Chapter Text
Deep below, deeper than any troll cavern could ever hope to be carved in, dwelt the Darklands. Once teeming with life, it grew ever more dead over the millennia as trollkind migrated away from their birth place and towards the surface. These depths were cut off from the rest of the world now -- all life slowly squeezed out as it made it’s last steps in existence.
But there was life there, yet.
NoName was one of them, and not by choice. He snuck around a couple of guards, deathly silent and trying his best to suppress his scent of fear. He always hated doing this -- but people seemed to have ways of convincing him to do what they wanted. Bribery was a powerful thing, huh?
“Damn.” he hissed, and the little green body crawled backwards into his hiding spot. Another couple of Gumm Gumm sentries rushed by. Had they seen Bular? Did they know about the spying they did now? NoName couldn’t say just yet. The Darklands were a wild labyrinth devoid of anything sensible and logical, so it was always safer to wait it out.
It turned out to be a nyargarloth issue. All the better then, something to distract them. NoName waited for a large group to pass by again before he leaped out and hid among the shadows of dying blue and purple crystal. It was not a long wait for Bular, who also hid, but within a stout cave inlet.
He stood there with folded arms, carefully concealing a large healing if sore wound on his chest. “News?”
“Another beastie messin’ around, but nothin’ much.” NoName reported with a whisper. He sat down and scratched behind his ear in proper canine fashion. “Just the same ol’ same ol’.”
Bular's face went blank. “He’s stopped looking for me.”
“That’s good, right? At least Big Bad Man himself ain’t tryin’ ta kill ya. Or me for that matter...”
“Right.” Bular said, distracted now. The wound his own father gave him upon his defeat from Wren began to ache even more. It always did when he thought of Gunmar, of what he had done. “Just keep out of sight. I’m not going to die because of an Impure’s desire to cut corners.”
“Yeah yeah.” NoName blew off. “I don’t wanna hear it unless you got somethin’ good to eat. Ya did, didn’t ya?”
Bular rolled his eyes and showed him the bag of nyargaloth eggs he managed to sneak away. Well, that explained why they were angry. “If you want to eat rather than be eaten, then you better hurry up. The others are getting impatient.”
“You too, big guy! Relax. We’re sittin’ pretty tonight. No more patrols lookin’ for us, and now we got some grub!” NoName snickered with a watering mouth. Bular chuffed and threw the bag over his shoulder with a grimace. He hoped Kodanth had some numbing balm left; this wound was not getting much better as time went on.
And overtime, it did. Wounds slowly and stubbornly healed. New packs formed as more and more trolls joined Bular. It almost — almost — gave him a glimmer of hope, and he would have held it if not for the over looming darkness.
Life in the Darklands wouldn’t have been so bad, if they had not been running for their lives. Or torn away from the night sky. Or only had nyargaloth eggs for food.
Or if his own father were not calling for his own head. NoName may have confirmed that Bular was no longer a prime target, but the former prince knew better. The moment his face was seen again, he would be punished for running like a coward. The reality of it clouded his mind when he found a rare moment
Bular could think of only a small few instances when life had been worse. One included his time as a whelp; he had played in his mother’s forge after being warned not to rather sternly, and burnt his tail. Convinced that he would face the Gumm Gumm punishment of a heavy flailing, he cried heavily while running away deep into the Wild Wood to start a new life as a child vagabond.
That never happened, of course, but the fear of Gunmar’s wrath was real. It was all the more real now.
At first, Bular hated Wren. Hated her. Wanted to rip her intestines out himself and rub it in Draal’s face. She was initially blamed for his failure, which sent him to the Darklands and right at Gunmar’s feet, where he was shortly exiled under threat of death.
Bular, shocked from his defeat by the hands of a runt, and even more shocked at his father’s easy dismissal of his only son, simply ran off once his father struck him. No plan, no begging. Only fear.
He was a coward perhaps, but no longer a hateful one. Wren’s place in his fury was quickly cast aside, as the ex-prince was abandoned by both the Gumm Gumms and the Janus Order, and found himself focused on survival. After settling in and coming to terms with his doomed life, he met the others.
Rejects and exiled warriors, like him. Some were disabled changelings, either injured from their transformations or by way of injury before they could have a chance to move onto the surface. Others were also Gumm Gumms, either deserters who lost faith in Gunmar’s reign or were also cast aside for perceived weakness. How and why they escaped the Decimar Blade wielded by his father was beyond Bular -- he often wondered why the weapon was not wielded against him in all honesty.
