He holds his knees toward his chest, long arm folded over long arm folded over long legs. He breathes in, arms bulging and tensing, fingers flexing. He breathes out, the lower curve of each tusk coming to rest on his knees.
He hugs his knees loosely. A belt hugs his waist, slim hips without curve. It is leather, dark brown and well-used. At each hip, a dagger. The daggers serve as his curves, then. They are smooth, sharp, and deadly. He has deadly curves. He wouldn't laugh at the joke. It would be lost on him.
He doesn't laugh much. When he does, it's ugly.
Thick dreadlocks, dark indigo that glows strange in the near-full moonlight; lie piled on his back. They look like dead snakes. Freshly dead, corpulent yet with their life fluids... Well-fed, dead snakes. He breathes in, dead-snake dreadlocks rising miraculously and separating their heads. He breathes out and each limply succumbs, failing at undeath.
A fine mist of droplets appear on his head; invisible from one angle, ghostlike from another, tiny jewels when viewed from ten feet to the north and with the head cocked just… so… His dreadlocks begin to paint the back of his blue shirt black. The place where his suspenders meet his shirt begins to darken, the darkness spreading outward to overtake broad, hunched shoulders. His spine darkens. His trousers are black; they do not change.
Fyve lifts his head, hands holding his knees loosely as he watches the dry plain below him darken, droplets causing dust to lift and settle on the stone around and beneath him. He sniffs and coughs as the water burns his throat. He clears his throat, pinches his nose and sniffs again.
Mist has become thicker rain that causes the troll's long ears to move when the occasional fat drop pelts one just at the tip. He shakes his head automatically, absently as he straightens his legs halfway, moves his hands to his lap and lets his toes hang over the edge of the jutting cliff. Cool water runs down his long tusks and he tilts his chin up and opens his mouth to catch it. He closes his eyes and little oblong globes of crystal water shine on clear white eyelashes beneath a heavy brow where water drips. Rain finds its way in everywhere and he allows this.
He hums through his nose contentedly as he leans forward again to watch the grass bend and the dust turn the rain brown as it runs off of the rocks…
End.
Tinkin' ahbout rehn dis moahnin'. :)
~I'wilo
