Archive of Our Own

As it turned out, Fyve was about as sleep-deprived as I’wilo. I’wilo would have preferred to light a fire, but Fyve’s hair smelled flammable. I’wilo tugged his big hood down over his face, so that only his nose and stumps peeked out. His half-ear twitched a few times; regeneration was itchy business. He dropped his chin on his knees, and he rested his eyes.

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I’wilo snorted awake to a metallic clatter. He yanked his hood back and looked about. His head snapped around, ear-and-a-half perked toward the hidden chamber.

“DAMMET! Piece ob SHIT!” There was a crash, a crunch, and a low growl. Fyve rounded the corner, still shirtless, carrying a very old-looking broken lantern in one hand, and an unlit candle in the other. Fyve lifted his tusks at I’wilo as he limped right by. His heel left bloody crescents on the floor. Fyve winged the ruined lantern out of the cave, turned back, and approached I’wilo with the candle.

I’wilo put one hand on the floor and rocked up to a crouch. He kept his gaze only half-averted, and his stumps level. Fyve slowed and stared at I’wilo, while I’wilo waited to see how Fyve would receive the change. Fyve grabbed his own tusk, squeezed it a few times— I’wilo suspected the tusk thing helped Fyve to think. Fyve let go his tusk. “Ligh diss tin.” He lobbed the candle. I’wilo caught it.

Fyve sat on the floor and picked up his bleeding foot. When I’wilo rose to go and get his Zippy™, Fyve growled briefly. I’wilo stood and waited until Fyve went back to examining the foot. While I’wilo lit the candle, Fyve rolled over onto his side.

I’wilo returned with the candle, and watched, as Fyve struggled to haul his leg over his own overlong tusk. I’wilo quirked his brow when Fyve somehow succeeded. Thus contorted, Fyve scraped his incisors across the bottom of his heel— his ears flicked each time he scraped past the oozing point of entry, until, finally, he caught the leading edge of the shard in his teeth. Fyve drew a shockingly long glass shard from his foot. He tossed it at the dead fire. He looked at I’wilo. “Oh, good. Ya may fire.”

I’wilo nodded and lifted the candle. He had, indeed made fire.

When Fyve got to his feet, I’wilo stayed at about neutral height, a relaxed posture, nothing raised or squared. They studied each other sideways, and Fyve huffed and grumbled a bit, but I’wilo offered no reaction. Fyve turned his head to stare at I’wilo dead-on… “Hokay.” Fyve walked around I’wilo, while keeping his oily flammable hair from the flame. “Treasures,” Fyve stated. And Fyve disappeared around the corner, into the hidden chamber of the cave.

I’wilo fetched a quiet sigh, held up the candle, and followed Fyve into blackness…

“AH—“ I’wilo jerked back, as Fyve sprung into existence right in front of I’wilo’s face, holding a golden candelabra. I’wilo’s brow dropped and he frowned in clear disdain.

“Hnn-hnn-hnn-hnn-hnn.” Fyve responded with his low, hellish murder-chuckle. He stepped back and held the candelabra toward I’wilo. I’wilo lit each of the five candles. Fyve grinned and spun around to place the candelabra on the square wooden table that dominated the center of the chamber. The table was a sawn-off portion of a longer table of Vrykul make. The candelabra winked and shined among an arrangement of polished skulls: elf, tuskar, ice troll, tuskar, human. The skulls were decorated with jewelry. There were gems crammed into eye-sockets, and earrings held in place by what appeared to be wood screws.

The rest of the sawn-off Vrykul table stood against the back wall of the chamber, and was covered with assorted objects, as was the floor. Beneath the table were five buckets, all overflowing with an assortment of coins. The buckets were surrounded by am army of shoes, all in pairs; they were all small, likely of human and elven make.

…..

So, Fyve shows Wheel all of his shit. Gold shit. No touch. It’s mine. I found it. You cannot take it. Tiny shoe. No touch. Mine. No take. Little box. No touch. Mine. Flask collection. Mine. Small bottles different colors. Mine. Weapons and weapons and weapons and weapons and weapons, mine. Candle… tree shiny shits, mine. Candles, mine. Dead animals on piece of wood that got glass eye and smell like wood, mine. Emeralds, mine. Rubies, mine. Titaniums, mine. Forks, mine. Screwdriver collection, mine. Gnomish whatever-the-fuck-these-things… mine. Torn drums, mine. Torn horns, mine. So many finger rings from so many chopped off fingers, mine. Busted off tusk from enemies, mine. Silver hair brush, mine. Tiny brush for on teeth, mine. Small mirrors with the mirror part busted out because it pisses me off, mine. Busted off tusk from not-enemy, mine, because it made it the right number. Picture books of bombs and naked wom— Fyve does not know how that got there. The rest of it, mine. All of it, mine. I found it. I own it. You cannot take it. I’m not for sharing.

And then Wheel does not have to die. Wheel does not have to die for taking Fyve’s shit. Wheel would not take Fyve’s shit. Wheel knows Fyve owns it. Fyve owns everything. Nobody could take it from him. Fyve owns Fyve’s name. Fyve owns his own self. Fyve owns at least five of fucking every thing. Fyve owns his fucking tusks that get in the fucking way. Nobody could take his tusks. Nobody could take his fucking tusks. FUCKYOU YA CANNOT TAKE FY— Oh, right. Wheel does not have to die, because Wheel knows about Fyve’s shit. Wheel knows the rules. Ok good.

…..

As Fyve showed off his collection of collections, the brother actually started hitching and rumbling. It was easily the strangest purr that I’wilo had ever heard, and he’d once heard Larizu rumble while dry-puking at the wall (which had been so sad that I’wilo had actually cried a little; Wil could cry sometime). Fyve’s purr was strange in that Fyve made a sound over it. It went: HnnnNnnnNnnnNnnnNnnnNnnn, and the humming might even have been strangely endearing, were Fyve not a skull-collecting unapologetic murderous feral beemit… bahi… (like Ri would call it; big-big big) straight out of Larizu’s wake-up-screaming nightmares, that was bent on drowning Larizu in stinky oil, or perhaps even stabbing Larizu’s ass in half.

It occurred to I’wilo that Fyve was lonely. He thought it a shame, and genuinely hoped that Fyve wouldn’t stay that way forever. I’wilo remembered how Larizu had called him a blood-drinking cannibal savage (brushing against that thought was like poking at a knife lodged in his own heart), and it almost seemed humorous (more like mildly devastating— six of one; half-dozen of other), because I’wilo did hope that Fyve would find himself a nice bloodthirsty savage to talk to, or perhaps make noises at, and to probably never touch each other.

Then again, Larizu was ostensibly not into touching, and sometimes Larizu slept on Wil as though he would crawl inside of Wil’s heart, if he could only find a window.

At the very least, I’wilo hoped that Fyve would find someone to collect and count things with. Probably best if they didn’t breed, though.

Fyve held up a decorated skull for I’wilo’s approval. I’wilo crossed his arms and nodded. He spoke as slowly, and as clearly as he could, which he always tried to do, but sometimes one needed to say things in a hurry, or one was tired. And it could be especially difficult, when one thought in one language, and spoke in another, and when the second language was a bit quick, shallow and jagged, whereas one’s mouth was designed for deep, round-speaking, and so the second language didn’t fit in one’s mouth very well... At any rate, I’wilo did his best to speak extra-very clearly, for Fyve: “Daht’s real nice, Fyve. Daht’s yoah’s. Wil cahn’t take it. Wil ain’t foah takin’ daht.”

“Aye. Dass Fy.” Fyve nodded and put it back.

So, they were kind of communicating.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They sat on the floor, back to back.

The door was locked and bolted, the shutters latched.

The plate with its little squares of bread, and its flat circles of chicken, rested near the bed. A few feet back from the plate, sat Larizu. A few feet back from Larizu, sat Zena. He watched the plate, and she watched the door.

“Can’t believe I’m doin’ dis.”

“Okay. Hey. Um…” Zena frowned and shook her head. “What I said before, about trading. It was stupid. We can do that any time, I mean… not ANY time, but, you know what I mean. No trade. Just friends. Buddies… Pals. I’d be superrr cool with that. No pressure. Ever.” She grinned awkwardly. “I wish you could see how awkward I am right now. Contrary to popular belief… I’m not alwaaays one-hundred percent cool. It’s more like… ninety-nine.” She chewed her upper lip and started at the ceiling.

“Oh, I can hear di awkward. Ya fuckin’ dork.”

“Yeahahahaha!”

Larizu snorted. He rolled his eye and sighed down at the plate. “I got da chicken, because I don’t want to be a person dat’s afraid o’ fuckin’ chicken. It’s fucked up. It a different kind o’ fucked up den a lot of di mountain o’ shit dat is fucked up wit me. Da food ting… it be its own fuckin’ mountain.”

“Yeah, I get that…” Zena shook her head. “Uh-uh, no, actually. That’s not fair. No, I don’t. I don’t get it… I wanna say it right. Larizu?”

“Hm?”

“It would be fucked-up for me to pretend that I know what this is. So, I just want to let you know that I don’t think I understand. I might never understand. I’m here. I believe in it, and I don’t think it’s something you’re doing. And, if it issomething you’re doing, I don’t think you started it. I hate that it’s happening. Aaaand that’s my whole speech.”

Larizu took a deep breath. Then another. Then he was silent for nearly a minute. “… Tank you. I appreciate dat, Zena. A lot, actually.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, so I’m gonna do di fuckin’… I’m gonna try, now.”

“Okay.” Zena said quietly. Her heart raced. “I’m here.”

“I don’t know how ‘here’ I’m gonna be. Here fuckin’ goes.”

The sound of the plate dragging across the floor was deafening. Zena leaned forward and pressed her teeth against her knuckles, and she listened.

She listened when he was silent, to the silence. She listened to the quiet tap of his glasses, as he laid them aside on the floor.

She listened when he moved around… The sound of his nails sliding and scrabbling for purchase on the floor, as he tried to position himself… When he started growling, quiet at first, then louder… When he began to snarl, and he poured everything he had into being as dangerous and as terrifying as possible… When he succeeded and was dangerous and terrifying, like something huge, fierce, and wounded.

She listened when he attacked the plate, and started choking food down, coughing, as he growled through food… As he growled around food while swallowing, and half-coughed it out, and swallowed it again… As he accidentally knocked the plate away, crawled after it, and dragged it back… As he turned around and paused, to stare at her.

