Chapter 2: The Chapter Which Otto Learns What It's Like to Fall on His Ass. More Than Once.
The door was open when he arrived.
He had rapped his knuckles against it, just enough force for the sound of bone against wood to echo throughout the house and push the door slightly open.
Blinking at the motion, Walter Strickler gripped the doorknob in a wiry hand, pushing it further to peek inside.
He hadn't been in Otto's new home. Sure, an address had been sent via a scrawled letter spelling out the street, the house description, and the new landline number. He simply hadn't had the time to visit yet. Besides, he reasoned, Otto's feet had been on Arcadia's soil for less than a week. He had time to pay a visit and bring a housewarming gift before it became rudely belated.
He squinted sharply in the dim light of the foyer, the pale shape of a hallway table the only visible outline in the darkness. Cursing under his breath, the man stepped over the threshold, air stale.
Hands fumbling against the light grey wall, Strickler searched till his fingers found the switch to the hallway light, bulb flickering before coming to life. Strickler made his way deeper into the modest two-story house, gliding past the small settee in the living room and noting the flashing television - the muffled sounds of a man cooing over a new blender coming from the squat device as he passed. His eyes flickered to the dining area outside of the kitchen as he entered the next room and, frowning, Strickler clicked his tongue at the sight of unpacked boxes, tape and staples still steadfast and strong.
"Otto…" he mumbled under an exhale as he twisted a nearby box labeled Scheisse to face him.
Strange for his former nestmate to fall behind on anything. Otto was meticulous, precise, a damn perfectionist.
Surely. Strickler mused, as he pulled his hand away and turned towards the kitchen door, I would've thought he'd unpacked all his Scheisse by now.
All of Strickler's silent musings, however, came to a sharp halt when he felt something give way under his shoe. Starting, he stepped back, backside ramming into the edge of the swinging kitchen door as he stared at the source of the soft crunch.
Otto's Christmas present from 1997. In pieces.
Strickler remembered that year.
It was a cold, harsh winter both in Arcadia and Germany. The best he could do was send a mug in the mail with a handwritten note tagged to its side. There was no visit.
Well, if he was being honest, it had been another year without a visit . Even then, nearly a decade prior, it had been long overdue.
Scattered pen-written letters on holidays and bank days had to suffice for a century's worth of their interaction.
The lines around the changeling's mouth deepened as he stooped to pick up an edge of the mug between his fingers, a partial B.
In the low moonlight, a sensation of cold fingers graced over Strickler's arm.
Something had spooked Otto.
The question was: What.
The sound of overturned bottles and shuffling caused Strickler to snap up and into place, eyes wide and glowing. He scanned the nearby area, stalking forward and sliding back into the main hall without a sound. The house held a deathly quietness, the heavy air broken by the muffled laugh track of the boxy T.V. He looked around a breath before his slitted eyes fell onto the adjacent basement door, creaks and groaning pipes echoing up from below.
Approaching the door, he risked a glance down the stairs, dark and dank as his own basement dwelling. He pulled the door open, heart leaping in his throat at the groan of protest. Even at the sudden, unexpected noise, no beast or human came rushing up the stairs to meet him. He knew the small disruption in the basement could've passed as racoons or another one of Arcadia's bountiful vermin. Even still, Strickler reached for the thin knife in his breast pocket, drawing it from its sheath as he descended the small, rickety flight.
The basement was a cold chaos.
A dying furnace caused cold fingers to trace his spine, eyes searching the squat cramped space as he adjusted to the flickering light. There was a sign of struggle, he could see that much. Spilled boxes of the former owner's soccer trophies made up a small corner of the space, pushed over by an age-old couch that had been shoved forcibly back against the wall. Gazing over the moth eaten and stained furniture, Strickler spotted an overturned mirror to his left, shattered upon its impact with the floor.
Seven years of bad luck. He experimentally shifted a jagged shard with his toe, Not exactly what we need right now.
Staring at the thin pieces of glass, Strickler sighed and took a breath to notice how the muffled voices from the living room had stopped. It was silent in the house now, and, eyes shifting slowly back to the ajar basement door, he listened to the stifled sounds of feet against worn hardwood.
Walter Strickler wasn't alone anymore.
Standing on his toes, he ascended the rickety steps, hand gracing the handrail as he climbed.
