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Tryssa's Troll (part 1) The players: Tryssa, an Elven princess Kulyar, her Troll Slave Pyraf, an Elven Captain Viraya, Elven language Tutor and Overseer of the Kitchens Prince Sephayr, an Elven Prince and bed-partner of Tryssa's Synda, the Keep's Healer and resident expert on magic Pengan, the Human Overseer of the Laundry Detail Sir Mulfrey, Half-elf and Half-Human, slightly dotty religious nut, Quester, collector of Christian Relics and devoted servant of Tryssa Ongo, Sir Mulfrey's scruffy Human Squire Jacyn, Rather unwilling Lieutenant to Captain Pyraf Incidentals: Keyth, the Anti-Pope of the Crossroads of Civilisation in Koreleph Zarrow the Red, an obscure rogue sorcerer and a host of assorted Trolls, Elves, Humans and creatures of unspecified derivation and ancestry, used mainly as spear-carriers This started out as a sort of sequel to `Gargamon', the unredeemably disgusting Troll Sex Story. it mutated into a thinly veiled description of a relationship I found myself in at the time of writing it... and then, people started petitioning me to be `written in'. Well, own up, there's one character in this tale who didn't ask to be included, but his actions in the Real World (such as it is) demanded it. Chapter 1 hings had not been going well for the Trolls. Encouraged with their most recent victory over the Humans, they had begun an ambitious program of expansion in all directions (except north, which would have taken them directly into the sea, and they weren't that stupid), sweeping over territory previously held by Humans and Halflings, until they edged onto an area held by the Elves. Here, they more than met their match; having provoked their opponents into a vicious frenzy, they found that they had bitten off a great deal more than they could chew. In fact, the Trolls soon had their new-founded empire divided cleanly down the middle in retaliation; the Elves then made a right-hand turn and proceeded to ransack the Trolls' castles and strongholds, taking thousands of prisoners... Kulyar, former Captain of the Westmarch Trolls' "Bent Sword" Battalion, sat crouched in one corner of his filthy cell and morosely fingered the rough iron collar that had been fastened around his broad neck two months ago. The chains were rusted solid in places, as he tended not to move about his cell much. His former Troll associates had once considered him unusually fastidious (for a Troll, that is); the filthy conditions of his cell were merely a gesture of hospitality by his Elven captors, who had assumed that he would prefer his quarters like that. Unfortunately, the only Elvish a Troll Captain had been required to know was "Drop your weapon" and "Bend over", or he would have asked for better accommodation. He didn't know even approximately where he was being held. He had spent almost two weeks stuffed in the back of a covered wagon with three dozen other Trolls in varying states of injury, some of whom had died on the journey (surprising for a hardy species like the Trolls, who, while being easy to wound due to their slow reactions, are quite hard to finish off). When they reached their destination, they had been herded, along with hundreds of other Trolls, into the dungeons. Occasionally, one or another of the captives would make a break for it, only to end up with the shaft of a long black arrow through his throat. The captives had then been rudely (rude for Elves, that is) shoved into the cells at random. Some cells had a single occupant and others, up to a dozen evil-tempered Trolls, crammed in on top of each other. Kulyar had been sharing his cell with two others that he had never met before, from the northern marches; one had died from his injuries within two days, and the Elves had, shortly afterwards, taken the other away, for no apparent reason. "I'll bet they don't treat the Humans like this," he muttered sourly, scratching a sore spot underneath the collar, which had loosened appreciably during his stay. The sound of bowls being rattled against cell-bars drew his attention momentarily. "Oh, great. Dinner-time... I wonder if it's going to be rat again..." A shadow fell across the tiny barred window set into the massive cell door, and he heard faint lisping cadences of Elven speech, though he couldn't understand them. The shadow moved, and then came the unfamiliar sound of the bolts being worked on the other side. He sat there, stunned, as the door creaked open, admitting two wary Elves, armed with short (and very sharp) swords. One of them menaced the Troll with his weapon while the other used a chisel and a small mallet to break the chain that had held him to within three metres of the wall. This Elf took up the end of the chain and dragged it towards the door. Kulyar simply sat there while the Elves tried, unsuccessfully, to shift him. He kept it up for just as long as he thought he could get away with, suppressing a grin; when he thought that they were about to go for their weapons in earnest, he lumbered to his feet and stood, towering over them by almost a metre. They tugged on the chain and he followed them. They led him along dark corridors, past hundreds of cells filled with Trolls and other, less immediately identifiable species. He was then prodded up a long staircase, the steps of which were too small for his large Troll feet, forcing him to proceed, uncomfortably, on the tips of his toes. After another twenty minutes of corridors followed by staircases and rooms and more corridors, he was hopelessly lost, and gave up trying memorise his path. They stopped outside an ornately-decorated door, high up in one of the Keep's towers. One of the Elves ran his hand down the side of the door, which somehow signalled their presence to whoever had summoned them. It was dark inside, and while a Troll's eyes can adjust to the dark, they aren't as adaptable as an Elf's; for a few moments he just stood there, waiting with Trollish stoicism. He could hear the rustling of cloth nearby, and then he heard a soft, feminine voice speaking in Elvish. As he turned towards her voice, someone clubbed him over the back of the head, causing him to blink. When he opened his eyes again, the light levels had risen considerably, affording him a view of the room and its occupants. There were the two Elven guards, standing on either side of the