broad neck two months
ago.  The chains were rusted solid in places, as he tended not to move about h
is cell much.  His former Troll associates had once considered him unusually
fastidious (for a Troll, that is); the filthy conditions of his cell were
merely a gesture of hospitality by his Elven captors, who had assumed
that he would prefer his quarters like that.  Unfortunately, the only
Elvish a 
Troll Captain had been required to know was `Drop your weapon' and `Bend
over', or he would have asked for better accommodation.

    He didn't know even approximately where he was being held... he had
spent almost two weeks stuffed in the back of a covered wagon with three
dozen other Trolls in varying states of injury, some of whom had died
on the journey (surprising for a hardy species like the Trolls, who, while being easy
 to wound due to their slow reactions, are quite hard to finish off).
 When they reached their destination, they had been herded, along with
hundreds of other Trolls, into the dungeons.  Occasionally, one or another
of the captives would make a break for it, only to end up with the shaft
of a long b
lack arrow through his throat.

    The captives had then been rudely (rude for Elves, that is) shoved
into the cells at random.  Some cells had a single occupant and others,
up to a dozen evil-tempered Trolls, crammed in on top of each other. 
Kulyar had been sharing his cell with two others that he had never met
before, from the
 northern marches; one had died from his injuries within two days, and
the Elves had, shortly afterwards, taken the other away, for no apparent reason.

    `I'll bet they don't treat the Humans like this.' he muttered sourly,
scratching a sore spot underneath the collar, which had loosened appreciably
during his stay.  The sound of bowls being rattled against cell-bars drew
his attention momentarily.  `Oh great. dinner-time... I wonder if it's goin
g to be rat again...'  A shadow fell across the tiny barred window set
into the massive cell door, and he heard faint lisping cadences of Elven
speech, though he couldn't understand them.  The shadow moved, and then
came the unfamiliar sound of the bolts being worked on the other side.
 He sat there
, stunned, as the door creaked open, admitting two wary Elves, armed with
short (and very sharp) swords.  One of them menaced the Troll with his
weapon while the other used a chisel and a small mallet to break the chain
that had held him to within three metres of the wall.  This Elf took up
the end 
of the chain and dragged it towards the door.  Kulyar simply sat there
while the Elves tried, unsuccessfully, to shift him.  He kept it up for
just as long as he thought he could get away with, suppressing a grin;
when he thought that they were about to go for their weapons in earnest,
he lumbered t
o his feet and stood, towering over them by almost a metre.  They tugged
on the chain and he followed them.

    They led him along dark corridors, past hundreds of cells filled with
Trolls and other, less immediately identifiable species.  He was then
prodded up a long staircase, the steps of which were too small for his
large Troll feet, forcing him to proceed, uncomfortably, on the tips of
his toes.  Af
ter another twenty minutes of corridors followed by staircases and rooms
and more corridors, he was hopelessly lost, and gave up trying memorise
his path.  They stopped outside an ornately-decorated door, high up in
one of the Keep's towers.  One of the Elves ran his hand down the side
of the door, 
which somehow signalled their presence to whoever had summoned them.

    It was dark inside, and while a Troll's eyes can adjust to the dark,
they aren't as adaptable as an Elf's; for a few moments he simply stood
there, waiting with Trollish stoicism.  He could hear the rustling of
cloth nearby, and then he heard a soft, feminine voice speaking in Elvish.
 As he tur
ned towards her voice, someone clubbed him over the back of the head,
causing him to blink.  When he opened his eyes again, the light levels
had risen considerably, affording him a view of the room and its occupants.

    There were the two Elven guards, standing on either side of the doorway,
wielding clubs.  Comfortably sprawled on something that was far too ornate
for a chair and yet too functional for a throne was a beautiful Elven
female, dressed in a simple white dress.  Behind the chair stood an Elven capt
ain, with long, lank brown hair and steel- grey eyes; he projected a proprietary
air with regard to the Elven princess.  He also held a club and glared
at Kulyar with obvious distaste.

    She stood, the dress flowing around her like cobwebs in a breeze;
Kulyar noted the way it outlined her slim form.  Her silver-blonde hair
floated around her beautiful face like a sorcerer's aura.  The captain
had observed the cast of the Troll's attention and glanced at the guards,
his eyes flas
hing with anger.  One guard clubbed him as the other kicked him in the
back of his knees, forcing him down. They dragged him to his feet again
and he decided not to risk another glance at the female Elf, much as he wanted to.

