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| - Drip. Drip. Drip. In the impenetrable darkness of the cold, dank cell, he sat silently on his haunches. Were the blackness pierced by illumination even the tiniest bit, one would see his bright green, bristly hair standing straight out from its roots. Long tusks, yellowed with age, sprouted from the corners of his mouth, and a scruffy beard had begun to sprout around them, tracing an itchy path across his chin and neck. Malek'jin continued to remain still and silent, listening to the sounds of the dungeons. There was far more to hear than just the dripping of the water, or the occasional stomping of a guard near his door. He had been listening to the other sounds, the voices of the spirits, which were alive and well even in a place like this. They could not hear him, of course, unless th
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| abstract
| - Drip. Drip. Drip. In the impenetrable darkness of the cold, dank cell, he sat silently on his haunches. Were the blackness pierced by illumination even the tiniest bit, one would see his bright green, bristly hair standing straight out from its roots. Long tusks, yellowed with age, sprouted from the corners of his mouth, and a scruffy beard had begun to sprout around them, tracing an itchy path across his chin and neck. Malek'jin continued to remain still and silent, listening to the sounds of the dungeons. There was far more to hear than just the dripping of the water, or the occasional stomping of a guard near his door. He had been listening to the other sounds, the voices of the spirits, which were alive and well even in a place like this. They could not hear him, of course, unless they somehow saw him as anything other than a curiosity, so he spent most of his time in complete silence. The troll was filthy. They let him out only rarely, never removing his chains or giving him the decency of more than just a loincloth, but the Darkspear did not mind. There was little more to his existence than the intermittent periods where he was allowed to eat cold bread and hard cheese, being shunned even by the other prisoners. Despite all of this, Malek'jin never lost his knowing smirk, the expression on his face that told everyone around him that all was right with his world. Heavy booted feet approached from outside the cell door, and there was the jingle of metal. Wiggling his long, pointed ears, Malek'jin kept his eyes closed against the inevitable brightness that would soon invade. The door was pushed open slowly, and a lambent orange glow intruded on the troll's midnight universe. Slowly peeling back his eyelids, a mild stabbing pain affected his two black orbs, and he blinked in the light of the lantern. "On your feet, troll," came a voice from someone who was not used to being ignored. Slowly, the old Darkspear rose to his feet, joints groaning and popping in protest. Dirty and aching, he shuffled towards the door as his eyes acclimated themselves to the relative brightness, focusing in on the features of the humans standing in front of him. They were all armored to a greater or lesser degree, and two of the three had heavy cudgels in hand. The third was portly and wheezing as he stood there, thinning greasy hair atop a warty head. "Time for breakfast, creature," the man said with unmasked disdain. "Bring him to the cook line, and make sure the others get their food before he does." Breakfast was a sorry affair, consisting of a dry hunk of brown bread and a clay cup of water. The troll was kept chained as he ate, the ends held by two brawny oafs that watched every slow, ponderous move he made. Malek'jin ignored the stares and insults of the other prisoners as he sat in the corner of the room, paying close attention to every crumb that escaped his consumption. Malek'jin was returned to his cell some time after, shoved rather rudely inside as the door was slammed behind him, the noise amplified in the tiny confines of his small world. The troll had not broken his smile the entire time, and comfortably resumed his place leaning against the cool stone wall, crouching down and listening to the sounds beyond sound once more. He was disturbed by the awareness of his door being opened once more, and he instinctively shielded his eyes with one of his slender chained arms. A broad yet squat shape, silhouetted against the lantern light outside, stood imposingly in the doorway. In one hand was a guard's cudgel, and in the other was a ring of keys. "Be dis anudda round at da post?" the troll asked skeptically, the bruises from his last unprovoked beating still sore on his chest and shoulders. The dwarf grasped the end of the chains and fumbled for the lock, jamming one of the keys inside and twisting hastily. Malek'jin's eyes finally adjusted to the light again, and he saw a long, braided orange beard attached to the figure's face. "Come on," Smitty said. "We're gettin' you out of here."
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