#trollhuntermom

[stix-n-bread]

For the kiss meme, maybe Barbara/Strickler? 1-O? (trollhuntermom) Thank you! ❤️

@trollhuntermom (figured it would help that i tag you if that’s alright :D)

(the meme)

[broken-crcwn]

@trollhuntermom

"Those are important, sure." She takes a deep breath. "Look. You used to have a specific goal to work towards, something to look forward to. All that is gone. I'm not trying to rub it in, all I'm saying is this: Whether you like it or not, you're not alone. There're people who care about you, who gets concerned when they find you deep in thought in the backyard so close to dawn."

All that is gone. 

The words strike him almost as hard as the swing of a sword. It is fact, and he knows it, has known it, but to hear it tumbling from the Lake woman’s lips as though she has any idea what that means to him--

-- she has no idea what she’s talking about --

gone gone GONE GONE GONE.

They’re gone. They’re all gone.

Bular snarls deep in his chest and backs away several steps, looking down at the manicured grass to avoid eye contact with the woman. If he looks at her, he’s not sure he won’t kill her. 

“Gone,” he mutters. “Yes, they are all gone. My father is gone. And you stand there speaking about it as though you have any idea what that feels like! But you don’t. You can’t. There is no possible way you could even come close to understanding what it is like to lose everyone you love, all the family you have ever known, your entire culture in a single instant! Gone! Wiped out! Nothing more than whispers on the wind, and you have the gall to talk to me about moving on from loss?” 

“You have the gall to talk to me about the fact that it was your son who took it all away from me in the end?”

[fear-before-valor]

📸 (from trollhuntermom <3)

Social Media + Texting II Accepting II @trollhuntermom II under the cut!

[nrth-wind-a]

give ‘em hell, kid — what are your biggest fears? (From trollhuntermom)

@trollhuntermom

Skrael shot up from his desk, which had evidently been acting as his resting place instead; how long had it been since he'd accidentally fallen asleep?

Clearly, long enough that the exhaustion that had blown in with the results of the battle at Killahead Bridge-- and all the effort they'd had to expend in reevaluating, and, moreso, in Bellroc's recovery-- had caught him unsuspecting.

Bellroc's recovery, which was not a burden by any means.

...but it did wear on him, in the chest, in the heart, rather than in patience or willingness.

Because of course he was willing to be there for them. He would never not be.

But it was difficult, on occasion, to handle.

He prefered not to name what he felt for Bellroc, because... There were many, many complications that could come with that. But, he did freely admit that their safety mattered to him. That their pain was his, too.

And Bellroc had never been in greater pain.

Emotional or physical; neither had won out over the other. They'd had to handle gargantuan amounts of both.

Portions that he wished he could take more of from them, portions that he would freely devour were he given the chance.

But they were headstrong, and if they said no, then they'd enforce it.

And when Skrael had asked if they needed help--

Not being able to was grating on him.

He was allowed only in practical needs, and even then, only the most base.

Anything else was met with refusal and anger.

And he knew the anger wasn't directed at him. But it was still difficult to take it.

He didn't return it, by any stretch. He never would.

But he did feel anger.

It rubbed his throat raw and twitched under his knuckles. The troll who'd done this... Merlin, who'd given her the means to...

If they didn't perish by his own hand, or, better, Bellroc's, then he swore that whatever did do them in would receive only help from him, because nothing in all the planes would be able to stop him ensuring their deaths.

Not as long as drew breath, as long as he had will to spare.

Unfortunately, he wasn't angry every moment of time that passed these days, and this was a troublesome problem.

Because--

A vision.

The mighty, arrogant, Merlin's Trollhunter swung.

It didn't hit their eyes.

All across the world, heat and flame vanished, in a single, burning flash.

They'd been hit in a far worse place.

Skrael shivered. The waking mind was difficult to bear, but he could easily claim that the truth was, his sleeping mind, rare though it visited, was deeply worse.

Rubbing his eyes, as if he could somehow blot out the nightmare, he forced himself to return to work.

Fear, it seemed, was an incredibly efficient motivator.

[grand-commandant]

🤕? (trollhuntermom)

There are rather few pleasures that came with being part of this existence in the form of a changeling if an honest answer was to be given. After all, so despised on all fronts with hisses of tricksters, liars and noteworthy backstabbers, where could you ever snatch anything positive...? True, they could enjoy things one side had over the other such as proper dental hygiene and wine or the quicker transportation routes of below ground but the wise know that there is no true safety in either of those worlds. It would perhaps come as a surprise to outsiders that the Lady had foreseen that while they may walk in the sun’s light or the moon’s glow unheeded, even the cleverest amongst them would still be left fighting the tide in her name. Thus when she had first begun her research into those who would be declared her children in the future, it was decided that she would gift them favours to give them an edge. For example? Their bodies filled with magics rarely face the same sickness the likes trolls or humans suffer. Such a small thing and yet this proved highly advantageous for careful nudging or infiltrating knowing there would be no risk of being struck down with the rest of the unwashed masses.

Alas, the same could not be said for injuries or the equally infuriating concept of cracked glasses.