She held very still, and she listened, as he huffed and snarled at the back of her head… As he went silent, likely with ears perked for the slightest sound from her, likely to squint at her with his head cocked, maybe with the roots of his tusks showing around his bared teeth.

She listened when he turned away and sat and his snarling slowed, became quiet growls, trailed off into heavy breathing. Heavy breathing gave way to shuddering sighs, then a stingy, thick-throated purr that had nothing to do with contentment. She listened as he comforted himself with his own sound as best he could.

She listened well after Larizu had ended his meal in the same way that he had started it: in silence.

“Zena,” he croaked.

“I’m here, Larizu.”

“I’m gonna smoke in a little bit.”

“Sounds good.”

“I don’t tink you’re gonna tell me I did a good job, or some shit like dat, but I want ta ask ya not to.”

“That’s fair.”

“After I smoke, let’s go to Taurentown. Show ya where I got di bag.”

“I thought your shopping tolerance was tapped?”

“It different.”

“Want me to roll something?”

“No. Don’t move for a bit. Let me move first.”

“Okay.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Once Wheel knows all about don’t-come-back-and-take-Fyve’s-shit, it is time to go hunt. Sleep is over. Show things is over. Rules is over. Time to fucking kill because fuck you.

Plus, Wheel is fuck around a little bit, get big tall. Let’s not get crazy, Wheel. So, time for Wheel to see a lot of fast Fyve. Lot of fucking blood. Fuck you. Blood everywhere. Drink blood. Eat the good parts.

Fyve goes to out of treasure cave, in of cave cave cave cave cave. “Cabe, aye.” Fyve says. Because fucking mushmouth. “Ony iss da thock datcounst.” Thought is more important than word, probably. Fuck words. “Emnofer worrs.” Fyve is thinking about killing. Killing gets the angry off him, like tinkering, only less materials. “Gadda gehmoor fuckin mats.” Fyve is in the cave and Wheel is in the cave because Wheel follows like a dog. Wheel is like a dog. Fyve does not have a dog he keeps anywhere in Dalaran. “Dass nah my dog.” Fyve squeezes his tusk and Fyve looks at Wheel and Fyve says, “Ya jes’ lie golding retreeber.” And Wheel just turns his head a little stupid just like golding retriever too. Speak fucking Orcish with your ear, Wheel. Fyve takes out his daggers so nice to show Wheel. “Dis Fy. Ya canna take. Is cutsim maked.” Custom good balance. Good blade. Good weight. Fyve makes his daggers spin so Wheel could see. Fyve make his daggers to point outside. Wheel look outside. Wheel look to Fyve. Fyve make his daggers point to Wheel’s shit. Wheel points to Wheel’s shit and nod-nod, nod-nod with big eyes like ask question. Wheel always make like big eyes sad eyes for no reason. Maybe sad from choptusk. Maybe sad from be dog. “Aye,” Fyve says. So Wheel gets big bastard bow big arrow big bag. Time for kill. Follow Fyve, Wheel you fucking dog.

In the outside snow Fyve says, “Arrigh stay righdere.” And Wheel stay because fucking golding retriever. Fyve goes invisible for a good surprise.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Once Larizu had changed into a cleanish sarong (and winged the chicken sarong out the back window), they headed out. Zena had made good use of a new blue backup comb, and thus ditched the blue head rag. They were doing a zeppelin thing.

“Wil won’t get on it. Di zeppelin.”

Zena looked at Larizu, as Larizu looked up at the incoming zeppelin. She resisted the urge to pet down his hackles in public. His posture was stiff after having eaten. It was subtle. The hackle thing looked to be about the zeppelin, though.

“Da tings make me nervous. But I’wilo.” Larizu shrugged. “Dat behemot’ muddafucker sink like a rock, and I seen his dumb ass wade in water over his own fuckin’ head, just for di joy o’…” Larizu shook his head. “Fuckin’ drownin’, I guess. Drownin’ fetishist.” Larizu nodded up at the zeppelin and let Zena step on first. He narrowed his eye when she paid their fare ahead of him, and let it go. He’d get the Asshole Tax on the way back. They stood near the front, and the thing was blessedly not crowded. She gripped the rail and peered over, and she smiled at the distant ground when Larizu put his hand over hers. He craned his head around to watch her, then looked over the side himself. Fuck flying, though.

“Tink flyin’ might be di only ting dat scare him. He get mildly freaked from portals, cause he ‘a little afraid it drop Wil from sky’.” Larizu snorted. “He tinks dat portals carry ya physically troo space, as di crow fly. Di concept dat it might be sometin’ else— I don’t fuck wit magic, but I believe in it. He can’t allow for di concept to exist. It too far outside his ken. If it ain’t Loa a’tiik, eart’ or spirit, he just… can’t (Bless all o’ ya names.) So, he tink portals be impossibly fast fuckin’ flyin’, and he don’t fly-fly cause it be too slow and he don’t wanna see it.” Larizu grinned. “ It a little satisfyin’, to see him so scared shitless of sometin’ dat he won’t fuckin’ try it.”

Zena looked at Larizu. “He’s never been to Thunder Bluff?”

“He run. I watched him do it a couple o’ time. From above. He like runnin’ in general. Takes extended huntin’ trips so he can run around da forest and intimidate fuckin’ boars n’ shit. Takes his ‘shiny’ out n’ sheds his ‘pretty’ to run around like a fuckin’ savage.” Larizu sighed. “Loa, he better fuckin’ resurrect soon or I’m gonna lose it. (Bless. Bless all o’ ya names.)”

“You put him on your blind side?”

“He got my back. I can feel ya smilin’, Tro’ho.”

“We’ve got each other’s back.”

“I wouldn’t want me at my back. Wish ya could fuckin smoke on dis ting.”

“I like the white.”

Larizu sighed and rolled his eye. “Ya like ugly in general, cause ya a general ugliness fetishist. I tink ya just like a lot o’ tings, and ya walk around smilin’ cause di whole world just fuckin’ likable to ya. Smiley-ass fuckin’… smile fetishist.”

“Guess if I’m smiling.”

“Mhm. Smilin’ up at my creepy-ass eye.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. Just weird.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wheel got a real big eye loose face frown face when Fyve did bring down his machine. Custom ride. So fast. So big. So noisy. Get on this shit Wheel. Fyve takes a smalldrink to keep off the bad sounds. Fyve put away his flask he found it nobody can take it. Fyve get offs from machine. Fyve points on machine. Wheel get in you fucking follow dog son of bitch. Time for kill.

Wheel says, “Sheet sheet dahh meet you.” Fucking Torn talking dog.  Wheel nods. Wheel frowns. Wheel shakes his head. Wheel points big bastard bow to snow. Fyve grins. Fyve shakes his own head. Fyve pats flying machine. Fyve made it. Big custom. Carry big machines, big treasure, big fucking bombs, big boulders. Big troll? No problem. Fyve explains all of it: “Geddinit ya dumb son ob bitch.”

“Low ahh meegahh nahh die.”

“Aye,” Fyve chuckles. “Die.” He pat-pat-pats the machine and Wheel has big eye. Wheel shake and shake. Wheel looks for piss his pants. Wheel looks like for puking. Wheel holds own hair. Wheel whimper mostly quiet like Torn… only if Torn whimper. Who fucking knows? Wheel gets in like a follow dog haha.

“Ree zoo mee so sahh ree.”

…..

In the end, I’wilo really had no choice, did he? Assuming Fyve’s flying machine didn’t just crash (please, please no) and burn, the thing would get Fyve back to Orgrimmar a minimum of 250% faster than I’wilo could ever hope to travel. So he sent up a little prayer for himself, and for Rizu. Zena would be good with Ri. She could care for him like a good friend and tro’ho, figure out how to feed him some, maybe keep him clean. Let him smell her stuff. Remind him to clean his glass eye from time to time. Shit. Shit. This sucky-sucked so fucking bad.

And Wil said, “Nnguff. Ah’m gonnah be sick.”

And, “Oop. Nono. Nono. Don’t look down, broddah.”

And, “M’ent like dis one bit.”

And, “Fahk fahk shit shit nooo.”

And, “Tree! TREE! MIND TREE!”

And “Hwhy me even ahp heah.”

And, “Dis di wahst ting. DI wahst ting.”

And, “Loa Ah’m freakin’ out dis got me all fahk’d up. It way up heah’n me cahn’t get ahway.”

And, “Fyve-broddah, is— is it s’pose to make daht sound?”

Also, “GAAAAAH! NONONONONO FYVE! FYVE DAHMEET NO!” which referred to the five seconds during which Fyve decided that they should vanish, in order to get a better view of everything-all-at-once-from-up-here.

…..

“Hnn-hnn-hnn-hnn-hnn- ha-ha-ha-ha-HA!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thunder Bluff was different. When they landed, Larizu took her hand and lead the way. “It dis way.”

Against a sunset backdrop, they disembarked into a quiet little uncrowded world, with muted colors and monotonous buildings. Though the people were big, Larizu wasn’t inclined to shrink or even twitch away from them when they moved.

Larizu was different in Thunder Bluff, which is to say, he was like a hybrid between outdoors-Larizu and smokin’-inside-Larizu. He didn’t shuffle, and he didn’t speed past people with his head down. He walked with her on his seeing side, and he glanced at her from time to time, and she would smile at him, and he would look ahead.

Zena said, “They’re not intimidating.”

Larizu looked around and down. He mumbled, “Dey like trees or sometin’. Dey quiet. I don’t know.” And that was the whole conversation about the tauren race. Larizu lead them around a corner and past some open shop tents, each marked with Taurahe signs that neither of them could read. The last tent on the left had a picture of a trollweed leaf instead of symbols. And in Orcish, it said, “Weed n’ Stuff.” Funnily enough, Larizu became outdoors-Larizu as soon as they stepped inside.

Zena didn’t have to ponder the change for very long, as there were many colors, and one side of the tent was crowded. A group of night elves and one troll sat in a circle on a rug comprised of scattered and overlapping Taurahe rugs and a few grass mats. All of them were male, but for one very tall female night elf with long blue hair and dark purple skin, who wore only a rainbow batik skirt and an abundance of multicolor glass bead necklaces. She sat next to a troll brother with pink and lavender braids, who held a tauren peace-pipe. The troll lit the pipe with a grill lighter, and the night elf took a long pull of skunky potent trollweed, by the smell of it. The troll moved the pipe out of the way, and the topless night elf woman leaned forward as several in the circle raised their hands. She pointed at one night elf man who was also shirtless (most of them were shirtless), and had long hair (all of them had long hair). He crawled across the circle and he smoked from her face, as Larizu would have it.