Among them from the beginning was NoName himself, too small to be considered a worthy spy and assassin, and having no desire for the work anyway.
“I just want outta here.” NoName expressed one day by a fire. The small quasi-clan had been finishing off the last of their eggs before the next hunt. “I been gettin’ nothin’ but half-rotten flesh and cold stone outta life. I deserve more than that! I want more than that!”
“What if I knew a way out?” Bular answered quietly. NoName gave him a hard look, assessing the wounded face of their newest member. His acceptance into the group was only possible due to the injuries that prevented him from showing and using his infamous strength -- they would have run from Bular the Vicious otherwise, exiled or no. His horn (and other injuries) had healed but cracked, showcasing an underlying glow similar to his father, and his left eye grew cloudy from an old infection that never quite healed right.
Both the injured eye and the functioning one were hard and firm, unwavering in certainty at Bular’s offering of help.
NoName hummed. “What if I said I was willin’ to help?”
So the clan had a new agenda: get the hell out of the Darklands, Gunmar and his band be damned. Bular found an old portal to attempt speaking with Scaarbach, but that fell through. Bular growled, recalling how easily the Gunmar worshipper tossed him to the side…
“How much longer?” the harsh voice demanded. It was no longer as forceful, no longer as frightening, and Otto Scaarbach chuckled at the sound. The Fetch -- a ring-shaped artifact just bigger than his head -- was the only portal they had to the Darklands, and it was enough to become face-to-face with his previous ruler.
“Gunmar has made it clear, mein former Prinz, of your failure, and what that means for you.” Otto said, leaning back into his plush office chair as feet kicked up onto his new desk at the school. “The fact that I let you speak to me now is an unusual act of mercy on my part. The bridge shall be built, but not for your sake.”
“But I can help!” Bular spat, his pain from wounds showing in his voice now. “If I can just show my father that I can do this--”
“You can’t, and you won’t. If you wish to stay alive, Bular, then perhaps you should focus on surviving another day, instead of begging for mercy from a mere Impure such as myself, no?”
Otto giggled with glee at the sound of Bular’s bristling anger and shame. “How DARE you! I am the Seed of Darkness itself, the only son of Gunmar’s mighty progeny!”
“You were, before you were to be excecuted as a failure.” Otto said, sitting up again with a small piece of pink quartz in his hands. “You will not be hearing from me again, lest I warn the Darkland guards of your whereabouts. And we wouldn’t want that, now do we?”
Otto did not even have to end the transmission this time. The Fetch gave a jolt of energy, ending the connection between their worlds, and Bular the Felled was gone. He would not see him ever again.
Bular shook his head and refocused on the mission at hand.
He and NoName decided to use their ex-changelings for spying. After all, Gunmar was planning to get out as well. If they found a way, they could capitalize on the opportunity. Whether that meant re-joining the group or simply trailing along behind them was not fully agreed upon, but few things were ever certain in the Darklands. So long as they found a way out, so long as they worked towards escape, everyone was happy to play friends. It went this way for a long time, gathering more information and the hope that came with it.
Some played along too well. An ex-Gumm Gumm warrioress, Velan, had recently birthed her first child with her lover, Kodanth himself. Like most of their tribe, she was up after the birth within days, and happily contributing to the clan with the whelp wrapped on her back. Kodanth was sometimes seen caring for the child, showing him off to the others. His stoic demeanor changed around his family, and he actually smiled. It made Bular smirk sometimes, watching his new mentor act out of character. And he could have sworn he saw a few other dames with swollen bellies, outing themselves as new matrons.
“Ick, what’s in the air, eh?” NoName commented as time went on. He too noticed the wave of whelps as well. Bular blew air out of his snout, his stiffness returning just as quickly.
“I guess they have more hope in our plan than we do. Did you find anything new?”
“Some kind of hubbub going on, couldn’t quite catch it.” NoName growled, his hairy head shaking. “But all I can say is, the Janus Order ain’t what they used to be, now that Strick-man’s out.”
“Strickler. Stricklander.” Bular corrected absently. The puny fire was poked to distract himself. He never tried to focus too much on the names, lest he dwell on those memories again. “I say we move in closer. They’re going to be distracted by--”
There was a shrieking yell, as Kodanth snatched his whelp close and rushed away to the side. Others did the same after a split second. Bular only barely registered what they had run from when the blast took hold.