A few feet away from the door, however, a lone step betrayed him, the squeak causing the man and extra pair of footsteps to freeze.
He held the knife tighter in his grip.
The footsteps came closer.
All at once, the door was violently jerked open, and, with a cry, Strickler threw his knife in one fluid motion, blade audibly whizzing through the air. He didn't wait for it to hit its mark as he rushed up the stairs, bodily slamming into whoever was waiting at the top.
They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, Strickler pinning the blur with a thin, bony arm as his hands reached for another blade tucked away in his turtleneck. His teeth rattled as the stranger hit his jaw with the heel of their hand, and, seeing stars, was shoved off balance, his spare hand catching himself from collapsing against the floorboard, his other arm caught in a crushing grip. Albeit stunned, he didn't stop, backhanding the attacker before rolling with them again, attempting to break from their vice like grip. In the end, after a few bites, punches, and a flash of changeling light, Strickler was the one who found himself pinned, a snarling grunt escaping as he struggled with the hands pressing against his throat. He attempted to move his right arm but, found it had been painfully pinned underneath him, pins and needles shooting through his fingers at the unexpected weight. His free hand clawed at the knee pressed against his sternum, the bony joint pressing against his green exposed chest. Horns digging into the aging floor, he turned his head, peering at the assailant through his tight, wrinkled nosed grimace.
"Nu-mora?" He choked, clawed hand wrapping around the woman's thin wrist.
Still in her human guise, the changeling's fiery eyes softened for a beat before narrowing again.
"Stricklander." She spat in recognition, manicured grip around his neck ramming his horns against the wooden floor. "What are you doing here?"
"I wa-as going to as-sk you the same th-ing." The changeling gasped between bursts of air.
She held the choking grip for a moment more before she reluctantly released him, the male changeling gasping at the free air. Clumsily, he made his way back to his feet and, leaning against the wall, blinked owlishly when his squarish nose graced the hilt of his blade buried into the sheetrock. He growled, yanking it out of the wall, and shrank back into his fleshbag appearance in a burst of green light.
Nomura huffed, fingers gracing her neck where Strickler's knife had made a hairline cut.
"Scatterbrained." She hissed, heels clicking against the floor as she waved her hand over her face, "You and Otto both."
"Have you seen him?"
"No." She shot back, picking up an earring that had been lost in the struggle
"You mean," Strickler asked, rubbing his bruising neck as he followed her through the hallway, "he didn't come tonight?"
"What the Hell did I just say?" She hissed, her purple lipstick lips curling into a snarl as she came to a sudden halt in the dining room.
Stiff, Strickler glared back, the pair catching each other in the crosshairs of their piercing, glowing eyes. Strickler, scoffing, looked away first, and Numora's lips shifted into a semblance of a smile, content.
He bit back a laugh when she opened the kitchen door and jumped when her shoe further crushed the shattered mug. She stared at it for a moment, before gathering it with a hand and tossing it into the trashcan under the sink.
Strickler could only stare after her and watch Numora's movements: cool, precise, and purposeful.
"So calm," Strickler commented aloud, as Nomura roughly pushed past him in the doorway, leading them back into the dining area, then living room, "I'm surprised our nestmate's absence didn't raise a little alarm."
Nomura only hummed, reaching into an open box Otto had left on the low coffee table. Strickler's hand crept into his pocket again but, blinking, saw she was only lifting a beaten glamour mask out of one of the open boxes. She carefully brushed the clinging peanuts off the wooden surface, holding it up to the hanging light.
"His shoes are gone."
Strickler blinked.
"What?"
Nomura, eyes sharp and cutting, observed Strickler's expression and rolled her eyes.
With a manicured nail, she pointed towards the empty foyer and empty boot tray.
"His shoes. His wingtips." She clarified, lifting the mask to her face. It flickered into the larger form of Otto and, with a false golden tooth grin, the form leaned heavily against the wall. The false Otto kicked his feet, the heels of Numora's shoes breaking out from underneath his dark pant leg.
"You know him." The voice of Nomura purred from Otto's wide mouth, batting his eyelashes with a low chuckle, "He never leaves without his lucky wingtips."
It took a moment to blink the buzzing stars out of his eyes when he first came to.
