Of Kings and Trolls: 2. Another Day, Another Problem

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2. Another Day, Another Problem

A little while ago, the last evil burning rays of the sun slid behind the highest western hill, and shadows took full possession of the tangled forests of Yfeldom. The last of the day-dwellers head sleepily towards their homes, the first of the night-dwellers passing them with twitching cautious noses. Twilight...

Oliver sits under the bridge, leaning back against the stone and dirt beside the fetid hole leading to his cave, and chews on a bone. It's not a very good bone, having spent the past few nights in exactly this same activity, and is now rutted and scarred with tooth-marks. But Oliver doesn't seem to care. He hums idly to himself, now and then stirring a careless finger through a heap of trash beside him.

Noises in the west speak rudely of someone not yet quite there. However, judging the rapidly increasing volume of ruckus, it will not take long before a visitor comes in sight. And verily! Lo and behold! Another Olog comes thrashing through the weather hills. His pace is wobbly, but his feet are big so he goes places fast anyways. He minds little to nothing on his rampant way to the bridge. And when still several feet away, his heavy booming voice graces the night sky, as lithe as a tornado, as vibrant as a rusty saw, and as eloquent as a beheaded goblin, "KING! KING OF THE EAST!" *thud* *thud* *thud* Basil runs faster, "I need yers! W'ere's yer at!"

The thundering progress of the troll shakes loose a few pebbles and sends a small cascade of dirt down Oliver's ear. He tips his head back, shaking it to loosen a rock that has gotten stuck, and peers upwards. "'Oo?" he asks interestedly, then points out, "Yer is dropping rocks on me head." His probing hand finds something in the trash heap, and comes out: a fist wrapped triumphantly about a mostly suffocated mouse. In the palm of a creature some ten feet high, a single mouse could be entirely lost, but not if that creature is a troll. Food is food, no matter how small. "I's down here!" Oliver raises his voice to a bellow, and pops the rodent into his mouth.

"Yer's w'ere?!" bellows an almost similar voice, truly be gifted those few linguists able to keep trolls apart by voice! But... as Basil crosses the bridge, there is something strange... something out of the ordinary... something normally not there. *thud* *thud* *boink* *thud* *thud* *boink* It is as if something or someone - heavy judging the BOINK - is following the Olog! "I cannay find yer! Bloody muggins!"

"Down 'ERE!" Oliver directs, around the mouse, and swallows. "Yer comes down 'ERE!" He stirs around in his pile again.

Some well known (famous in certain regions) troll curses voice Basil's opinion of these directions, "I aint a barker yer know! Ter trust on me nose ter sniff yer aht from miles distance!" *thud* *thud* *boink* Then suddenly a large shadow is cast near Ollie's perch, "Aaa'! T'ere yer be! Filthy bugger, 'idin' yer good stuff oy?!" Basil was staring downwards, peeking over the edge, his beady eyes searching.

Suddenly suspicious, Oliver scrabbles around, fat hands hurriedly shoving most of the pile whole-sale down the black hole; while with his body he attempts to hide his actions. And his treasures. "Is not!" he says, though it is patently obvious he lies. "Go 'way! I is havin' me dinner."

Beady eyes narrow at this order, fortunately Basil was never talented in obedience. Conveniently he ignores Ollie's request, as he explains to him, "Get up 'ere right quick! Fill yer tummy later, I gots ter talk to yer, King terKing! We gots trouble a-brewin'!" a short silence follows, quickly followed by: "It gots ter do with food!"

The other troll pays no attention to most of Basil's speech, being occupied in securing his horde. But 'food'. Ah now, that is a word to catch Oliver's ear. He gives a hasty scoop, sending the last of the refuse sliding into blackness and waddles to the edge of the overhang, peering upwards - nearly eye-to-eye with Basil looking downwards. "What sort of food? Has yer got some? Is it tasty?"

"Tasty?!" Basil inquires, and a huge bump - an Olog nose - appears under the beady eyes. Audibly it sniffs the air, then it stops, "Oo yer means me food?! Course tis tasty! Forest food!" Nodding at this, the Olog explains no further about the food, emitting a snarl, "Its those damn gobbers! They is stealin' it'll! Keeps a-killin an' eatin me food. I betcher them is doin it ter yer kin'dem too!"

"STEALIN'??" Oliver's head disappears, only to return a moment later, topped by a dented and tarneshed kettle. The rusty handle swings in a squeaky loop near one ear. He scrambles up the steep, pebbly slope to the level of the road. Clearly, /this/ is something that needs taking care of. "'Oo is stealing Ollie's food!?!"

"Them GOBBERS!" Basil growls, quickly scrambling back to his feet. With one hand he scratches the greasy tangle on his head, as the other taps on something behind him, a wooden object which is tied to the Olog with a rope. "I says we needs ter fink fer a few!" Quite an astonishing thing to say for this species. But pushing the wooden object back, Basil appears earnest.He heaves his bottom high in the air and then plants it firmly on his wooden shadow... making it a chair of sorts. Admittedly the thing has some sort of handles to the right and left, and several boards of differing length form the backsupport. A wobbly cross forms the basic support upon which rests several pieces of lumber to create a very uncomfortable seat. The Olog seems not to mind, twisting and turning a bit, "Yus, yus." he starts, and his voice sounds a bit different... more solemn, KINGLY! "Yus, gobbers, them is wreckin me place. Them comes from yer bridge ter me woods an' hills eatin me food, lookin fer me an me 'oards!"

Thinking is not something most trolls are adept at. "Where is they?" Oliver bellows, turning around in a ponderous circle and peering suspiciously at everybush. One hand clutches a huge tree limb, fashioned into a club of sorts, by the branches having been torn off, and one end roughly smoothed down by some manner of tool, probably a rock. Three-quarters of the way around his circle, his eyes land on Basil's ... throne, and bulge. "There... there is a thing eatin' up yer rear," he points out, after several minutes of mindless boggling.

 "I dunnay w'ers them at!" Basil grunts in regal manner, and oh so subtly he places a hand under his chin, placing his elbow on his knee. So lost in his attempts to frown he remains almost entirely oblivious of Ollie's words... But he recovers aptly! "ME REAR?!" he jumps up, both his hands flying to his behind, touching it all over. Relief surges across his crude face, "Looks ter be all t'ere..." he mumbles. His eyes fall on his thrown, "Yer tries it! Its me kingy-chair! Good fer finkin!"

Oliver watches the transformation from dangerous beast to chair with astonishment. He tries to scratch his head with one stubby finger, but is foiled by the pot that slides greasily back and forth atop his skull. Basil's generous offer only causes him to back away a pace or two, just to be safe. But, as always, his mind swings ever and again to the only important thing in life: dinner. "Yer said food," he reminds the other troll.

Basil watches Ollie with interest, making a face when the other steps back. Then the magic word is spoken: FOOD! The effect on trolls is both versatile and immediate. Basil leaps forward and is about to answer... when he is hit from behind! With a curse and a swear Basil wheels around and tries to kick the troll-throne, "STOP DOIN THAT!" But the throne is quick on its wobbly feet and darts around the Olog, spurred onward by the rope which connects them.

"Yes," Oliver says happily, lost in dreams of dinners. Rabbits, and orcs and sheeps and deer and even, dare he think it? Manflesh! Basil's predicament jars him from these pleasant reflections though, and, being the loyal comrade that he is, it is only a moment before he leaps into action. "It is gonna bite you!" he yells, warningly. "Don' worry though, Ollie gets it!" He swings his club up over his head and brings it slamming down towards the rickety 'throne'.

React first, look later, is a well known lesson in troll education. And so as Ollie warns him of danger, Basil is so kind as to take it seriously and leaps again from his current position. However, due to the Ologs' impeccable timing, when Basil jumps, Ollie hits... The throne is splintered to many, many, many pieces! Such a master-piece, lost! What's worse, no longer is there a rope tied to a weight to hold Basil back, and so his leap takes him farther then anticipated. He topples slightly forward, his head proving heavier than his feet. Headbutting the ground the troll's first cries are muffled...

The danger is averted, the beast (whatever it was) smashed into smithereens. Oliver lowers his club complacently, and bends over Basil. "Yer can gets up," he tells the other troll. "Yer is safe now, it can' bites yer no more. Ollie has killed it." He pokes at the wreckage with the end of his stick. "It don't look very tasty though... I thinks it must 'ave been old an' scrawny-like."

A bit of a struggle before Basil flops back up, his face covered in dirt, grass protruding from his nose and mouth. Spitting it all out he nods vigorously at Ollie's assessment, "Yer right! Dun taste dat great!" If he mourns the loss of his throne, this graceful King shows it not! He remains the cheery monarch, "Most green thingers aint tasty I says. But now we better get a-crackin an' a-killin some gobbers. Them is still eatin all the food. They dunnay want ter give it up, even when I tells 'm!" Hate lights Basil's eyes, angry at such a lack of respect, "I fink them is in yer kingdem." he points east, "Iffin yer dun mind I wants ter help punish 'm." he swings his mace from his side, patting the big blunt upper end in his one hand.

Oliver turns and scents the air. "They is here?" he asks, over his shoulder, but doesn't wait for an answer. Lifting his club, he settles it over one shoulder and starts a slow lumbering run towards the east. "We gets 'em!" he shouts to the dark trees. "We finds 'em and kills 'em and eats 'em!"

With a mighty roar: OOOOOAAAAAAAAAAG! Basil hurries after Ollie. And thus the two noble Kings go to war! Ruthless gobbers beware, yer reign of tyranny shall soon be at an end! Both trolls disappear into the woods, looking for orc. And brave be the orc who now dares to cross the path of this dashingly rampant duo.


This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Chelle

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: 3rd Age - The Stewards

Genre: Humor

Rating: General

Last Updated: 05/05/10

Original Post: 04/15/10

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