A mere fleshbag managing to get the jump on him of all people? Ugh, perish the damn thought of anybody finding out! Or worse, Stricklander doing. He is still firmly on his immense power trip caused by having a private assassin in his pocket and this would be an opportunity ripe for the picking. No no, there is no point worrying about that now. Better to keep trying to stem the bleeding with a pilfered jacket lest somebody notice the colour was hm, unusual? Yes, that is probably a good word. It’s not like the owner will be needing this anymore. Their knife might have slipped under his rib cage because they were stupid enough to follow the attack first ask questions later mindset but they had severely under estimated the strength belayed by this humble face that was his preferred appearance in the process. Or at least, would have done until their head cracked into concrete. Their blood being the correct colour would help add to the illusion of a walking wounded. He texts a number for clean up and steadily made his distance from the cause.

Hospitals however and whatever form they came in would never cease to disgust him. Utterly rancid places under the mask of cleanliness, filled to the brim with the breath of those dragged into this life as much as those slipping away and wrapped in shiny whites accompanying relentless footsteps on ill suited floors. How misfortunate it was that this wound would look too suspicious without stitches holding it together and a safe house risked passing far too many eyes to get to. This American system, as ugly as it was, had the decency to place him in a room with privacy away from the other humans when a credit card was flashed. The rare advantage of worshipping infinite Gods of nothing he supposed. The jacket he kept is allowed to drop to the floor as uselessly as the owner had while he works gingerly away at the buttons of his own under shirt after letting the suspenders drape off his shoulders. A small kindness in the form of easier access to whomever might come in and lets him assess how best to wrangle a suitable story.

The doctor who enters the room with an apology for tardiness causes surprise if for but a moment and when his eyes quickly scan the ID tag, it was though everything had slotted into place at once with conniving recognition. Her. Stricklander’s little beau he seemed so desperate to hide as much as his lax attitude with the Trollhunter. How delightfully ironic and him without the means of testing the waters. A shame, truly.

“Dr. Lake I presume? Ah, please forgive the ramblings of the injured! A close colleague of mine has mentioned you a few times and I,” the smile is wide and friendly despite the flinch of pain when he tries to giver her a mock bow.

“I must admit the pleasure of meeting you in the flesh for myself could have been in far better circumstances than these. Your reputation truly proceeds you, I have heard nothing but good things.”

[trollamulet-archived]

22 from trollhuntermom <3

even after all that - to hell and back in a fever dream he cannot remember -- jim sighs, burying his face into her arms and all he wants to do is cry because it’s over - it’s finally over, there’s nothing left except the shambling ruins of something ancient - the old is gone and there is a new beginning. 

and all jim wanted to was sag into her arms, strong and warm and firm around his once-again human body and he all but choked back a sob, fingers gripping the fabric of her scrubs as he shakes. “mom.” he murmured. he was so glad to be home and safe and warm in somewhere he knew and maybe now he could graduate, like any normal kid and go to the instate college like his mother dreamed.

everything would be alright now.

@trollhuntermom

[indomitable-stoneheart-archive]

@trollhuntermom

Barbara did not move, and it really took a lot of willpower not to flee at the sight of the hulking shape in the shadows. A scream rose and died in her chest before it could escape her, as another realization trickled into her mind like cold water.

Too close to the house.

She couldn’t afford to lead... him?... to Jim. Questions lined up. What is he? What does he want?

“Another three or four hours at least, I’d say.” Her voice didn’t tremble, but shock made her sound breathless. Her brain picked up on something- the words sounded like a threat. She canted her head and studied him, as a leverage to wrestle the fear if nothing else. “What happens when the sun rise?”

Bular has ensured he is between the fleshbag woman and her domicile, just for good measure. What a treat it is to be fortunate enough to finally catch the mother of the Trollhunter alone -- even after all this time. 

Now, he just has to figure out what precisely he’s going to do with this opportunity. 

The Lake boy killed his father, the only parent the ex prince had left. It’s only fair, perhaps, that Bular should take his mother as revenge. Wouldn’t that be just appropriate?

He smiles, but it’s empty and humorless and cruel. 

“Three or four hours, all to ourselves,” Bular muses, tail lightly waving. “Where are my manners, I never did introduce myself: I am Bular the Vicious, son of Gunmar the Black. You must be Barbara Lake, mother of Trollhunters.”

[cantstoptherot]

“What are you doing in a place like this?” (Trollhuntermom- heeey!)

@trollhuntermom

Myth and Magic Sentence Starters

The troll regards the red haired woman with a critical, silent gaze. She was bold to speak to Angor after their past encounters. Barbara’d struck him, and subsequently been wounded by his tethering magicks, all for the sake of her whelp. That was in the past though. The Trollhunter was not here, nor did he have any quarrel at the time. 

Glowing gold breaking away to rove the shadowed corridors in a cursory glance a rumble peals from throat in a soft contemplation, towering frame hunched to keep horns from scraping ceiling. ‘Exploring,’ the assassin answers with a voice like grit. ‘This is a ward, I surmise. Is that correct?’