He was curled up on himself – the tingling, stinging feeling of rushing blood returning to his arms and legs. Otto blinked as he turned his head, his dark sideburns pressing against the sides of the bag. Feeling the edge with his fingertips, he chewed thoughtfully on the leather taste that lingered in his mouth.
Hm... There weren't bags in basements.
There weren't bags in basements.
Otto Scarbaach jerked awake, eyes wide and searching.
There weren't bags in basements!
Gasping, his hands shot out to feel the sack pressed around him. Burlap, he concluded, an old potato sack by the looks of the backwards label against his face. Growling, he spit the strange leather taste that hung from his mouth. A wingtip shoe, Otto saw through a few blurry blinks, his wingtip shoe, a hole gnawed through the leather by his golden canine. He absently reached for his face, inhaling sharply when he realized the lack of round glasses resting on the end of his nose.
The events of his fateful evening came rushing back all at once and, face growing hot, the man clenched the rough fabric of the bag in balled fists.
Otto Scarbaach screamed, slamming his sock covered heel into the upper part of the bag in a quick kick.
He thought he heard a muffled, "Huh?" and an urgent question to follow.
He didn't care and he didn't stop, twisting to slam a bare fist on the clenched opening of the sack.
Impossible, his mind reeled as he held his stinging knuckles with his other hand, brute force won't do anything.
"Hey!" Otto exclaimed, throwing his head back in a hoarse shout, "Hey! Let me go! Hackfresse! "
The small movement and sway to the sack stopped, muffled voices picking up around him.
There was more of them now, Otto realized as the stench of pure Trolls wafted through the bag and burned his nostrils.
He covered his nose with a sleeve, features wrinkling.
A den.
They had brought him to a den.
"Brutes! Open the bag!"
There was the sound of a clearing throat and the whispering voices hushed, warm, leathery bodies coming closer and closer still.
"AAARRRGGHH!, if you please."
Otto Scarbaach's gut twisted.
He couldn't wait any more.
Slashing wildly with a half-formed claw, Otto felt the fabric of the bag give way from beneath him and he plummeted, a shout escaping his lips before he collided with the stony ground below. Even after a gigantic hand swiped over his head, another tugging at his ankles, begging him to wait, Otto scrambled away from the scene, kicking blindly as he went.
Gathered masses of all shapes and colors made a wide berth for the man, shouts and screams of shock and surprise and "Human! Feral Human!" ringing through the air as he passed. There were still stars in his eyes as he stumbled forward, hands reaching for the next thing to steady himself.
His insult-laced shouting parted them back enough, creating openings for him to blindly dart through. But, it wasn't long before he felt the pair from his basement follow in close pursuit, their pleas for him to halt falling on deaf ears.
Pale Lady. Otto's mind buzzed, as his shoulder collided with another Troll, where have they brought me?
Otto rounded a corner and dove quickly between two passing trolls, and from the sounds that shortly followed, the pannoxi and krubera had collided with them and, biting off a victorious laugh, Otto shot around another corner and, pressing himself behind an empty cart, ducked out of sight.
Otto Scaarbach covered his panting mouth with a hand as the trolls passed, fingers throbbing as the fingernails of his digits shrank back into his human guise again.
That was close. Too close. And, to be quite frank, he hadn't done something like that in ages. Half-forms and partial transformations weren't his thing, even as a polymorph and, more than likely, left painful results.
The man took a moment to catch his breath, grimacing slightly as he held his throbbing hand close to his chest. He quietly cursed and, legs still shaking with pumping adrenaline, willed himself to calm and collect his running thoughts.
He'd been taken by a pannoxi and a krubera.
Kept in a bag.
Brought to a cave of trolls.
He winced at the distant sounds of trolls, voices loud and gravely.
What-? Otto reeled, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, What had they been planning to do with me?
The thought, however, was quickly out of his buzzing head with a shiver.
He didn't have time to ponder.
He had to find an exit. There had to be an opening nearby, something he could crawl out of and stumble back to his human house.
What then? Otto asked internally, hand tracing the stray strands of facial hair on his rounded features, The pair will return - with more.
Otto sighed, pushing himself slowly to his feet. He would have to figure it out as he went. Rushing along without a plan and escaping by the skin of his teeth - wunderbar and just how he liked it.
Brushing his sweaty mop of dark hair back, Otto turned, his hand upon the cart touching something foreign, yet familiar.
