“Is there any reason why I oughta not plug you full of holes, mister fish?” drawls the brownblood pressing the barrel of a shotgun to your thinkpan.
“I’m too pretty?” You offer up. Knees digging into your chin as your hands press into the old, grainy wood of the floor, you don’t think making reasoned arguments is going to help you here. Besides, what will you say?
There is no penalty for killing a man the Empire already thinks is dead.
They give a snort, and you take the act of continued breathing as an opportunity to press your luck.
“Do you really want to kill me? I haven’t done a thing to anyone here. I’m sure we could get along quite well if you weren’t so intent on putting lead into my skull.”
“Now that’s a darn lie.” They drawl, and you try to shift a little before the barrel gets pushed in harder.
“My legs are falling asleep.” You offer up, and it’s not a lie, either.
“The only reason you ain’t dead is because I need to know what you are. I can tell it’s something, so don’t bother shoveling crap.”
“I consider myself a troll of many talents. More seriously, I’m not quite sure. There was an incident a little while back with those louses, but I don’t know for certain what that was more than anyone else does.”
If you say ‘horrorterrors’, they’ll either shoot you if they’re superstitious, or they’ll laugh and continue trying to shake the truth out of you.
Their voice hardens into a tone that wouldn’t be out of place at a mirthful and seadweller diplomacy meeting. You’re just so pleased they’re interested, and not looking at the most uncomfortable floor.
“More details, mister fish, or you start losing parts.”
“I grow those back.”
The short brownblood peers around the barrel of the gun that’s about four fifths of their height. They don’t look much older than 8 sweeps, but their voice sounds more aged.
“Just what the heck are you?” They demand, and you roll your eyes. “Also, prove it.”
Obligingly, you use the claw of one hand to rip off another almost to the point where it would be painful, not that such slight discomfort would even register as much of anything these nights. Almost before the break is clean, the keratin starts re-weaving, growing back into a point.
The lowblood whistles, and you shift a little again.
“So what, you’re a psiionic violet? They cook you up in a lab? That doesn’t explain what I felt.”
“I started to grow things back a tad too well after the louses came, had a few rare symptoms...”
The floor is so very uncomfortable and so very satisfying to see them sway on as you finally press hard with your foot on one of the loose planks in the floor, giving you the second you need to kick them over and take their gun before standing up as they writhe on the floor.
You’re long gone by the time they so much even manage to push themselves up.
“Maybe I should just give a quiz.” You murmur to yourself. It’s a silly habit, but there’s so much you can’t talk about anymore. “’What is Thrixe Varzim?’ Your answers can be ‘bored, amused, annoyed, or unimpressed’.”
You take the gun out of your sylladex, the only reason you came to the town, the reason you couldn’t just take the bullets and shrug it off. You’ll return it soon enough, eldritch inscriptions and all.
You push through the flap of the tent, and let your hood down, shaking out your hair.
The troll you’ve come to see turns around, eyebrows raised expectantly as you clear your throat.