Dwarkstones were not rare in the Darklands, the sulfur stone easily obtained in various sectors of this world. It was, however, rarely used, due to its tendency to attract dangerous wildlife. Bular coughed and groaned in pain as he tried to sit up from the blast, only to find a spear in his face instead. His good eye cleared up, and showed a short, stout green troll sneering down at him. Bular never met the troll before but knew of him from previous reports -- none other had so many eyes and arms, or held as close a trust from Gunmar.
NoName was close by, limp and being tossed to the side as the whelp cried from afar. It brought Bular only slightly out of his blurring headache; pain throbbed down his cracked horn with his light pulsing weakly with it.
“Consider this exile temporarily suspended, traitor.” The troll snarled. With a flick of one of his four wrists, a Gumm Gumm stooge was ordered to hit the ex-prince over the head. Bular immediately saw blackness, and could only hear pleading as he fell.
——
Wren sighed contentedly, rolling over to her side and thwaping her arm over her husband.
Ah, right. She was married now. Even a few moons later, it was still a surprising (if otherwise happy) realization every morning. Draal grunted in his sleep, but did not wake. Wren smiled through bleary eyes as she slowly woke up.
It was the best part of the Trollhunter’s day. If she had been on some mission solo, and did not see Draal that day before, then their wake ups were a time to catch up. If they had a few slow days, they found time to giggle and tease and do as married couples did. Wren recalled their recent mission to Underaura, to quell an attempted coup by the local pixie population. She, Frek, and Draal – and the boys, to their joy – fought spectacularly and all returned home exhausted but triumphant. While the others had a quick rest followed by a trip to the pub, Wren and Draal simply huddled in their nest, slept, and woke up together, enjoying the reality of their new life together.
Bright orange eyes slid open, followed by a wide grin. Draal blew air out of his nose and nuzzled it against Wren’s. “Good morning. Busy?”
“Not yet. I’d rather stay with you, though.”
“It’s just tea with Vendel.” Draal stated carefully, now propped on his elbow. He rubbed his face awake with the rest of him. “In and out, you come back for training, and then we’re done for the day.”
Wren sighed and propped herself up too. “I dunno. Papa’s been bugging us about when we’ll have a child.”
“When?” Draal chuckled and sat up. “Tell him to stop giving you missions, and perhaps I could take care of that.”
Wren playfully hit him and sat up. “I’m not in a rush myself…but it does sound nice.”
There was a pause before she added, “Maybe we should look into merging our birth stones.”
Draal’s face softened. “You decided against the old fashioned way, then?”
His wife nodded, and there was a second quiet moment between them – this time filled with understanding. Wren suspected that she would have trouble conceiving a child due to her childhood neglect and struggles; with Trollhunting duties to worry about also, that would make it doubly more difficult. Not impossible, but Wren worried she would only set herself up for disappointment anyway.
Wren refused to be disappointed any longer. She had the family she always wanted and a place among Trollmarket. A child would come, and in a way that was much more predictable.
Draal got up and put on his kilt. “If that’s settled then, perhaps that will quiet your father, for now. We can speak about it with Rika sometime. She does the fusings, right?”
Wren finished dressing, and also placed her amulet over her chest. It could be called upon without even touching it now, so long as it lay over her heart. And over the only birth stone she had. She lightly touched the growing bump underneath the metal.
“I’d like to do the fusion myself, you know? Especially if this might be our only child together.”
Draal’s face lit up. “I like that.”
They said their goodbyes, promising to meet up later. Wren walked out of their room and once again found herself surprised at her new life.
Draal had inherited Kanjigar’s home upon his death, though neither he nor Wren had been inclined to so much as step a foot inside until shortly after their wedding. His death – and her subsequent misadventures after that – had prevented them from having the right headspace to go through his new estate.
The home had been carved out by Kanjigar and Draal both, creating it as their new ancestral home. Draal was still quite young then but always prided himself on being so involved. Their nesting room was spacious, reminding Wren of upscale inn rooms she once attended. It sat at the end of a long and wide hallway, traditionally handmade rugs covering the entryways of other rooms. One was for storage, another a lavatory, and the rest were for guests – or hopefully, their future family.
