The room was dark, it always was. There were no windows to let sunlight in, though the day was at it's peak. No door to open or close, no breeze to move the air, just stone walls and the quiet blathering of a lone troll. The sound of his voice echoed through the underground tunnels of his hive, but were too quiet to travel far. He hated silence, but had forsaken himself to a life of it. He talked so often you'd think he'd run out of things to say, but you can say anything when no one is listening, any and everything. And he did, day in and day out, speaking to the walls decorated in the deep pathways of his chisel. He couldn't see them, the room was too dark, but he liked to run his fingers over them and imagine they made a beautiful mural out of the coarse stone troll stood, content with the physical stimulation the wall provided him with, and moved towards the exit of his large circular room. He used the wall as guidance towards the outbound tunnel, looking his arm to various shelves and cubbies carved into the wall along the way. His lusus helped him put those there when he was young, they were a little high for his reach in those days, but now that he had grown they fit him perfectly. The design was the best for him as well- proper furniture would have been hard to find... unless he smacked his hip into it while trying to walk. The poor guy got enough bruises from running into things as is, the last thing he needed were sharp corners to bruise his innocent his mole lusus's "bed" in the ground, he followed the wall first to his clothing cubbies. They were all very organised- three of them, long and rectangular. The top held his shirts, or rather, the shirts he had taken off of the dead; directly under that was the second for his pants of a similar origin, and ground level sat a cubbie for his shoes. All of the clothing was dirty, and half of it didn't fit him, but he kept them anyways... Simply because he was too afraid to dispose of them. Passed the shelves was his desk; a large rectangular cut out in the wall with a stone slab snugly wedged between the walls. It was home to a number of things, his favourite of which was an old radio. It didn't play any music, that wasn't it's purpose, it was a communication radio. Even so, all he ever heard from it was static. The hive was too far under the mountain to get any signal from people above ground, and no one ever came close enough to this room to transmit any sort of message. It didn't bother the troll, though. He was content with static, even if it was an awful conversationalist. The radio was kept company by jars and jars of small crystals- they were the ones too small to be kept in the crate under the desk. Most would say they glowed faintly in the darkness, but this particularly troll found them horribly lackluster. He liked to feel them, though. They were smooth and sleek, some were sharp and others had rough edges. The flat faces of them remind him of his horns, though, and were a refreshingly nice texture in comparison to the rest of the rough world around him. There was also an old husktop sitting awkwardly on the outskirts of the desk party, covered in dirt and grime from sweeps of neglect. There were probably bugs in the circuitry. This troll didn't care much about it, he didn't see the appeal of a husktop and he didn't know how to use it, or if he could. After all, he couldn't read. Nor could he learn how to, it was just out of the question. This was another fact or reality that didn't bother the lad, he had no use for reading or writing... or typing. Passed the desk, quite a ways passed it, was his exit tunnel. But right before that was a large spike in the wall and a crate on the ground. The spike was a huge safety hazard, but it served a purpose and the troll couldn't bring himself to get rid of it... no matter how many times he ran into it. He was fairly certain he had a permanent bruise across his shoulder from the thing. Regardless, it was an important part of his home and it held his walking staff upright. This staff... This over-sized stick was very important to him. It held a lot of sentimental value, not because it was found in any remarkable manner, but simply because he had owned it for so long that he grew emotionally attached to it. The stick, although dead, grew up with him and held all of his secrets. In return, his hand held many splinters accumulated over the sweeps, both new and old. In his case, splinters were permanent, often times being grown over by skin. They used to hurt, but after nine sweeps he's learned to get over it.
He greeted his old friend, managing to avoid the protrusion from the wall for once, and tapped the staff on the ground to expel any dust that had collected since he last left his room. He turned to his sleeping lusus and bid him farewell before stepping into the long, wide tunnel.
He talked to his staff as he walked, using the stick to tap the ground in front of his feet for large rocks or holes that could make him trip. Most days he news this area pretty well, he knew all the tunnels pretty well, but some days there would be a new rock that fell off the walls. That was about the extent of the excitement this deep underground. As he continued to walk, careful of the pathways he took and following his nose to higher ground, he could hear the loud shouts of miners at the mouth of the cave and the clanking of their hammers and pick axes against stone. Apparently these tunnels were rich in minerals, most days these miners would excavate the shallow tunnels for a few hours. Our troll never knows if they've found anything, but he assumes they have, since they keep coming back. He's afraid of them, and stays far from them, but simultaneously takes comfort in their routine. They help him determine the time of day better than the temperature can and sometimes they leave things behind for him to find. Unfortunately, sometimes, more often than you think, trolls will wander into the tunnels in search of something. Maybe it's more minerals, maybe it's treasure, or maybe they're being chased by something, but none of them get very far. The labyrinth of tunnels dug into and under the mountain side was a formidable force. Most who tried to explore them would die or turn around before finding anything of true value. Our troll is the janitor and the tenant of this maze, and as such he takes it on himself to clear it of those who pass here... Admittingly because they start to smell very quickly. He's got a bit of a sensitive nose.
He wandered further into the shallow region of the tunnels until the air got thicker and oxygen filled his lungs. Much like high altitudes, the deep underground had thin air that was hard to breathe in, and high levels of carbon dioxide. He was glad he took after his lusii, or the lack of oxygen in his room may have been a problem, but as was it was just another fact of life. Not to say he didn't thoroughly enjoy fresh air- it was very refreshing and warm in comparison to his usual. He was content here, close enough to breathe and hear, but far enough from the outside to remain unnoticed. After all, nobody actually knew he lived here. People might come looking for him if they did, and that would be disastrous for everyone involved. There was more than one way to die in this place. Oxygen deprivation was one, but there was a constant risk of cave-ins as well. It's easy to get lost as well, run out of survival supplies, and collapse trying to find the way out again. There were even rumours that the cave was haunted. Our troll has never seen a ghost or come in contact with one, though. He kind of wishes he would, maybe they'd keep him company. He imagined a ghost friend would be great company, after all, they couldn't kill him if they were already dead themselves.
After a while of sitting, a while of waiting, and a while of listening, the miners groaned in unison. Apparently it was getting late, most of them were complaining about sore backs and arms while others made fun of the complainers. There was one that cooed and fawned over getting to go home to their matesprit. The others unanimously told him to shut up and stop rubbing it in. They chatted and bickered as they gathered their supplies and left- voices and footsteps fading out of the cave. Our young troll slowly got up from this place on the ground and warily walked towards the outside. He sniffed and listened for any movement in case anyone was left behind. Slowly, gingerly, he let his feet lead him to the outside of the cave, where the miners just were, and started to feel around for any forgotten or discarded objects. There were none today, which was a bit disappointing but not unusual.
On a normal basis, he'd scurry back into the safety of darkness before anyone had a chance to come back... But this evening had such a nice breeze. It was arm against his skin accustomed to the cold, and it was gentle. It wasn't scary like most winds, it didn't try to knock him down or blow sand in his face. It wasn't violent like most winds, it was kind and it was comforting. The troll stood in it for a long moment, breathing in the heavy air and feeling how it filled his lungs with life. He wavered where he stood, caught up in the serenity of quiet life around him. He decided to sit and breathe. No talking to himself, no echoing voices or sounds of work, just the swaying of leaves and sweet whistling of the breeze.