    She saw a Troll, standing about two and a half metres tall, about
a metre and a half across at the shoulders, and massing about one hundred
and thirty kilos.  He had roughly-shorn hair, of a shade that was peculiarly
light for a Troll - somewhere between the colour of sanded pine and freshly-cut
 slate; heavy eyebrows (slightly darker than the unruly thatch that covered
his head) seated on his wide brow.  He was dressed in crudely worked and
poorly-cured leather, with heavy black boots covering his large feet.
 Two outsize fangs mounted in his prognathous lower jaw indented his upper lip, a
nd his grimy fingernails were almost three centimetres long.  His height
gave him a certain brutal presence, but he seemed to lack the blunt, monomaniacal
stupidity that characterised his race.  She detected the faint odour of
the underground caverns that the Trolls frequented, the scent of earth th
at had lain unturned for millennia.  Despite his obvious shortcomings
and his characteristic Troll ugliness, she (as always) wondered what sort
of a bed-partner he would make, immediately dismissing the idea as ludicrous.

    She spoke, using the Common tongue, and for a moment, Kulyar was entranced
by the sound of her voice; she had to repeat herself before he understood her words:

    `You are going to be my slave.  Your duties will include cleaning
the floors, fetching my meals, moving furniture and anything else too
heavy for the Elven servants.  Do you understand?'  He looked up at her
sullenly, waited until he sensed that the captain was about to order the
guards to hit h
im again and muttered,

    `I hear you.' The captain strode over to stand just behind the Troll
and hit him on the side of his head, a blow that would have broken the
neck of an Elf or a Human; it merely jarred Kulyar slightly, who exhaled
evenly.  The captain struck again and again, harder each time; Kulyar
took it all i
n his stride.  He slowly turned to face the captain, whose face was beginning
to turn red with exertion.  `Do you mind? If I'm going to be tickled,
I'd rather she did it.'  The captain's eyes narrowed with fury, and the
two guards stopped breathing.  It was a bad move, but Kulyar then grinned at the
 captain, who merely motioned to the two guards and spoke tersely in Elvish.
 They tugged on the chain, and after a pause which established that they
couldn't shift him without his cooperation, he allowed them to lead him away.

    He was taken to a rectangular hole in the stone floor of the dungeons,
approximately one and a half metres square.  They joined a longer segment
of chain to the length attached to his collar and pushed him into the
shaft; he had just enough time to grab hold of the chain before he fell.
 He slow
ed his descent by pushing his hands and knees out against the slick walls;
when he hit bottom, his feet crunched down onto bones.  There wasn't enough
room to move his arms down to his sides, so he stood there, arms stretched
out above his head, staring up the shaft at the two faces that peered down
 at him before departing.  He stayed there for six days, without food or water.


    After this period, the faces reappeared at the top of the shaft. Kulyar
had his eyes closed in a state similar to hibernation, but awoke when
the Elves began dragging him up by the chain.  He grabbed hold of his
end with what little remained of his strength before the collar could
choke him.  He
 didn't have the strength to stand when they finally hauled him out, so
they had to press a gang of ragged Human prisoners into service, dragging
the Troll over the stone flags, up the stairs, to the Elven Princess'
room.  Before they entered, a guard threw a bucket of water over him.
 Kulyar manage
d to catch some of it in his mouth.

    She was there, seated on her throne; it was as if she hadn't moved
since he last saw her.  The guards managed, with a great deal of straining,
to haul him to his feet.  He opened his eyes in a manner that conveyed
the immense effort that the act required, and stared insolently at her.
 She spoke
 to the guards in Elvish; one of them began to protest, and she cut him
off curtly.  They dropped Kulyar's chain and left the room.  Kulyar could
sense them just outside the door, waiting for an excuse to rush in and
kill him. Thankfully, the lanky Elven captain wasn't present.

    She spoke, again in the Common language:  `My name is Tryssa.  My
father is the King of the Elves.'  She waited for his response, which
took Kulyar about ten seconds to formulate; a jaw-cracking yawn.  Her
eyes narrowed in anger, and she gestured with her left hand, touching
her thumb to her ind
ex, middle and ring fingers successively and them pointing her little
finger at Kulyar.  He was struck by an agonising pain in the back of his
head, a searing fire which wormed its way forward, threatening to split
his skull, driving him to his knees.  A moan of distress forced its way
past his clen
ched teeth as he felt his spinal cord being tugged from the back of his
brain; then, just as suddenly as it came, the pain was gone.  He crouched
there, sweat dripping from the end of his nose, panting with exertion;
when he dared to look up again, she was regarding him with a small smile. She twitc
hed her left hand slightly, and he cringed back, chains rattling as he
backed into the door.  Her smile spread.  She gestured that he should
come closer, and he did so.

    `Obey me.' she said simply.

    That is how he became her slave.

==============

Just yell if you want to see the other parts. It gets steadily
more pornographic.

Dac
--
dac@prolix.apana.org.au              David Andrew Clayton.           // _| _  _
dac@prolix.sserve.cc.adfa.oz.au      Canberra, Australia           \X/ (_](_](_

p.s. I *do* hope your life heals itself from it's current welts and
     bruises.
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre