Chapter Text
The first thing that slowly dragged him to the waking world was not the trash that had been continuously bumping into his body. Nor was it the moonlight glaring down onto him, stinging his battle wounds ever so slightly. No, it was the sudden realization that he was not, in fact, dead. He was still, however, in a lot of pain.
Struggling to rise, he realized exactly why he was still in pain when his face collided with the mud. Growling at the grit, Bular the Vicious flipped himself onto his back to take account of his losses. Not only has his left arm crumbled off during his trip down the man made river, but his left leg seemed to match.
As he laid there, his mind wandered to what happened last…
Bular remembered the way the blade burned his insides, how it’s flame was far more painful than any ray of sun had ever felt on his stoney skin. He remembered the look of determination as the boy yelled his final line, his blue eyes searing Bular with the fire they held. But what he remembered most of all, was how his body fell into the man made river, sinking to the bottom with little resistance.
He had tried to hold on, even with his body burning from the inside out, to wait for the right time to strike. But as his grip had weakened and his vision blurred, Bular felt himself fading faster and faster. His rage at the trollhunter may have been mighty, but his body’s needs were stronger then he hoped. The last thing he remembered seeing when his good arm finally gave way was the plump fleshbag, just a good jump away from ending…
But the current had other plans, and swept him away before he could even rise.
And here he was now, a good forty percent of his body gone and his pride ruined...
“ Bushigal…”
Well, he wasn’t going to die here. If the past few hundred years had taught him something, it was that he could wait a few days more till the Gumm-gumms were rightfully freed. But he couldn’t face the Trollhunter again, not how he was…
He’d need to rest, and then he’d need to find out where he was. But staying out on the river bank, although tempting, would lead to his end once the sun rose. He’d need to find a cave, preferably a deep one. So with a deep, guttural growl, he sank only hand into the mud and began to drag himself up onto dry land.
His mind flitted in and out of coherent thought, however, as he crawled across the ground.
What would he do now?
If Stricklander had survived, then he’d probably be in the process of tearing down the bridge before the Trollhunter and his group arrived. Or running to the hills like the cowardly impure he was.
Bular could deal with the first, but the second was more likely...at least, in his mind.
There was also his father. They had been so close, but they had failed…
He had failed…
“ Bushigal… ” Bular muttered under his breath, his mind wandering to how his father might react to see him like this. Weak, defeated, somehow alive even after disgracing not only himself, but no doubt all of Gumm-gumm kind…
Oh he could see it now all, starting with his father scowling at his son’s defeat. His blade raised to remove the embarrassment he turned out to be. And all the while his sniveling advisor, Bular had long forgotten his name, would be going on and on how he’d been right about Bular. Hell, no doubt Stricklander would be there too, holding back a smile.
Before Bular knew it, a roar had escaped his lips as he swung at the imaginary Stricklander, only to feel air slip through his claws.
Falling face first into the dirt once more, Bular returned to growling as he steadied himself and continued his quest to find shelter. Yet with each pull, he felt his conscious draining fading more and more. He needed to find shelter, and soon…
Luckily, he smelt something familiar...Something his mind had long ago connected with food.
Changing his position to follow the scent, Bular dragged himself further away from the man made river and deeper inwards, towards the Flesh bags he smelled. It wasn’t long after that he came across two huts, one right next to the other. Part of him egged him to go into the clearly lived in a hut, to slaughter the few inside and feast, as his body needed the nourishment. But he knew in this state that he could not hunt as he once easily could.
No, he needed to rest. Food would have to wait for tomorrow.
Finding the other hut, the one he soon realized was what the flesh bags called a “barn”, empty of life; Bular made his way inside and found comfort on the obscene amount of hay left about. He didn’t question how the smell of animals seemed far too old, or the fact that some moonlight seemed to poke through the multitude of holes around him. No, all his tired, battle worn body wanted was to sleep.
And sleep it did.
“Egg time, egg time, Grandpa says it egg time…”
Two things became rather apparent, at least when Bular awoke. The first thing was that he smelled something new, something far fresher than the faded scent of animals. The second was that Bular had seemed to bury himself under the hay, and whether this was subconscious or not was up for debate.
Slowly opening his eyes, Bular winced as they were met with brightness. His head started to pound, but he was no doubt, still alive. Everything seemed to glow, yet most of it came from the front of the barn door, which had been swung open by a small little...thing. It took Bular a few moments to recognize that it was a human whelp, no bigger than his leg. And it was heading straight for the hay pile, screeching without a care!
Who thought it was a good idea to let this thing loose?
The hunger from last night returned in full, and he tried his best to wait till it got closer. It wouldn’t keep him full, but at the very least it would provide some energy until he could sneak inside the house and devour the others.
Just as it got close enough to reach, however, a sudden, low grumble from his stomach betrayed him.
The Whelp froze thankfully, eyes darting around for the source of the noise. In it’s tiny little hands held a basket, no doubt what it came in the barn for. But before it could even speak a word, Bular leaped out of the hay and towards the tiny flesh bag, ready to capture it with ease…
Till he remembered that, yes, his arm and leg were still gone.
The whelp darted just in time to avoid getting crushed, and scrambled to the barn doors. For a moment, Bular thought it would get into the sun and alert the other. And that was something he could not afford at the moment. Scrambling himself, he shot his only hand into the sunlight and managed to snag the fleshbag entirely, grabbing her by the leg and pulling her into the safety of the shade.
As his hand hissed and glowed with pain, the small child watched with fear and wonder. She hadn’t yet screamed, except for the quick yelp that had followed when she was grabbed. She just remained still, the panic having seized her up.
Bular huffed for a few moments, the rest of his body responding to the sudden flash of movements with it’s miniature revolt. He could feel the wound in his chest tearing open once again, as well as the small pinpricks of light poking him from the barns holes...he’d no doubt have trouble trying to even chase another human down, even at night fall.
Luckily, another idea entered his head.
“Fleshbag,” Bular grumbled, pulling the child close to his face so it could see just how pointy his teeth were. “If you value your life, and the life of your loved ones, you will fetch me all the meat you have.”
And for a moment, the whelp said nothing, and Bular figured he’d killed the thing with fear. But after a few seconds, it slowly began to nod. Slowly Bular sat it down, and watched as it shakily grabbed it’s basket, but didn’t rush off.
Bular growled, narrowing his eyes. “...now.”
The Child rushed off.
It was a gamble, seeing as the whelp could just rush off and warn it’s parents. But he had figured he’d starve either way, and having the child be his daylight servant would work similar to how he’d ordered Stricklander around. Hopefully it would choose to recognize his threats and not rush to the hills. Humans ignorance with how trolls worked was usually their downfall.
By the time he’d gotten himself situated back under the hay, he heard the creaking of a door opening and closing, as well as the sound of a wicker basket being dragged on the ground. After another few minutes, he could see that the whelp had followed through with his orders, and was carrying what seemed to be not only various odd slices of meat, but a frozen bird carcass or two.
He allowed himself the comfort of laying down as the child managed to drag the heavy load towards him, huffing and struggling nonetheless. With a final huff, the child let go of the basket and flopped to the dirt below, a mild amount of sweat dripping off it’s brow.
“T-there you go, Mr. Boogie man.” said the whelp, still a bit frightened. Weather she meant to or not, she seemed to back herself up to the barn wall, her eyes still glued onto him. Yet Bular didn’t care much for it, as he’d picked the basket up and dumped it’s contents into his gaping jaw with vigor. The plastics wrapped around it offered an odd crunch to some of the food, and it wasn’t human, but it would be enough for now. It was only after his stomach had calmed that he processed what the Flesh bag had called him.
“Boogie man?” Bular muttered, no doubt seeming confused by this new title. No, boogie man seemed ridiculous. He wouldn’t stand for it. “I am Bular, son of Gunmar, son of the original Heart stone.”
“...Boolar?” the Whelp questioned, it’s fear fading into curiosity as it leaned closer. No doubt getting a better look of him. Bular snorted, and once again the child had it’s back against the wall.
For a few moments, neither said much of anything. Just stared at each other until Bular huffed and turned away, nestling himself further into the hay. Outside, the birds were lazily chirping and the bugs were no doubt buzzing about. And the sun’s rays were already beating down upon the earth, making him put his search for home and temporary prosthetic on hold.
“Flesh bag whelp, how far is the settlement “Arcadia” from here?” Bular asked, after noticing the child had yet to flee.
“...I dunno where that is.” It muttered, before looking back up at Bular with a question of its own. “What’s a heart stone?”
“The Heart stone is the lifeblood of all Troll-kind.” Bular responded, glaring at the whelp. Of course, when would a flesh bag ever teach it’s young something special. But before he could ask another question, the whelp tacted on another.
“What’s a troll?”
“I am a troll.” By now Bular was starting to get annoyed. Honestly it was conversations like this that always made him angry. Having the fact that his race was forgotten by humanity rubbed into his face. When the whelp opened its mouth to ask another question, Bular snarled and leand close. “This will be the last question I answer, child. Ask another and I will eat you...”
The whelp then quickly shut its mouth, eyes growing wide. Turning it’s gaze away, the child seemed to look at the ground with deep thought. After a few minutes of silence, it finally spoke up. “I don’t wanna waste it then...”
Bular stared at the whelp for a few moments as it pouted, poking the dirt in it’s fuss, before rolling his eyes and burying himself into the hay once more. He was too tired for this. He would deal with all of this later, once his wounds stopped aching… “Well, save your questions for tonight, whelp.”
And with that, Bular once again let his consciousness fall to the world of dreams.