doorway, wielding clubs. Comfortably sprawled on something that was far too ornate for a chair and yet too functional for a throne was a beautiful Elven female, dressed in a simple white dress. Behind the chair stood an Elven captain, with long, lank brown hair and steel-grey eyes; he projected a proprietary air with regard to the Elven princess. He also held a club and glared at Kulyar with obvious distaste. She stood, the dress flowing around her like cobwebs in a breeze; Kulyar noted the way it outlined her slim form. Her silver-blonde hair floated around her beautiful face like a sorcerer's aura. The captain had observed the cast of the Troll's attention and glanced at the guards, his eyes flashing with anger. One guard clubbed him as the other kicked him in the back of his knees, forcing him down. They dragged him to his feet again and he decided not to risk another glance at the female Elf, much as he wanted to. She saw a Troll, standing about two and a half metres tall, about a metre and a half across at the shoulders, and massing about one hundred and thirty kilos. He had roughly-shorn hair, of a shade that was peculiarly light for a Troll - somewhere between the colour of sanded pine and freshly-cut slate; heavy eyebrows (slightly darker than the unruly thatch that covered his head) seated on his wide brow. He was dressed in crudely worked and poorly-cured leather, with heavy black boots covering his large feet. Two outsize fangs mounted in his prognathous lower jaw indented his upper lip, and his grimy fingernails were almost three centimetres long. His height gave him a certain brutal presence, but he seemed to lack the blunt, monomaniacal stupidity that characterised his race. She detected the faint odour of the underground caverns that the Trolls frequented, the scent of earth that had lain unturned for millennia. Despite his obvious shortcomings and his characteristic Troll ugliness, she (as always) wondered what sort of a bed-partner he would make, immediately dismissing the idea as ludicrous. She spoke, using the Common tongue, and for a moment, Kulyar was entranced by the sound of her voice; she had to repeat herself before he understood her words: "You are going to be my slave. Your duties will include cleaning the floors, fetching my meals, moving furniture and anything else too heavy for the Elven servants. Do you understand?" He looked up at her sullenly, waited until he sensed that the captain was about to order the guards to hit him again and muttered "I hear you." The captain strode over to stand just behind the Troll and hit him on the side of his head, a blow that would have broken the neck of an Elf or a Human; it merely jarred Kulyar slightly, who exhaled evenly. The captain struck again and again, harder each time; Kulyar took it all in his stride. He slowly turned to face the captain, whose face was beginning to turn red with exertion. "Do you mind? If I'm going to be tickled, I'd rather she did it." The captain's eyes narrowed with fury, and the two guards stopped breathing. It was a bad move, but Kulyar then grinned at the captain, who merely motioned to the two guards and spoke tersely in Elvish. They tugged on the chain, and after a pause which established that they couldn't shift him without his cooperation, he allowed them to lead him away. He was taken to a rectangular hole in the stone floor of the dungeons, approximately one and a half metres square. They joined a longer segment of chain to the length attached to his collar and pushed him into the shaft; he had just enough time to grab hold of the chain before he fell. He slowed his descent by pushing his hands and knees out against the slick walls; when he hit bottom, his feet crunched down onto bones. There wasn't enough room to move his arms down to his sides, so he stood there, arms stretched out above his head, staring up the shaft at the two faces that peered down at him before departing. He stayed there for six days, without food or water. After this period, the faces reappeared at the top of the shaft. Kulyar had his eyes closed in a state similar to hibernation, but awoke when the Elves began dragging him up by the chain. He grabbed hold of his end with what little remained of his strength before the collar could choke him. He didn't have the strength to stand when they finally hauled him out, so they had to press a gang of ragged Human prisoners into service, dragging the Troll over the stone flags, up the stairs, to the Elven Princess' room. Before they entered, a guard threw a bucket of water over him. Kulyar managed to catch some of it in his mouth. She was there, seated on her throne; it was as if she hadn't moved since he last saw her. The guards managed, with a great deal of straining, to haul him to his feet. He opened his eyes in a manner that conveyed the immense effort that the act required, and stared insolently at her. She spoke to the guards in Elvish; one of them began to protest, and she cut him off curtly. They dropped Kulyar's chain and left the room. Kulyar could sense them just outside the door, waiting for an excuse to rush in and kill him. Thankfully, the lanky Elven captain wasn't present. She spoke, again in the Common language: "My name is Tryssa. My father is the King of the Elves." She waited for his response, which took Kulyar about ten seconds to formulate; a jaw-cracking yawn. Her eyes narrowed in anger, and she gestured with her left hand, touching her thumb to her index, middle and ring fingers successively and them pointing her little finger at Kulyar. He was struck by an agonising pain in the back of his head, a searing fire which wormed its way forward, threatening to split his skull, driving him to his knees. A moan of distress forced its way past his clenched teeth as he felt his spinal cord being tugged from the back of his brain; then, just as suddenly as it came, the pain was gone. He crouched there, sweat dripping from the end of his nose, panting with exertion; when he dared to look up again, she was regarding him with a small smile. She twitched her left hand slightly, and he cringed back, chains rattling as he backed into the door. Her smile spread. She gestured that he should come closer, and he did so. "Obey me." she said simply. That is how he became her slave. Tryssa (part 2)

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