Larizu was having none of it. He turned toward the other side of the tent, which was covered in a wonderful selection of hand-dyed tapestries in every color and every combination. There were a couple of long wooden tables along the tent wall, one of which held tall jars with incense sticks, and short ones filled with cones. Incense holders were displayed alongside a good selection of pipes. There were hookahs and bongs on the floor under the tables. A wooden cabinet with wire-front double doors held dozens of mason jars that were painted over black and had hand-writing on the lids. A hand-painted sign on top of the cabinet stated, simply: BUD

The other table was covered in bags like Larizu’s. Zena’s eye was drawn to one that was a black-over-violet batik pattern.

“Cool.” Even though Zena had spoken quietly, Larizu ducked his head and raised his shoulders. “What?” Asked Zena. Larizu just shook his head.

“Woah… It’s Lorry-zuh.”

Zena turned to regard the speaker, and Lorry-zuh did not. Zena smiled at the elves, as it wasn’t clear which one had spoken. They were all looking at both Zena and Larizu expectantly.

“Tot you assholes don’t meet on Fridays no more. Who da damn proprietor today?” Larizu spoke to the table full of stuff, as his hackles addressed the crowd.

“The proprietor is transitory.”

Larizu rolled his eye. “Dat ya latest five-silver word?”

“Words should be free, man. Just like love.”

“Zena, how about dis one?” Larizu held up a pink tie-dye bag. “It… bag.” He tried to smile, and gave up. “Don’t… don’t fuckin’ look at dem. It activate dem.”

Before Zena could respond, the troll with the braids raised the pipe in their direction. “Zena, mon. It speak ya name.”

“Dude…” An elf dude next to the troll looked up with an expression of melancholic awe. “It speaks… her name. Right?” Everyone in the circle appeared to agree.

Zena grinned and leaned over to catch Larizu’s eye. “It’s speaking my name.”

“Loa… (bless all o’ ya names).” Larizu sighed and turned with his head down to shuffle over toward the circle. He stayed back a few feet. “I ain’t sittin’ wit ya muddafuckers. Let her smoke ya fuckin’ face and den someone better transition or I’m shopliftin’ dis shit.”

“He’s so wise,” said the melancholy elf-dude, who had a tree painted on his chest.

“Wise,” the troll agreed.

Larizu crossed his arms tightly and gave Zena a pained look. “Just do it.”

Zena patted Larizu on the shoulder. He shook his head and frowned at the floor. She went to the circle, and the circle parted to accept her. Zena knelt, and she was beside herself with smiling. “So… how do I do this?”

The troll answered, “I light dis. She suck it. Raise ya hand. She point. Ya crawl over. Just feel it out; it speak ya name.”

The circle nodded, as this was profound. Larizu snorted, as the profundity was lost all over him.

An elf with long blue hair and a green star painted on his forehead reached out to touch Zena’s hair. “I can’t believe he, like, hangs out with you. He only hangs out with Wil and Brekk and Luanne. Except Luanne, like, only hangs with Luanne.”

“I don’t hang out wit dat retarded fuckin’ cow,” Larizu grumbled. “Stop sayin’ ‘like’.”

“You know he’s, like, some kind of genius, right? Have you heard him say stuff? Lorry-zuh’s, like, a planet, man. He’s, like, a solar system. With a glass eye.”

Larizu shook his head and rolled his eye skyward. “Loa—“

“Bless all of your names, man.”

“Like, Bless.”

“All of your names. Bless.”

“Bless you, brothers and sisters.”

Blessings went around the circle, twice.

“(Bless all o’ ya names) Smoke da fuckin’ face!” Larizu raised and dropped his hands.

The circle chanted about smoking face, as the troll with the braids lit the peace pipe for the elf with the necklaces. Zena piped up, “Just a little one, please.”

“She got a small head,” Larizu explained, forgetting for a moment to be irate.

Everyone watched, even Larizu, as the necklace elf took a hit and pointed at Zena. Zena crawled forward and smoked her face. Necklace elf took off one of her multicolored bead necklaces, and dropped it over Zena’s head. Several elf dudes reached out to touch Zena’s hair as she nodded her thanks at the necklace elf, whose face she had smoked, and shimmied back to her spot in the circle.

“Lorry-zuh, could you, like, say stuff?”

Larizu, who was watching Zena smoke face, shook his head and looked at the elf with the star on his forehead, whose name was Star that week. “Hmm?” Larizu shook his head and remembered to scowl. “Ya ruined it! It be Larizu, every fuckin’ time. It never change, so I ain’t got to paint it on my forehead.” Larizu spread his hands and looked all over the place. “What da fuck accent is it? Where da fuck ya even from, dat ya all got a retard accent and say ‘like’, like, every uddah word?” He pointed at titty-elf, because that was what she was called. “Ya ain’t even s’posed ta be here on fuckin’ Fridays. I come on Friday, cause I ain’t in da mood for ya transitory, free-lovin’, astral-projectin’, tie-dyin’, drum-circlin’, trim-smokin’, animal-rights activatin’ fuckin’ shit, because I ain’t never in da mood for ya fuckin’ shit.” Larizu shot up his flattened, trembling hand, to indicate his here-level. “I was up ta here wit ya fuckin’ shit when I woke up dis fuckin’ mornin’, just like every uddah mornin’, and it a Friday, and ya got no right ta be here on fuckin’ Friday. Wil is dead, and Mixxxi fuckin’ menstruatin’, and di mudderfuckin’ tread all out o’ order behind a wall o’ useless fuckin’ floaty-balls. I’m puttin’… Fuck dis. I’m puttin’ dis gold on dis fuckin’ table.” Larizu slapped a handful of coins on the table with the pipes. He marched over to the BUD cabinet, tore it open, and screwed the lid off of a jar. He dumped the jar out into his bag, and a bunch of shake dumped on the floor. He slammed the jar down on the table, and tossed the lid at the jar. “And I’m takin’ dis fuckin’ pipe, because it got blue stripe, and I want it.” Larizu snatched a white pipe with blue stripes, and shoved it in his blue bag. “And den she gonna take one or tree bags, and you gonna put ya tits away.” He pointed again at titty-elf. “Because it fffuckin’ Friday!” Larizu stormed toward the doorway with his ears back and his hackles half-up. He looked back at the circle. “I ate fuckin’ chicken circle—“ Larizu pressed his fist to his mouth and lurched, “G—!…” He dropped his fist and resumed his scowl. “… and dey weren’t fuckin’ free-range!” Larizu stalked out of the tent.

The elf with the tree on his chest began slow-clapping with tears streaming down his face.

Star raised his palms toward the ceiling. “Wil is the most transitory troll on this iteration of Azeroth. The man dies, like, ten times a year. Wil is, like, life, because he is death.”

“Wil is life.”

“Wil is life!”

“Stop it! Ya gonna kill him!” Larizu called from outside of the tent.

Titty-elf finally spoke, to say, “Lorry-zuh is the true savage wolf spirit. And he is the chicken. Within him, all creatures range free. It is through Lorry-zuh that I’wilo is resurrected, like ten times a year.”

From outside of the tent Larizu shouted, “Ya say his fuckin’ name right!”

“Zena. Any bro of Lorry-zuh Spirit is a part of the circle. Go in peace, sister. And bless all of your names.”

Zena stood and backed away from the circle, “Um, thanks. You guys are fucking amazing.” She ran and grabbed the purple batik bag. She waved it at them as she hurried out after Larizu.

“Amazing,” melancholic tree-elf half-sobbed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Fyve makes it land on big Basin the goddamn forest. His forest. Every forest is his forest but this shit is his fucking fuckyou most forest. Land right by his river. Kill anyone come in his shit. Gank! Fyve a ganker. “Aye, Fy ganker. Camp. Kill. Nhn.”

Wheel is not so big tall now cause he goes to the ground. Haha good one. Shaking. Shaking. Puke— That’s nasty. Fyve holds his own tusk. “Dass nassy Wheel.” Wheel drink up his canteens. Hold up canteen. Fyve can go fill this shit. Fyve goes to fill on his fucking river. He comebacks with water. “Hokay drindiss.” Wheel look mad haha. Wheel sit and drink and not shake and not puke. Okay good. Less funny, but more good for killing.

…..

Once he had himself in hand, I’wilo followed Fyve to the nearby river. He looked around at the surrounding jungle. Big birds with red and blue feathers cackled and busted open big nuts, dropping the shells to the ground below. A pair of little brown monkeys— just like the ones from Stranglethorn, only they had tufts of hair on top that reminded him of Larizu— sat upon a vine. Their little tails curled beneath them as counterweights, as they leaned forward to stare at the trolls.

I’wilo’s world had grown some more, as he’d never dreamed that his freezing white North might contain such a place with colors, and sand, and heat. He peeled off his jacket, squatted and opened his bag. Fyve watched as I’wilo packed away his furry jacket, all of his bracers, and pulled out some shorts. I’wilo rose and Fyve raised his tusks. I’wilo straightened and kept his stumps level, nodded up, then back to level. They stood maybe fifteen feet apart, both side-eyeing each other as I’wilo bobbed his chin insistently. Fyve didn’t start growling until I’wilo reached for his remaining skins: loincloth, leggings. I’wilo blew out his cheeks as he tugged at the tough laces. “Sahk it ahp.”

Fyve grunted and went to the river as I’wilo changed into his gray Zike™ shorts. I’wilo kept about twenty feet between them, as he walked downriver, squatted, and drank from his hands. He rinsed his mouth out and spit a few times. Turned out spicy jerky wasn’t as good coming up as it was going down. I’wilo put his head back and gargled, spit, bent, scooped more water and paused. Now there were fifteen feet between I’wilo and Fyve. I’wilo tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “AaAaaAaAaAaAaAaAaa…” Wil cracked his eyes open. Ten feet. He spit into the river, scooped. “AaAaaAaAaAaAaAaaaaa…” Five feet. Fyve had his hands behind his head, elbows and tusks forward as he stared down at I’wilo. I’wilo drank from his hands. Drinking was apparently less interesting, as Fyve rocked from one foot to the other, turned and slowly started back upriver. Ten feet. Fyve fumbled with the knot on the oily cord— a piece of black rubber hose, by the look of it— that held his hair. Fifteen. He rolled the cord up and shoved it in his trouser pocket, then lifted and dropped the daggers in their sheathes. Twenty. Fyve looked downriver, to where Wil squatted. Fyve shrugged. I’wilo shrugged. Fyve muttered something under his breath, and marched into the water while wearing his black trousers, and his weapons in his weapon belt.

