Fyve: Nothing Can Hurt Me (3)
Back at the Filthy Animal, his favorite inn in Dalaran, Fyve drank sullenly. He was completely smashed - his eyes were hot and swollen; his mouth completely numb. His hands were heavy and boneless... He wondered how he could even lift a glass.
He then wondered if he had just been wondering about anything. He wondered briefly about the word, "redundant". He even said it aloud, "Nunnem... pfft." He waved a hand dismissively in the air. He wasn't even sure where he had heard the term.
The made-up young blood elf that had seated herself across from the troll sniffed indignantly with a toss of her long red hair and took her leave. Rude enough that the bastard hadn't offered to buy her a drink, but she was fairly certain he had just called her a "no-neck" as he'd waved her away. Her hand wandered self-consciously to her throat as she entered the crowded streets. Maybe this blouse made her look fat? "He probably likes men", she snorted, satisfied that she'd gotten the last word.
In reality, Fyve hadn't even noticed the girl. He studied the condensation rings, carven messages, and chipped and cracked wooden swirls of the table as he fell deep into thought.
He recalled the scene in vivid detail - Her hair by the firelight had fascinated him. It was a deeper shade of the aqua waves that rose and fell in the bay area on Stranglethorn Cape. He'd wanted to reach out and touch her hair, smell it. He thought about the girl's tiny hands, the way she held her her food and took such little bites. Did all females eat that way? Strange that he'd never noticed. Stranger still that he should be so fascinated now.
And her voice... He'd never been one for music. He abhorred the crowded festivals where it seemed every damned creature with a mouth or hands would noisily blow into and bang on things. He felt himself stealthing at the thought of such disturbing racket and he caught himself, fading only partially from view before he fully materialized again.
He would have listened to her from a closer spot, had he not felt so guilty about watching her. He frowned at that. Fyve wasn unaccustomed to guilt feelings. He couldn't understand the words as she sang, but the way her voice had flowed effortlessly from a happy sparrow-lilt to a somber and mournful lament had been almost painful to hear. He realized he was completely taken with her. Charmed. It disturbed him.
He felt a dull tingle in his loins and was glad that he was drunk. "Let ya get all excited", he thought at his limp and useless dick. He didn't feel like getting up to find a private spot. Besides, he always felt so prone and nervous when he did that, even though he retained his weapons close at hand. It was difficult to be aware of his surroundings once he got into it. Much moreso than when he was under the affect of alcohol.
Masturbation was a dangerous, nerve-wracking chore for him. He always tried to find something to kill afterward, to reassert himself as the predator and not the hapless prey. The fact that he didn't live anywhere didn't makle finding a secluded place to "take care of business" any easier.
He sighed and stretched his long legs, cracked his neck and stood, stretching the length of his body skyward and then rolling his shoulders as he settled back into his hunched position.
Weaving slightly, he took his purse to the owner of the inn, a masculine and dark-skinned female orc with a ponytail tight enough to stretch her face. He handed her some coinse and slowly took the creaking stairs to the bed he had rented.
Fyve unbuttoned his shirt and left his pants on. He fell asleep before his head hit the lumpy mattress, a long tusk tearing a gash in the fabric and sending a puff of feathers and sawdust onto his face. He noticed none of this, as he was already passed out.
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"Ungh... nnnn.. wha..." he awoke with a headache and opened one bloodshot eye. Feathers and sawdust were everywhere. "Oh ya muddafuck." Fyve lie there, working his jaw in a vain attempt to produce some spit for his dried and pasty mouth. It seemed all his saliva had been wasted on the mattress. He moaned in disgust as he disengaged his long tusk from the mattress in one graceless motion. There was a ripping sound and more wooden shavings took to the air and fluttered down to the floor and bed - a pleasantly aromatic amber snow. "Bitch!", he cursed hoarsely.
The exhausted troll swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, scratching his bare chest. He grimaced at the sticky dried sweat there. Fyve leaned his elbows on his knees and held his aching head in his hands.
No work today. Good, he felt like hell. It wasn't that anyone dictated his days and hours. People in his line of work don't punch clocks. He only took breaks when the mood struck him, or if he had a particularly nasty wound to recover from.
His vacations often left him feeling more stressed than his bloody, dangerous work. He sometimes wondered why he bothered.
Fyve briefly considered just lying back down but as tired as he was he knew he wouldn't sleep. He was filthy-sticky and he reeked of boozy sweat. Of all the uncomfortable inconveniences he naturally endured, being dirty was the only one he couldn't abide by. It made him feel like he was a mere stupid beast. An animal. He briefly heard the taunting voices of several pink and human blood elves, and his own animal cries of fear and pain... He shook his head against the shitty memory. Fyve asked himself the three questions that he used to re-form or forget such memories. One: Did it happen? Two: How did it affect me? Three: How did it hurt me? His eyes narrowed as he answered himself in his mind. One: It never happened. "Nebber hap.", he mumbled. Two: Well, since it never happened, that question was rendered irrelevant. Three: It didn't hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. "Not a damn ting."
The voices faded and he grinned triumphantly, but without any trace of humor. It was a forced smile that would have appeared cruel, had anyone been there to witness it.
-end
I hope you're enjoying the story thus far. I'm really enjoying writing it. New installments will be added shortly, as I write them. I take my little notebook and pen outside whenever I smoke a cig and I write until my hands are numb (it's freezing in NJ!). Sorry for the lack of fucking. I'm really not doing any planning on these chapters, so they just sort of tumble out as they are. Please do comment if you vote. I would love to hear what people think.
The Fyve stories take place in Azeroth, from World Of Warcraft. While I try to explain the basics of what is going on for those who are unfamiliar with the game, I don't go too far into detail only because it would really become tedious reading!
For stories of a more typically furry pursuasion, see my alternate author "Tarantulady". Cats, wolves, mice, and assorted typical furry creatures are there, getting their clits and dicks tortured or just finding out what's inside eachother's fursuits, lol.
If you have any questions about what a troll is, my profile explains that and there are also various websites online with pictures.