At the end of the hallway stood a wide arch way that opened up to the common area. In the middle was a piece of exposed Heartstone that acted as their central place for cooking, lounging, eating, and relaxing. Many bookcases lined the walls, as did prizes of Kanjigar’s exploits. Wren helped herself to some breakfast that Draal had whipped up and left behind for her. Chewing, she then glanced her eyes over to where the food storage and weapons rooms, respectively, sat. Both were guarded by doors, like the third room just beyond the armory.
Wren and Draal agreed to leave that third room be. It was a miniature library of its own, and even larger than their nesting room. One had to walk through the locked door of the armory and then through a second one to reach it, so it was easy enough to not commonly enter. But sooner or later, Wren suspected, she would need to make use of Kanjigar’s scrolls, tomes, notes, and more, for her Trollhunting escapades.
She left their home and walked into a quiet street, before making a few blocks and turns into the main street of the bazaar. No one could see their home from there. Still, Wren kept wandering her mind's eye back to the hidden study. Trollkind’s adventures were minute compared to her defeat of the line of Gunmar and his Gumm Gumms, yet a nagging feeling persisted.
When would this wary peace end?
And what would it mean for her desire to grow her family?
“You’re in a daze, Wren!” Rika half-chuckled, meeting her foster daughter at the door of Vendel’s cave. “Don’t tell me you’re training yourself away from sleeping.”
Wren smiled as she broke from her train of thought. “No, not at all. Sleep itself is simply hard to do these days.”
It was not a lie. Now that the overreaching threat of Gunmar had faded away, life grew into a complacent normalcy — and one that included frequent troll hunting missions for less serious battles. Not that the troll hunting team complained. The liberation of knowing they had fewer consequences to manage was freeing.
So freeing, in fact, that Wren and Draal found a comfortable routine with family between their marital bliss and adventures with their friends. For Wren that was tea time with her father and now foster mother. For Draal, that was hitting the pub and bragging about their new achievements.
Still, Rika eyed her carefully and brought her in. Inside, Vendel was already at the sitting table -- a favorite piece of Rika’s that she gave to him as a courting gift -- and was pouring a bit of glug into his cup of tea. His ears perked in interest.
“Tell me, is it a work-daze, or a baby-daze?”
“Vendel! Honestly, you old goat.” Rika chided as she sat the two of them down. Wren held back sharp words of her own, choosing instead to let them bicker long enough for her to drink her own tea.
“I have a fully grown daughter who is happily married to a healthy young warrior. Am I wrong to expect grandchildren?”
“Expectations can be kept to yourself.” Rika said pointedly, before pouring some tea for herself. “Besides, I’m sure Wren is wanting to speak to us about something else?”
Wren blinked and sat down her cup. “Er...”
Rika rose a brow. “Something about a new friend coming for a visit?”
Addled already by poor sleep and frazzled nerves, Wren blinked again as she racked her poor tired brain on what Rika was referring to. The older troll matron waited patiently, almost in amusement.
“A new friend, from a certain human town you like to stroll about in so much?” Rika teased further. Finally, Wren made an “oh!” face and turned to her father on her pillowed seat.
“Yes, her! You know about the human girl, Claire Nuñez -- the one who saw the battle with Bular. I spoke with Blinky about it, and we both agreed that perhaps is a good time to have her visit.”
Vendel frowned. “Absolutely not! We have three fleshbags and an ousted Elder’s son already amongst us.”
“But Papa!”
“And two Changeling prisoners you have yet to crack, on top of that.” Vendel said with more firm bitterness. “What will adding in another fleshwhelp do for you? For Trollmarket?”
Wren scoffed and she set aside her cup. It was true she had a hard time getting Nomura and Strickler to open up to her. Refusing to engage in torture made it harder, sure, but Wren absolutely insisted that they not be harmed. It was an argument the father and daughter engaged in before and Wren was getting annoyed already.
“So what do you propose I do then? Since you’re so full of bright ideas!”
“Wren, Vendel, please.” Rika tried to reason. They would have argued still had it not been for a magical appearance of a letter.
It came between the three in the air, with a pop and shower of gold light before floating onto the table. The edges of the parchment fringed.
Vendel stumbled over his words before snatching and opening it. He looked up to Wren.
“It’s addressed to you.” He said, quickly handing it over to his daughter. Knowing that these magical letters were destined to burn up soon after delivery, Wren did not dwaddle.
It read:
Trollhunter Fair
come to me
In Gatto’s Lair
To set me free!