…..

“Okay bye.” Fyve goes in his river. Wet pant better than no pant. He slips a little his foot. Stand more taller. Goddamn rock move. Slipfoot. “Owfuck.” Fyve backup the water shallow. Sitdown. Back of foot claw that shit hurts. Bleed. You bitch. Foot over tusk. Make sure Wheel see because Wheel makes funny face every time. All two time. Three four five… Fyve sticks back of foot nail claw to tongue. To tooth. Wiggly shit nail you fuck. “Khhffuckyou.” Fyve bite out nail. Spit. Ok good. It growback like blowupped hand or Wheel chop ear or fucking choptusk. Dog troll notusk. “Hnnhnnhnn,” Fyve hums a song about fuckyou my river. That’s what it means.

Fyve goes in his river maybe one half Fyve tall. Look at Wheel. Wheel looks. Drinkdog. Fyve puts under his head. Fucking special mix oil to hair. Should be to skirt troll hair. Fuck. Fyve comes up for some airs. Fuck this hair. Fyve goes down. See rocks down there. Foot. Fucking hair. Fucking oil. Disgusting. Come up for air. “Dissk— hhh-KAK!” Cough a bit water. Need soaps. Forgot hair soaps. Fucking hair. Fuuuuck. Up. Get some airs. Go down. Pull around hair. Get out get out get out this fucking special mix oil fuck you fuck disgusting fuck. Time for airs. Fyve up. Look around his goddamn eyes all water. Wheel by Wheel bag. Ok fine. Put under his head. Big oil problem his fucking hair. River clean this shit you fuck. Up. Where Wheel? “Hnh.” Fyve turnaround in his river. Oh Wheel up the water. By the water too. Shake hand around. What in hand? “Wuzzdat shhhhit?” No answer. Fuck you Wheel. Go under. Pull hair all over the place. Like snakes, Fyve’s hair. Oil snakes now. Snakes ruined. Maybe blow it up or something. Hairbomb. Cut it off and set on fire. Throw on bomb. Fucking hair. Time for airs. Wheel in Fyve’s river. Wheel making face like I-know-something face. Fuck that face. Wheel shake his own hand around. Wheel don’t know shit. What does Wheel know? Wheel hold up from hand his finger thumb finger. Tiny bottle. Fyve look on Wheel. “Hnn-nn.” Fyve goes under. Fucking hair. Oil snake. Fyve wishes for clean hair, then kill, in that order. Disgusting. Time for airs.

“AaAaaAaaAAaAaAaAaaAaAaaAaA…”

Hey what the fuck. Fyve looks. Sound. Fyve goes to Wheel. Sound stop. Fyve stop. Do it you fuck. Do it.

“AaaAAAaaaaAaaAaaaAAaAaaAaa…”

Fyve goes to Wheel. Sound. Sound. Sound. Sound. Sound. Do it. Do it you fuckdog.

“AaaAaAaaAAaaAAAaaaAAaaaaaaaa…”

Sound. Sound. Sound. Sound. Sound…

…..

I’wilo stood in water that half covered his tits, gargling, spitting, gargling, spitting as Fyve waded, paused, waded, paused. Fyve had his head tilted, his long ears perked, and the brother was just fascinated. I’wilo shook the bottle as he gargled for Fyve. Zena said shake well, and that the contents of one bottle would clean at least a couple of dozen average-sized big-cats (he really needed to explore that feeling— Not now). I’wilo sloooowly ducked and filled his mouth with water. He looked around, then back at Fyve, who was staring expectantly. I’wilo stayed down up to his neck. “AaaaaAaaAaAaAaaaaAaaaaa…”

Fyve waded closer. He got as close as his monster tusks would allow him to get without touching. Now for the tricky part. I’wilo paused to catch his breath. “Hey big broddah,” I’wilo breathed gently. He kept his gaze averted as he dipped down for some more water. Fyve’s tusks dipped into the water as he watched I’wilo, then rose, dripping, when I’wilo rose. “AaaaAaaaAaaaAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…” I’wilo made his breath last as long as he could, as he reached out and touched one of Fyve’s fat oily dreads. He closed one eye and squinted the other as his breath ran out, and held still as he let the water run out of his mouth.

They stood that way, Fyve crouched down, I’wilo crouched lower, both dripping, both silent as their bare shoulders rose and fell and the river ran around and between them and I’wilo loosely held the end of one dreadlock. Big birds cackled and monkeys chittered, and Wil waited in silence. When Fyve finally blinked, I’wilo sunk down and got more water.

“AaaaaAaaaAaaAaaaAaaAaaaAaaaaaaaaa...” I’wilo opened the tiny bottle. He was supposed to start from the top, but a demonstration seemed in order. I’wilo held the end of the big black-green-blue dreadlock up and applied a drop of The Gunk Junk™ under Fyve’s watchful gaze. He held the end of the lock between his fingers, and worked the degreaser around with his thumb, making sure to hold it in such a way that Fyve could see. When his breath ran out, he sunk down slowly, spit the water, and just breathed for a bit. Fyve slowly raised his hand and got it around his mammoth tusk. I’wilo took the tusk-grabbing as a good sign.

“Look, Fyve,” I’wilo said, in that voice that worked on Rizu and Fyve as well. He put that black-green-blue lock in the current, and they both watched as I’wilo squeezed and worked the dread, and smoky trails of brown wavered and vanished in drifts. And when the brown stopped coming, I’wilo slowly held up the dread, which was now just dark blue.

“Dass blue ssssnake,” Fyve said, making the ‘k’ click, and Wil could just tell Fyve really liked the word.

“Yeah, broddah,” I’wilo whispered.

“Hokay denyoor da man now, dog,” Fyve uttered inexplicably, and Wil was pleased to note that Fyve was speaking quietly.

I’wilo nodded just a little. “Mhm. Okay.”

Fyve watched and began squeezing his thinking-tusk (because that’s what it was called now, in Wil’s mind), as I’wilo released the lock and reached up to pat the crown of his own head.

“Wil gonnah get di top.” He pointed up at Fyve, then at his own head, then at Fyve.

If Fyve comprehended any of that, he gave no sign. So, I’wilo reached up very slow—

“Hnononono notouch.” Fyve straightened and stumbled back suddenly, sending up some spray as he shot up and pinwheeled his arm for balance, while still holding his thinking-tusk.

“…mhm. Mhm. Right.” I’wilo blinked at Fyve, capped The Gunk Junk™, and he sat down slowly, until he was completely submerged. He held his breath as he watched Fyve’s legs inch closer. If the thought that the big brother might actually take the opportunity to drown I’wilo just for a chance at the tiny bottle did cross I’wilo’s mind, he batted it away before it could elaborate on itself. I’wilo stayed down for a couple of minutes, but Fyve kept a few extra feet between them… Maybe five feet. Slowly, Wil rose.

When he had first met Larizu, I’wilo had stumbled and spooked Rizu plenty of times. He’d learned to take it in stride, and he’d become adept at making up solutions on the fly. It felt good to have the skill put to use. It felt right that he should use the skill he honed so much on Larizu, to protect Larizu. Call it a hobby; sketchy-troll… um… big… friend-guy. Larizu was better at making the names for things. Wil wasn’t so good for making thing-names.

I’wilo peered up at Fyve through wet white lashes and from beneath pasted-down white hair that could probably use a trim soon or it wouldn’t stick up-up only a tiny bit floppy the way he liked. “We try ahgain, Broddah.” Sllllllllurp. Fyve leaned in just a little, and he looked expectant. That’s right brother. Grab that thinkin-tusk. Wil let the water trickle back out. He watched Fyve watch. Slllllllurp. Again, he let the water back into the river. Come on now, Fyve. Figure it out. Sllllllllurp… Slllllurp… Good, Fyve. “AaaAaaaAaaAaaaaaAaAaaaa…”

“Hnhnh.” Fyve commented through his nose. His crazy long hackles spiked, and fell, and spiked again. He shook his wet head around so hard that he flung his hand off his own tusk. He regained the tusk, and came closer until they were more-or-less back where they had begun.

I’wilo let the water fall from his mouth. He took a moment to catch his breath, then slurped some more water, since Fyve seemed to like that sound as well. “AaaaAaAAaaAaaAaAaaaaaaaaa…” I’wilo found the same dreadlock. He showed it to Fyve who watched and squeezed his thinking-tusk. I’wilo applied a drop further up, worked it in. He let the water fall from his mouth, and took his time scrubbing in silence. I’wilo lowered the blue snake dread into the water. Together, they watched as it grew more blue.

I’wilo looked from the lock, up to Fyve. “Mm?” Fyve just had no comment. The brother was unreadable, when he wasn’t exaggerated. There was no in-between.

So, Wil said, “AaaAaaAaAaAaaAaAaaAaaA…”

And, “See. Nice. Blue, Fyve.”

And, “AaaAaaAaaAaaAaaAaaa…”

And, “Make it nice, mm?”

And, “AaaAaAaaaaAaaaAaaaa…”

And, “Good, Fyve Broddah. Hmm... See heah?” I’wilo held up the dreadlock. He lowered it toward the water in an arc, and it did not reach. Fyve just stared. I’wilo lifted the dread again, lowered it just short of the water…

“Notouch,” Fyve muttered. He shifted around and looked back, making I’wilo lose hold of the dreadlock. Fyve waded a short distance toward shore, turned, knelt down until the bottoms of his tusks touched the water. He grabbed his tusk and waited.

I’wilo waded closer. When Fyve jerked his tusks up and started growling, I’wilo slowly shook his head and shut his eyes. “Okay… Yeah, okay.” I’wilo took a deep breath, dammit. He got down and crouch-walked over to Fyve, one eye open as he looked up and sent up a little prayer and a few bubbles. I’wilo ducked lower, got nearer, planted one hand on a good sized stone in Fyve’s shadow, and rose with his jaw clenched.

Above water, Fyve’s chin bumped up, and his eyes widened, then narrowed. His brow furrowed. His hackles and ears flicked like a Gobco PocketKiller™ Pushbutton Flickblade Knife: hackles up, ears back.

I’wilo felt the growling through his skull. It felt like imminent death-by-drowning or maybe a sub aquatic murder-by-stabbing. He backed up, breathed out, raised just his nose and mouth, shielded from the upstream side by his hand. He breathed in… out… in. He crawled back to Fyve. Bump. Bump. Bump…

Above water, Fyve’s chin bumped up three times… then two more and that number was okay but it still was pretty what-the-fuck and plenty fuckyou. Fyve growled and snorted and squeezed his tusk without pumping, until his knuckles were nearly white.

I’wilo broke surface a few feet off, head down. He wiped his eyes. He glanced up from beneath his brow. Yeah, that didn’t look great… Ok. He got as low as he could without drowning, and he glided up to Fyve like a white-haired crocolisk. This sucked. This wasn’t creative; it was just bullshit contingency dominance shit and he wasn’t any more for it than Fyve was for touch.

I’wilo blew out his cheeks, careful to do so quietly. He sniffed, rolled his shoulder a few times, shook his head and rolled his eyes. He inched up between Fyve’s big tusks, as Fyve growled a very clear warning that spanned all troll languages and likely all species that spoke in growl. I’wilo needed to do this, before Fyve stopped being frozen with rage.

Wil grabbed Fyve’s non-thinking tusk, and he lifted it. Fyve’s neck tensed and shook, and Wil’s arm shook, but at the end of the day Wil won out at brute force. I’wilo donned his best patented One-Might-Have-Introduced-The-Arrow-Into-The-Throat-Of-One’s-Slumbering-Enemy-And-Been-Home-For-Dinner-And-Rut face for use during such intolerable occasions (and really, he didn’t mean it, as all life was precious, but Wil was allowed to get mad sometimes.) I’wilo was doing a crooked lifted-lip- flattened-brow-grimace thing that was all the rage in this river.

I’wilo flattened his ears, and shoved his head sideways under the shelf of Fyve’s chin. He leaned in there real firm, because he wasn’t doing this sucky-suck shit twice… I’wilo’s arm trembled— as did Fyve’s neck and skull and snarling face— as he slowly lowered Fyve’s chin onto his head. I’wilo gave a stingy little submissive grunt. It was his best effort, but not ideal. If he clenched his teeth any harder, they were going to shatter.

Fyve stopped growling for a split second, so there was that. Then it resumed more loudly.

I’wilo held onto the not-thinking tusk, letting the weight of his arm pull it down a little. His eyes rolled upward. Come on, brother just do the fucking thing…

I’wilo rolled his eyes and pressed his lips together. He took a couple of deep breaths. He did another couple little weakling-so-sorry-sir grunts: Not ideal, but better. Surely, the sounds that came from within him did not match with the tone of the I-taste-undercooked-shit depth of his frown. I’wilo swallowed, ran his tongue along his front teeth, let out a shaky breath, and added a fairly decent you-sir-are-truly-King-Shit-of-Shit-Mountain-me-tremble-in-your-presence grunt. It wasn’t… It wasn’t that great. It wasn’t like he did that shit on the regular. It was ok. It was just for pretend. For Rizu. Just doing it for Rizu. Come on you fucking feral just do the fucking thing for fucksake—

Fyve’s growl turned up at the end, like a question, and faded. His thin lips stopped trembling and gradually met one another over his air-dried teeth. The crease of his brow relaxed incrementally. He blinked and huffed a little. He rubbed his chin around on I’wilo’s head. He paused, and his ears swiveled. He huffed a couple of times, louder.

… I‘wilo sulked, privately, and did a couple more grunts for King Shit, publicly.

Once Fyve had finished marking I’wilo as temporary property, I’wilo was grudgingly allowed to clean Fyve’s hair from the top. It only took one bottle, as Fyve hadn’t wrapped himself in a perfectly good blanket and basted in the crippling depression when he could have been going in some water— I’wilo shook his head. No need to think bitchy untrue thoughts. It wasn’t Rizu’s doing that Wil had taken it upon himself to kowtow to a flying invisible-stabbing jungle feral with a skull collection just for the privilege of scrubbing stinking fuel— and by the smell of it, linseed— from his hair-snakes.

(Kowtow was I’wilo’s five-silver word, which Larizu had gifted to him. It was a Pandaren word for grovel; very exotic. Wil thought it sounded sexy, too. Kowtow. Nice sound.)

“Rizu is ee-no-sahnt. Me gonnah stuff him up so many my shirt ahnd stretch all it to shit.” The thought made him nearly rumble.

“Hnn?”

“Nahting, broddah. Tahn head, please. Heah, like dis— KSST! Don’t be growlin’. M’ent in di mood foah heah daht frahm you... Good Fyve.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Zena had to jog to catch up with Larizu. “Hey, hey. Wait up.”

Larizu glanced at her and slowed down. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “What di fuck is wrong wit night elf? Dey like brain-damaged tuskless trolls, and dey all look da fuckin’ same, and dey can’t get angry no matter what ya say to dem. No wonder Brekk always attackin’ dem—“ Larizu snapped his fingers. “Oh! Speakin’ o’ not takin’ bats.” He spun around. “Come, elf.”

“Where are we going?” Zena reached for his hand and he grabbed it, slowing further.

“Forgot di wipes.”

“Wipes?” Zena doubled over the bag-strap and slipped it over her shoulder.

“Remind me to shorten dat for ya. Here.” Larizu lead Zena into a small tent occupied by a single tauren and a table full of soaps and candles.

The tauren behind the table nodded at Zena. He nodded at Larizu. “Larizu.”

Larizu sighed. He visibly relaxed. “Tanks, Urun.”

“Any time. How many boxes?”

“How many ya got?”

Urun leaned over to look behind the table. “Three, and one that is opened.”

“Unscented?” Larizu turned his head to center his eye on Urun.

“The opened one is hemp.”

Larizu shrugged. “Good as unscented. I’ll take all o’ dem.”

Urun bent and brought up four cardboard boxes, each printed with Package Not For Resale! One of them was indeed opened. “Is I’wilo alive and well?”

Larizu shook his head and held out a fistful of coins for the tauren. “He went to Nortrend to be killed by a giant drunken feral who made me get groomed, and want to stab my ass in half.” Larizu jerked his thumb at Zena. “Dis Zena. She di Alpha Groomer. She cool, regardless.”

Zena smiled and shook Urun’s beefpaw.

“It is good to meet you, Zena.” He looked to Larizu. “I’m sorry to hear about I’wilo. I did not know you were into that.”

“Ya know, I ain’t really into it.” Larizu shrugged and lifted and dropped his hand. Nothing to be done for it. “Here.” He handed Urun a fistful of coins. “Keep di change.”

“Thank you, friend. The Teldrassian soap assortment that I’wilo ordered should arrive by next Friday.”

“I stop by for it if he ain’t returned from di spirit world. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Larizu and Zena.”

When they left the Body and Bathworks tent— that’s what it was called, if you could read Taurahe— Larizu’s posture and bearing had greatly improved. He did what might qualify as a Larizu-smile at the stack of boxes balanced in his arms, which is to say, he didn’t make any old-faces. “I like dat guy.”

“Me too,” said Zena, hooking her thumbs in her pockets. “So, what’s in the boxes?”

“Bat’ wipes. For groomin’. Take a bat widdout goin’ in water.” He flashed a smile at her and quickly looked ahead. “Stupid night elves use it for non-stop music festival.”

“Useful!” Zena beamed at him. “We should come here more often.”

“Huh. Yeah.” Larizu blinked, as the thought had never really occurred to him. “Just not on weekend.” He glanced over at her as they neared the Zeppelin launch. “Dey do tourist shit, wit music. Here. Watch ya step.” Zena stepped onto the Zeppelin, and Larizu followed her, still Larizu-smiling contentedly at his boxes of baths.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Once Fyve’s snakes were all blue, he and I’wilo sat apart to dry in the sun. I’wilo needed a few cool-down minutes to find himself, and let go of temper. He made a little pile on the pebbled sand with shiny rocks. He drew some hearts in the sand with his finger. He thought about nice things, mostly involving Rizu and cuddles and comb and maybe smoke a little. He wondered if Rizu would like to try jerking off around each other some more, as it hadn’t been recent enough to call it any kind of habit, and it was a nice way to get relaxed and bond with one’s beloved brother. Maybe Rizu would do nice— He wondered if Rizu would do nice for Zena, you know, to smoke from his face. It would be so nicey-nice if Wil could watch it. Also, about that big cat thing… By the time Fyve wandered over, Wil had a steady rumble going and he had shed all of the temper.

I’wilo looked up as Fyve stood over him with his thumbs on the hilts of his giant daggers. Fyve lifted and dropped the daggers a couple of times, stretched and yawned with his arms raised— definitely a display, and Wil would have to correct for that mixed-message as soon as possible if he was ever going to gain any ground on his plan to negotiate protection for Larizu.

Fyve dropped his hands. In a flash, his blades were drawn, crossed, uncrossed. One began spinning and glinting in the afternoon sun. The other pointed, as Fyve began to grin. I’wilo, still seated on the sand, turned and followed the path of the pointing blade. He looked at Fyve.

“We hunt?” Hunt sounded good, actually.

“Nnhnn.” Fyve nodded, still grinning his cereal-killer grin. Larizu said it was called that because of how they killed cereal-y. Neither I’wilo nor Larizu did even eat cereal, and I’wilo couldn’t understand the connection, which Larizu found to be the third most funny thing after drink-shirts and the disgusting green pussy ashtrays.

I’wilo stood and brushed the sand from his shorts. He went to gather his bow and quiver. He contemplated putting on a shirt, but he was hot and Fyve didn’t have a shirt, so he didn’t imagine it would be necessary to mess up one of the few shirts he had brought. I’wilo put on one bracer. He stretched and rolled his head around, then his shoulders. He looked down and flexed his tits, because he could, and also because maybe a tiny bit he was feeling unsure of his big-self after he had been forced by circumstance to pretend untrue things with Fyve in the water. He buckled his quiver on and brought his bow. It felt good in his hand. He liked his big bow. He liked shooting.

Fyve had sheathed his daggers and was gulping from a tin flask as I’wilo returned. He screwed the cap on, pocketed the flask, and pointed at I’wilo’s bow.