She quickly repeated it out loud for the others to hear before it finally incinerated into glittering ashes. It sat by the cup of tea that Wren had spilt unknowingly. A look was shared between them.
“I guess tea has to wait, I have another call!” Wren said, then smirked. “But on one condition, Papa, if you wish to hear it.”
Vendel sighed and heard her out.
——
Nomura leaned against the hanging cage. It wasn’t hard to sleep against it -- during her years as a spy, she certainly slept on worse surfaces -- but she always had the nagging feeling that doing so, as a prisoner, made her vulnerable.
Only Wren’s surprising compassion for the Changelings spared them a lynching. Though, perhaps ‘compassion’ was not the right word; she sternly ordered the guards to cease their hazing, told her father, the Elder, just as much, and stormed off. Other than some failed attempts to interrogate them gently by Blinky, they spoke with no other troll but one another.
Not that Strickler was happy with that. Nomura chose to stay in her troll form, happy enough to be in a body that was lithe and strong in case the Trollhunter would change her mind about them. Strickler, however, turned right back into a human. A silver-haired, skinny, weak little human.
A weak little human who spat words of anger and treachery at her betrayal weeks ago, but had since gone eerily quiet. She almost missed the loud-mouthed Blinky, if just to keep her from dying of boredom.
Perhaps that his method of getting me to break down, Nomura told herself in correction. Even if she did have her stupid moment of weakness at the battle of Killahead and attacked Bular, that did not mean she was about to betray her brothers and sisters in arms. They had enough hate from the Gumm Gumms over the years; she certainly wasn’t going to risk their welfare to Trollmarket.
Not that she knew what they were up to now, of course. It had been too long for any information of hers to be recent. Nomura knew, for certain, that Otto Scaarbach took control of the Janus Order, and was either reassembling their forces to make new contact with Gunmar, or making their next move, whatever it happened to be.
Well, that and Krax -- but that freeloading pile of bushigal was likely way out of town by now. Nomura and Strickler weren’t ones to squeal, but Krax was smart enough to not take that chance.
A tired, black-haired head thunked against the cage that held her. Nomura sometimes wished she acted that smart too.
“Bored?”
Nomura sat back up and kneeled to look downwards. It was Wren, standing there without her armor on. Strickler sat as he had before, not acknowledging her.
“One of us is.” Nomura answered carefully. “Come to interrogate us again?”
“Not interrogate, but to bargain.”
Strickler’s head slightly turned though he said nothing. Nomura continued the conversation.
“For what? Information in the Order for our freedom? Fat chance.”
Wren almost retorted, but then stopped herself. She chose her next words carefully. “Look. You two are loyal. I admire that. But where was that loyalty when you attacked Bular?”
It was Nomura’s turn to stop herself from answering. Words caught in her throat before she decided to growl instead.
“My loyalties are to my Changeling brethren. Not to Gumm Gumms.”
“Hm.” Wren answered. “I don’t blame you. Bular made a terrible time for you two, didn’t he?”
“Not at all, he threw the best Pizza Parties.” Nomura sneered then frowned. “Get to the point, Hunter.”
Wren nodded. “Your freedom for your loyalty.”
“…What?”
“You are guaranteed freedom and safety on both Arcadia and Trollmarket, granted that your loyalty to both are unwavering. If you ever share intel on the Janus Order, it will be completely voluntary on your part. Otherwise, it’s not necessary. You can keep your mouths shut about the Order for the rest of your life, if you like.”
Strickler stiffened before turning on the spot to also look down. “We can return to the surface? And you trust us to not just bolt?”
“I don’t trust you at all. Which is why there are some conditions.” Wren motioned for the guard to lower their cages. As they slowly reached the stony ground, she continued. “Each of you will be assigned a troll and human mentor, respectively, and provide help based on your skill set.”
Nomura’s cage landed first, and so Wren continued. “Nomura, you’re with Blinky. You’ll help him in Trollmarket as the historian’s assistant.”
She groaned. “Goody.”
“And you, Stricklander.” Wren turned to him as he stood up. “You’ll be stationed in Arcadia. Jim is going to keep an eye on you.”
“Double goody.” Nomura chuckled. Strickler frowned and answered.
“What do you gain from this? Many would call this move unwise.”
“Taking a risk always is. You should know.” Wren admitted. “So, you want out of here or not?”
The answer was not a hard one. The two shared a look and faced Wren, both standing up.
“Where do we start, Hunter?” Strickler answered for them.