“Mhm.” I’wilo held it up and nodded. Yep.

Fyve pointed at I’wilo’s shoulder.

I’wilo tilted and shook his head. No clue, brother. When Fyve kept pointing, Wil reached back and tapped lightly among the fletchings until he found what he wanted. He drew an arrow and showed it to Fyve. Yep. Prepared.

Fyve pointed at the bow.

I’wilo eyed Fyve over. He pretend-nocked an arrow for Fyve’s approval.

“Hokay waid righdere.” Fyve spun, which sent up a spray of sand, and sprinted straight down the broad, clear bank. Loa, but the brother was fast. As the clear bank narrowed, Fyve vanished.

I’wilo’s expression blanked. His sharp eyes followed the distant footfalls, as they veered toward the nearest tree trunks, and stopped abruptly. I’wilo’s ear-and-a-half perked forward, as he caught sight of a disturbance in the upper part of some undergrowth. His eyes flicked up, following the trajectory of the disturbed growth to a low-hanging branch. He scanned the canopy— There… There… There… I’wilo’s hackles half-rose and fell. There… There… Fyve was somehow sprinting and leaping through the trees.

I’wilo nodded once and squared his shoulders. He watched and listened closely, his ears picking through every subtle sound, separating the forest music of birds and breeze and monkeys and running water, shuffling through without becoming attached to any one thing. He held his bow loosely and watched.

When the sound came, it was anything but subtle. There was a sudden sharp but distant mammoth-shriek, then a series of distant, resounding trumpets. The screeching cacophony of mammoth alarm-sounds was shortly followed by a rolling rumble: Stampede. I’wilo’s jaw flexed and relaxed. His throat knob rose and fell. But for his slow breath, his darting eyes and swiveling ear-and-a-half, he was still. He listened to the herd break, reform, and veer toward him. The rumble concentrated, spread as it was accompanied by the sound of breaking trees and some splashing as one or two beasts veered off into water. The remaining onslaught of pummeling feet redoubled as one mammoth screeched, and the answering trumpets wavered, as the herd again became a confused scatter, as more of them became stopped by the density of trees and vines. There was the puff of many startled wings, followed closely by another, as two flocks of birds burst from the canopy toward the end of the clearing, perhaps fifty-yards deep from the edge.

A single set of stomping foot-beats persevered through the last few yards of jungle before the strip of river beach. Leaves shook, twigs snapped and branches bent. The growth exploded. Nothing burst forth into view. There was only the spray of sand beneath invisible panicking animal feet.

I’wilo raised his bow. He drew the string back to near his cheek, blinked once, and froze, but for his breath. His upper right lip drew back from his teeth, in time with the drawing of the bow, in a snarl that would have scared the actual piss out of Larizu.

I’wilo held. Held.

The mammoth that appeared was a young adult male, no less than ten years, no more than fifteen. Its eyes rolled as it began to raise its trunk for another pained cry. Hunched on the mammoth’s back stood Fyve, with both daggers planted between the animal’s shoulders. Fyve stared straight at I’wilo. I’wilo took this all in, in the space of a second. He loosed the giant arrow.

It flew true, better than the crow, as if by a portal that began with I’wilo and ended in the great beast’s heart.

The resultant cry was an ugly, bubbling gurgle. I’wilo spun out of the way, as the collapsing mammoth plowed straight down the last few meters of clearing, shoulder down, rolled onto its side, and blew right through I’wilo’s bag— damn it— and ended with one tusk tip buried in the freshly split trunk of a palm tree.

I’wilo lowered his bow and turned to watch the crumpled mammoth’s blood dump out of its pierced heart in a growing puddle. It had wrecked his bag and probably crushed his damn canteens. Fyve appeared just to his right. I’wilo turned his head to look at Fyve. Fyve turned his head to look at I’wilo. I’wilo was standing tall. Fyve was slightly hunched, so that their tusks were level. They both turned to look at the dead mammoth. “… Hokay Fy gan rip oudiss parrs.”

Fyve strode toward the mammoth and paused just outside of the spreading red pool. Fyve took off his weapon belt and lay it on the sand. He unbuttoned his pants. He did a double-take at I’wilo, turned away, and dropped his trousers.

I’wilo scratched the back of his head. He looked around. He found a big rock, for Wil to sit. He set aside his gear, and watched as Fyve used his daggers to gut the mammoth, tear it apart, and manage to get blood, and even some guts, on most of the front of him. Rather than avoid the mess, it seemed that Fyve rather enjoyed the feel of hot entrails and slick blood. Far be it from I’wilo to kink-shame, so he just sat around until Fyve walked over, naked and blood-bathed, and bearing a huge, slick portion of raw liver upon a big flat stone. “… is mine is mine I foundit ya canna takeit is Fy…” Fyve whisper-hissed a steady stream of territorial Fyveisms to Fyve, as he set the heavy stone down near I’wilo’s foot.

Fyve wandered off to wave his tusks over the mammoth and threaten the world at large. I’wilo peered down at the offering. He rubbed his hands up and down his thighs and pursed his lips. While he was no stranger to uncooked flesh, it had been quite some time since he’d partaken in anything raw that wasn’t an oyster. They were reputed to make one ru’tii, but I’wilo didn’t really sense it, perhaps because he was already living most of his life at full rut capacity, but he did eat them purely for enjoyment and because they were easy to procure. I’wilo shrugged and reached for the liver. When in Northrend…

I’wilo reflected on the sudden hunt, as he ate the raw liver and was careful not to get it on anything but his hands. Fyve was a feral, or a half-feral fon, and he had serious issues with speaking and listening, but he wasn’t stupid. I’wilo knew a thing or two about coming off stupid just because one was big and not great with the words— He shook his head to clear the spare thought away and focus on the key point: Fyve knew exactly what he was doing, when he came riding into I’wilo’s line of sight. I’wilo understood this to be an exchange. Fyve could have dropped I’wilo’s ass out of the sky, and I’wilo could have shot most of Fyve’s heart out through his back. Somehow, they were even, in a way that I’wilo could only half-comprehend, because it was half-madness, and I’wilo didn’t consider himself to be more mad than average. This put them on level-enough ground. I’wilo nodded to himself, as he finished up and went to drink and rinse his hands.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When they returned to the shack, Larizu crawled under the bed and pulled up two floorboards to retrieve two book-baskets, which is what they were called.

Now, Larizu sat on his little wooden stool and watched quietly with an unlit pipe as Zena examined the titles. “Got plenty more,” Larizu said over the secondary pipe, which was rapidly becoming as blue as the blue pipe, which rested between all two of the toes on his left foot. “If ya can’t find nuttin’ ya like, I’ll get down wit lamp and dig around.”

“How far does it go?” Zena asked, as she looked through a collection largely comprised of books regarding botany, anatomy, and diseases and infections.

“Far enough, I can hide in it.”

“Neat.”

She took her time checking out the collection, and Larizu took his time smoking. There was a book of dirty dwarven rhymes, translated to gnomish, and then translated to orcish, so that they were only dirty sayings that made little sense and didn’t rhyme. “Dat’s di joke,” Larizu explained, with a shrug.

Zena held up a book with a very plain brown cover, entitled Slumbering Beauty. “Didn’t take you for the fairy-tale type.”

Larizu pushed up his glasses and leaned forward, squinting by the lamplight. “Oh.” He snorted. “Dat ain’t for kids. Look at it. Keep it, if ya like it. Shit’s too scary; you’ll probably like it.”

“A scary story about Slumbering Beauty?” Zena grinned with a brow quizzically furrowed.

“Dey tyin’ eachutter up naked in public and beatin’ asses wit whips ‘n tings. It concentrated extra-strengt’ weird. Give me fuckin’ nightmares for a week, and I only skip-around some, for naked lady. Not wort’ it… Wait, but don’t tell Wil.”

Zena leaned back to look up at Larizu.

Larizu spread his hand. “What?”

“You have an erotic fairy-tale novel that you don’t look at, and you don’t want Wil to know about it. I feel like I’m missing something.”

“If his ru’tii ass find out dat dey got fuckbooks, he gonna start boddrin’ me to read da most freakish tie-people-up, beatin-asses, pretendin-ta-be-animals fuckin’ fuckbooks he can find.”

Zena put the book up on the bed. “I can read it to him.”

“Not in dis fuckin’ shack. I don’t want to hear dat creepy shit, and I don’t want to be around him when he hear dat shit.”

“So what kind of fuckbooks do you like to read?”

“None. Dat one turn me off it. Flip one rock and find a snake, fuck rocks forever.”

“I like snakes.”

“If ya ever bring snake or anyting resemblin’ snake anywhere near me, we troo forever. In fact, never talk about snake. Dey don’t fuckin’ exist.”

“You started it.”

“Yeah, well, I fucked myself up.”

Zena held up an open anatomy book.

Larizu leaned in to look at the page. “… Hell if I know. I get dem used.” He cleared his throat and turned to the bench to grab a stinky match. KfffffFFFFFFFT!

Zena looked at the picture. It was a black-and-white diagram of female external genitalia with parts labeled. One label was missing, and someone had drawn a line and a question mark. “It’s weird that they didn’t label it. Everything else is labeled.”

Larizu just shook his head, determined to hold his smoke extra long.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’wilo lay on the ground near a small fire. Just to keep the bugs off, really, as it was a warm night. He used his smashed bag as a pillow. His canteens, as it turned out, had been sent up into the trees by the skidding mammoth. Fyve had recovered them for Wil, and they were only slightly dented, so there was that.

I’wilo wore his Zike™ shorts, and his white tank-top which would show his nipple rings if he had any left to show. I’wilo rolled his head to the side, and glanced up into the tall trees nearby. Fyve had cleaned off and opted to sleep up a tree. Fyve was looking down at I’wilo.

I’wilo lifted his stumps. Fyve lifted his giant tusks, his eye rolling down to meet I’wilo’s.

I’wilo snorted and rolled to face away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They took their wipe-baths back-to-back. The hemp really was as good as unscented. Larizu balled the wipes up and drop-lobbed them out the back window, since wipes weren’t conducive to winging or flinging. They left the lamp on, because Larizu always used the lamp when I’wilo was away (not that Larizu mentioned it), and she didn’t mind the light.

Larizu lay back to sleep. Zena lay facing away and read a book. It was a pretty good book. Good pacing. Action-packed; lots of actions occurring, and fairly regular. Interesting stuff. Zena shifted around and turned the page. She chewed her lip, brow furrowed in deep concentration. The bed moved, which moved her a little— Larizu rolling around a little. Getting comfy. Cuddly troll. Zena smiled as she chewed her lip and read the book.

It really was a good book. Not remotely scary, so far. More… exhilarating. She turned the page, and the whisper of turning page seemed to continue, until she realized it was the sound of sniffing. Zena blinked and her eyes darted to the side, which is to say, she looked at the ceiling of the bed alcove. The sniffing got closer.

Zena held the book to her chest as she rolled over. Larizu was closer than she expected. Larizu blinked slowly, ears perked forward to denote extreme interest. Zena’s brow rose as she held the book up. Larizu did not look at it. His nostrils flared. He didn’t look even mildly rabid to Zena, but she wasn’t easily fazed by trolls. Zena said, “It’s a reallygood book.”

Larizu closed his eyes and huffed a few times. He swallowed. He muttered, “Fuck it.” He opened his eyes and said, “It be friend-shit. Right?”

Zena nodded. “Right.”

Larizu rolled over and went to get his glasses. He sat up and looked back at her. “I only got one— Oh, right. Ya seen it.”

“Yeah, it’s honestly not that noticeable.”

“I mean… ya seen everyting. It’s not dat big a deal.”

“Uh-huh.”

He turned around to face her. “I ain’t seen shit…”

Zena nodded and didn’t seem super concerned. “That is true.”

“It can’t become a habit,” Larizu said.

“We don’t have to—“

Larizu blinked rapidly and pushed up his glasses. “If ya game, yes, we have to. I will never sleep again, and it will become weird. Dey’s no goin’ back… if ya game.”

“Mhm I’m game.” Zena nodded a bunch.

“Ya gotta tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do. I’m freakin’ out a little.”

“How do you and Wil—“

“No, I want to see. If ya game. I want to see.”

Zena grinned. “Well, yeah, of course…”

“Ok what do I do.”

Zena clasped her hands together under her chin and rocked her shoulders around. Yaaay. So fun and exciting. “Ok, ok. So, here. Why don’t you sit here… Do you want to be sitting?” She tilted her head.

“I do it sittin’, standin’, layin’ on my fuckin’ face. I just want to see. Ya planted di idea in my head and—“

“Sit over there.” Zena pointed to the foot of the bed. “It’s darker on that side. Unless you’re not feeling shy.”

“No, I’m shy as fuck.” Larizu hurried to the foot of the bed. He sat against the wall. “Like this— Wait. We can’t touch eachudder. Don’t— don’t even let me get too close.”

“You’ll be fine.” Zena waved her palms at each other, clapping excitedly without actually clapping. “Ok ok. You there. Me here.” She went to the head of the bed and moved I’wilo’s pillow aside. She sat against the wall. “Wait.” She put Larizu’s pillow against the wall and sat back.

“Dat’s gonna become my favorite pillow,” Larizu observed. “Equal… equal favorite.” He really liked Wil’s pillow. Different reason. But he did like it. “Wait, don’t… don’t take ya tits out. Unless ya got to. Den do it.”

“I don’t need to…” She tilted her head a little.

“It too much… I don’t tink I’ll go berserk. But… Wil ain’t here, and ya… elf.” Larizu shrugged.

“I’m an Alpha-Groomer.” She grinned and spread her hands.

“Don’t talk about groomin’. It could ruin it.”

“Ok. Bottoms off. Ready?”

“Yeah. Okay. Wait, don’t look for a second.”

“You can look.”

Zena’s pants flew off of the side of the bed, followed by her panties.

Larizu said, “Oh shit, Loa. Nice.”

“Yeah? Cool,” Zena said.

“(Bless all o’ ya names.)” Larizu’s balled-up sarong joined Zena’s pants and panties on the floor.

Zena loosed a low whistle. “Wow, man.”

Larizu snorted. “It my redeemin’-quality. Dat’s what it called.”

“Cool. I want a name.”

“Awesome… Pussy.”

“That is what it’s called.”

“Wow… ya just goin’ at it, huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m just… just gonna hold it for a minute.”

“Works for me.”

“I got… a stupid… question.”

“… uh-huh?”

“What iiiis di ting… called.”

“Here?”

“Nope.”

“Here?”

“Mhm yeah.”

“Hood, here. Clitoris, here.”

“Hood,” Larizu said, because that was what it was called. Likewise, “Clitoris. Tanks.”

“Sure thing. You almost there?”

“Oh, I be waitin’ for you, elf… pal.”

“Okay… okay… hold on… Watch this, buddy...”

…

“Loa... hhh- hhh- HHH- HFF!  … Fffffuck.” Larizu sagged back against the wall, panting. “(Bless all o’ ya names.)”

“That. Was awesome.” Zena sat up and ran her hands through her hair, which had gained volume in the back. “You’re so fuckin’ real... I’ll get the wipes in a minute.”

“Tanks, pal,” Larizu mumbled through a full-on basking rumble. Yesssssss.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sometimes his word-thoughts go away, and then it’s like white noise, or gray silence, or a red heart beating inside. He wasn’t really made for words, or they weren’t made for him. Sometimes the struggle to comprehend and communicate just dissolves, the brittle interface crumbles, and what is left might be described as a kind of peace. Sometimes, he just is.

It is a rarity.

…..

At first, I’wilo didn’t register the quiet breath, other than to begin breathing in time with the sound. I’wilo slept in that blessedly dreamless, dampened-awareness space, where each glancing sensory event is absorbed without question, incorporated with the quiet, resting self.

Then Fyve snuffled and I’wilo blinked awake. He looked up at Fyve with tired eyes that gradually came alert.

Fyve squatted maybe ten feet away, unmoving, painted in firelight and shadow. His fists brushed the ground between his legs. His dry dreadlocks stood out like a mane of dark ropes that tumbled over his shoulders and spilled before them, framing his face as he watched I’wilo. His slightly overlong ears curved back, neutral, relaxed. His nose pointed down as far as his great tusks would allow for without touching the ground.

I’wilo rolled over and planted his hand on the ground. He kept his eyes on Fyve, as he sat up, then moved into a crouched squat. Fyve’s eyes followed I’wilo, which made Fyve’s brow rise. I’wilo didn’t need to see the brother’s back to know that his hackles were flat.

Gone was the pugnacious look that I’wilo had taken to be Fyve’s resting face. As they looked at one another in silence, I’wilo wondered if the pinched and brutish expression had been the result of any conscious effort to not-be whatever Fyve was now. Perhaps a true feral… a trollbeast in tailored pants. It was hard to know, as Wil had never seen anything quite like it, though in his heart, he recognized it, the way that the hare recognizes the shadow as hawk. Some knowledge lives inside the animal and waits to be invoked.

But I’wilo was not the hare. He was the same thing that Fyve was. Just… not alone. So it must be aloneness that made a Fyve of a troll. How much aloneness must it take? I’wilo couldn’t know; he’d lived his young life around people, if not surrounded. And he lived his new life as surrounded by people— most closely by Larizu— as he could make himself. Fyve was made more from the knowledge that lives inside the animal and waits to be invoked, because somehow, other knowledge had skipped over Fyve until it was too late, and it became something he wore on the outside… with effort. And I’wilo thought of a question, and he knew that Fyve would never answer, but he was so overcome by emotion—a blended sense of awe, of mystery, of sympathetic loneliness, of deep respect— that he asked anyway. “How did One survive?”

It was a little the invocation of animal knowledge that made I’wilo do his best to relax and stay still, when the Fyve-that-Fyve-hid-away slowly leaned forward on his hands, and knuckle-walked a slow circle around squatting I’wilo.

It was a little the invocation of simple social knowledge, as well. People checked newcomers out. They were subtle about it: They measured and compared, in their minds, and among themselves. They made guesses, and they believed in their own guesses. They tested the boundary with the word. They compared realities to see whose could coexist with whose, and whose had ought to be attacked and razed, as though the space that housed realities were in any way limited. Just ask the outsider, for the people of any given place were always sure to maintain at least one: People were territorial, and people checked each other out.

Fyve-that-Fyve-hid-away was not so subtle in checking I’wilo out. So I’wilo kept his tusks up and made as calm as he could, and he cleared away the thoughts that he did not need, and he let himself feel curious, and he kept it in the very front of his mind that Fyve must understand that I’wilo’s tolerance of this inspection was a gift borne of I’wilo’s own benevolent nature, and never a kowtow.

On knuckles and toes, Fyve slowly circled I’wilo. Fyve paused to tilt his head, as calm, dark eyes regarded skin and cloth, muscles, wounded ear, and slightly raised mutilated tusks. From raised tusks to eyes that peered back steadily. They held the gaze until Fyve left I’wilo’s view, to circle again, closer… to regard ears that swiveled and searched… hackles that pulsed in place but did not quite rise… shoulders and chest and belly that breathed shallow, then deep, then measured… tusks, raised slightly more, below brow that creased and remembered to relax… eyes that followed and did not waver.

Fyve came to rest again before unmoving I’wilo, again squatting, with one hand on the ground, and one forearm resting upon Fyve’s thigh. Fyve’s finger and thumb pad rubbed together idly, as Fyve tilted his head a little, and his calm resting brow peaked a little, and he looked down at pale green toes that flexed a little more than necessary. Fyve’s eyes took in all of the troll between the telling toes and the raised tusks, and when they met the eyes of I’wilo, Fyve’s expression would best be described as calm and knowing, perhaps mild amusement there. And knowing-Fyve blinked to see I’wilo blink. And knowing-Fyve watched I’wilo’s tusks raise ever-so-slightly more.

Fyve circled much closer this time. Without the stress and confusion of words and everything attached to words, there was no No Touch to contend with. And so Fyve of the knowing look and the peaked brow laid a blue hand on a pale green shoulder that only twitched once, and leveled great tusks over the opposite pale green shoulder. Fyve tilted his head and watched the flexing jaw and the twitching half-ear of I’wilo who carried words, and whose words now swirled inside— seeking the labels, weighing and comparing; taking the complicated path toward decision— and Fyve knew none of these. Fyve without words knew flexing jaw, twitching ear, breath and muscle and sweat; he was there already, so he waited to see where I’wilo arrived. And when I’wilo arrived at stillness, Fyve twisted those great tusks so that he could smell near the injured ear and the green neck, and smell near the white hair. The tusks withdrew, and the hand withdrew from the green shoulder, and Fyve observed— with blue hand still aloft then slowly closing, then withdrawing for now, Fyve observed the hackles.

Fyve circled to the front and crouched very close with one knee down and one knee forward, and one arm resting relaxed across the raised knee. And Fyve reached out with a crooked finger to brush the stump of a missing tusk with his knuckle. Fyve watched the upper lip that tried to twitch and settled— admirable control,  he observed without words. Watched the ears that leaned back just slightly. Then Fyve hooked the finger over the fat stump and pulled down, just briefly, to make the head nod, and to see the lip spring into a snarl. And the silent snarl was taken as half-voluntary and as little more than an amusing accessory detail. Fyve let the finger rest around the tusk and Fyve’s brow peaked even further and his forehead wrinkled a little; the effect was a little playful and condescending, when combined with the subtle, barely-there smile. Fyve lowered his own tusks because he didn’t really need to talk with them to be heard now, and he withdrew the finger from the tusk and watched the snarl fade… mostly fade.

Fyve waited. I’wilo huffed silently a couple of times, and raised his chin and stumps. He also furrowed his brow but that wasn’t the word; that was talking with one’s hands out of habit. Fyve’s eyes looked at I’wilo like tusk-tusk-eyes. I’wilo’s inside words were failing a little as well, and the orcish ones were all but gone. I’wilo raised his tusks some more, and then Fuck It (he still retained those orcish words), he stood up and bobbed his chin up a couple of times for good measure.

Fyve stood, tusks level, stepped back, and squatted back down.

I’wilo hesitated, then crouched again with his fist on the ground, tusks held high.

Fyve circled once more, and he reached out to touch the back of the tense neck, and he tended to the hackles, slowly, down, and down, and down, until they only trembled and didn’t rise. He came to the side, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and faced where I’wilo was facing, and looked forward at his jungle, and down at his sand, as in his periphery he watched I’wilo slowly turn his head to regard Fyve.

In the tension of the important exchange, I’wilo nearly forgot about counting-stammering-swearing (even more than Larizu!)-drinking Fyve. He remembered, when Fyve started rumbling and it was overlaid with a quieter version of that humming tuneless song. I’wilo watched Fyve crawl away, then stand, then go up to his sleepin’ tree (no idea if it was called that).

I’wilo didn’t know all of how he felt when he lay down to sleep again. He was glad for the experience, and he understood that he was on as level of ground with Fyve as he would ever get. He felt a bit shitty that he hoped to awaken to a malfunctioning Fyve that bumbled around in a haze of booze-stink and sad confusion and cereal-killing smiles, because that was the Fyve with whom I’wilo needed to negotiate.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Larizu lay on his back, on Wil’s side of the bed, which was closer to the door. He was chewing on the original blue comb, which could never be replaced, and which he would keep until all of its nipples fell out and it died.

Zena lay with her ass in Larizu’s side of the bed, and her feet on the wall, and her cheek on Larizu’s belly. She was looking at a book of surgical anatomy that was open on Larizu’s quietly rumbling chest. It was mostly labeled drawings. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” She lowered the book cover and looked at Larizu.

“Homb.” Click. Tick. Clack. He shrugged one shoulder.

“You really are the most adorable troll I’ve ever met.” Zena grinned like a frog with teeth and an awesome-pussy.

Larizu rolled his eye and took the comb out of his mouth. “Ruined it.” He draped his arm over his eyes and dropped the comb on the pillow.

“So, now what’re you thinking about?”

“How different I don’t feel.”

“Yeah?”

“Wait, do ya feel different?” He lifted his arm and squinted down at her.

“Nope.”

Larizu dropped his arm back on his eyes. “Good.”

“Were you worried?”

“Yeah, or I would have whipped my dick out and taken ya up on it on da fuckin’ floor.”

Zena snorted. “Cool. I’m awesome.”

“No. Ya hot…” Larizu grinned. “Yeah, ya kind o’ awesome.”

“You really read all of these?”

“Da fuck is da point o’ havin’ book, if ya don’t read book?”

“Touché. So, would you ever try surgery on someone, like to save their life?”

“I done surgery a couple o’ times. Not to save life. Just minor shit. Mostly on taurens. Dey always fuckin’ up dey ears and dey get congenital eyelid bullshit. Did a worgen eye once. Also do dental shit. Trolls don’t never need surgery. If it don’t grow back, dey died from it. I don’t do surgery no more, cause I don’t keep no drugs around no more.”

“I think you might be some kind of genius.”

“Geniuses contribute to society.”

“You heal people. People are society.”

“I didn’t realize dat people are society. Loa, I must be some kind o’ dipshit. (Bless all o’ ya names.)”

Zena giggled and kicked, grazing the wall.

“Watch it tro’ho, ya gonna knock dis shithole down.”

“Then you can get a fancy shithole with a sink and basic plumbing.”

“Den it would be a fuckhole. Patients see dat shit, dey grow a standard and expect to be treated on actual furniture.”

“Where do you treat patients?”

Larizu’s shoulders shook. “Kss-sss-sss I treat… I treat dem on da fuckin’ floor hahaha.”

Zena cackled and turned her face into his belly. She pulled her head back. “I spit on you. Why do you treat them on the floor?”

“Brekk broke my fuckin’ cot. Den Wil bought dis giant-ass fuckin’ bed, and now I ain’t got no room for a fuckin’ cot.”

“I can’t wait to meet this Brekk guy. He sounds like a character.”

“He like Erowyn if ya subtract da cryin’ and personal hygiene, and add tree-hundred pound and a dash o’ confusing homophobia.”

“What is ‘confusing homophobia’?”

Larizu rubbed his nose, tucked his chin— making his neck wrinkle— and squinted down at Zena. “He call people ‘Nancy boy’ and accuse dem o’ho… ‘funny stuff’…” Larizu see-sawed his flattened hand, in a so-so gesture. “But I swear-Loa (bless all o’ ya name) He— tsahahah— He don’t know what da fuck he mean by it!” His glass eye widened, then both eyes squeezed shut and he gurgled and howled into the back of his wrist until tears were streaming down one side of his face.

Zena didn’t know if she was laughing more about Brekk, or about Larizu’s hysteria regarding Brekk.

“He— He f-fuckin’ ahaha ha haaaaa! Loahaha… Bless… Bless all o’ ya name… He might even be gay, but he got a buhuhuh… He got a BIIIRD!” Larizu screamed into his hand and threw his head back.

Zena chuckled steadily through the telling, her brows furrowed incredulously, at both Brekk and Larizu. “Gay taurens can’t have birds?”

“WAAHAAHAAHAAAAAA!”

The screen door across the street banged open. “LARRYZOO I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”

Larizu tried to sit up, fell back, and screamed at the ceiling, “HO-HOLY FUCK! Ahahahaaaa!”

Zena struggled up on her side. She sat alongside Larizu cross-legged. She rubbed his belly, smiling. “Let’s smoke a little.”

“Hmm-hmm?”

“You’re gonna freak yourself out.”

Larizu ground his fists in his eyes. He sniffed and looked at her. “Yeah, ya right.” He shook his head a little. “I never noticed, but ya right.”

Zena shrugged. “I’mma pack a bowl, bowl-troll.” She hopped over his legs and slid to the corner of the bed.

Larizu sat up and put on his glasses. “It freak me out, dat I never notice.”

“Do you have to know everything?”

“Mhm, yeah. Always.”

“Why?” Zena closed the mason jar. She looked around on the workbench, then twisted around and looked at the bed. “Where’s VeeJay?”

“He in ya pants. I need ta know all di shit about me… so I can kind o’ translate dat, like…” He shook his head. “I got to smoke. Tots goin’ faster den I can follow.”

Zena dug the Vol’jin Zippy™ out of her pocket, and flung the jeans back under the bed. “Gottim. So, wait, I wanna know what you were sayin’.”

Larizu threw himself down on his front, facing her, making her bounce on the corner of the bed. “Slow me di fuck down.” He lifted his tusks and dropped his jaw. Zena stuck the pipe in his mouth and lit it. Kffffffft. She whipped the lighter around so it shut, opened, and shut. Clack-tak-tak. Larizu’s ears flick-flick-flicked. He plucked the lighter from her fingers and held it up. He pinched the top down, so it popped open, then tried to do the whipping thing. He only managed to slam the corner of his nail “GH! Ffffp— fuckin’ ow.” He tossed the lighter up toward the center of the room, then dove and caught it before it could hit the floor. Larizu, who was halfway off the bed with one hand on the floor, leaned his head back to stare at Zena, who stared right back at him. “… Shitty elf reflex. I forgot ya not a troll.”

“… That is one of the coolest things anyone has ever said to me.”

“Ya welcome.” Larizu squirmed back onto the bed and sat up. He put his hand out for the bowl. “It still my turn. I lost mine.”

Zena slapped the bowl into his palm. “You need to know everything about yourself, so you can translate it, something-something.”

“KffffFFFFFF-fff-fff…” Larizu held the bowl out.

“Kfft…” Zena put it back on the table.

… … … “Fffff. It ain’t anyting. I just need to understand myself, so I can understand people.” Larizu shrugged.

“Ff. Thought you hate people.”

“I do. Cause I understand dem.”

“What if you’re wrong about them?”

“I ain’t bein’ crazy right now. I just catch what dey trowin’. Patterns n’ shit.”

“So, when you first met me…”

“I tot ya fuckin’ weird and freaky and hard ta pin down. Dat ya not dumb, ya sneaky, but not evil. I was freakin’ out, andI was right.”

“What did you think when you met Wil?”

“I tot he was gonna fuck and kill me, in whichever order he felt like.”

“So, did he?” Zena spread her hands.

“Jerkoff.” Larizu crawled back to Wil’s pillow and grabbed the comb. He lay back and looked down at her. He rested the comb against the side of his tusk. “It don’t count, because he a male, and because he a tousand-foot-tall fuckin’ monster wit a tunder voice and fuckin’ metal stuck in his face and tits. Also, his tusks were really big and intimidatin’. And he look like concentrated rut, which, it turn out, he is… Fuck, I wish he weren’t fuckin’ dead.” Larizu stuck the comb in his teeth.

“Yeah, it sucks that he died. Hopefully he resurrects soon.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

- Wil