Two large shapes filled up his vision.
He'd been found.
Shouting, Otto stepped back quickly but, before he could slam into whatever crates were stacked behind him, his wrists were caught and, in a jerk, he was pulled forward and deeper into the abandoned stand. The man slammed against the stone wall in the back, knocking over a pile of assorted human toiletries with the momentum of the tug. Wrinkling his nose at the sensation of something wet and foreign against his toe, Otto opened his mouth to protest, only for a pair of matching right hands to silence him, pressing firmly against his mouth.
"I think you've made enough noise!" The blurry outline of the owner scolded, albeit loosely. "By Deya's Grace and all that is holy, please, cease this horrible ruckus at once."
Otto, huffing against the earthy palms, struggled against the grip. He dug his fingernails into earthy skin as his screams continued, muffled.
"I'll be quiet when I'm dead!"
"Here!" The voice hissed in a hush, pressing him harder against the wall, "Hush now! Here! Take them!"
Moments later, Otto felt something being roughly pressed onto his face and, after it was secured, the troll that had pinned him took several hasty steps back out of Otto's personal bubble, holding up all four of his hands in surrender. As soon as he was released, Otto slid back onto his rump, the man's hands shooting up to rip off whatever device they had panted onto his face.
" Meine Brille..." Otto breathed in recognition once he opened his eyes fully again.
"Yes, they kept falling off so we decided to hold onto them … till now, at least."
Vision clearing, he felt the dark frames with trembling fingers and quickly pushed them back up his nose.
Otto, however, felt his eyelids lower back into a half-lidded gaze at the sight of the pannoxi and krubera, Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!, as the pair waved in a slightly sheepish greeting.
"You." Otto hissed, pushing himself back to his feet, "What do you two want? What am I-?"
"Do not be afraid, my friend." Blinky reassured, holding out a hand, "We never meant any harm."
"Never meant-?" Otto sputtered, cheeks growing pink, "Never meant any harm?"
Blinky gave another one of his wide smiles, tusk and fang exposed in the kind gesture.
"W-Why of course not! We could never harm our next Trollh-?"
"Don't." Otto hissed, spitting, " Don't call me that." He paused, curling a lip, "And that that is not an excuse for shoving me in a sack!"
The smile the pannoxi held faltered a bit as an awkward hush fell upon the trio. Otto, still sore from his landing, rubbed a bruising shoulder, observing the two with glowering eyes.
It was true, he could see, and they didn't seem particularly hostile. Partly clumsy, sometimes bashful.
It was a bit unexpected. Different to say the least.
"Well, despite our small … incident … I'm glad you are now awake Tro-, I mean, Master Otto." Blinky offered as he held out one of his hands, smile returning in an attempt to remain polite.
Hand pressing on his forehead, Otto boldly took a few steps forward.
"Let me guess," Otto murmured, rubbing his throbbing temple, "breaking into my home and taking me against my will in a potato sack was your plan of saying hello?"
"No!" AAARRRGGHH! explained, wincing as his horns tugged at the low hanging Christmas lights, "Not plan. Not at start."
"Exactly, my friend." Blinky nodded, holding up both right hands, "You hit your head quite hard in your human dwelling, so we decided it would be best if we brought you here. No use in leaving you alone in a dank basement." He grinned wider, "Our original plan was more civil, believe us. We planned on talking and introducing ourselves and then, well, introducing you here in Trollmarket too. Alas..." the older troll trailed off, chuckling softly, as he looked over his shoulder, "Fate, it seems, plays out in curious ways."
That word caused Otto's blood to freeze.
The pair of older trolls were silent and observant as they watched the man's eyes filter around in the cramped, small space, scrutinizing the glimpses of light in the patchy tarp.
"Where…" Otto began, his pair of human eyes settling on the six looking expectantly at him, blinking excitedly. "Where did you say we were again?"
The view of Trollmarket by foot was better than crouching behind a booth any day, Otto had to admit.
Convinced he wasn't going to run off wildly again anytime soon, the three acquaintances - the krubera, the pannoxi, and the fleshbag - made their way through Trollmarket's streets, taking it all with wide, observant eyes. The air was a bit more relaxed between them now, and naturally, Blinky sprouted off about the markets, the booths, the trolls, even the history of Heartstone Trollmarket itself. Otto heard but failed to listen to his longwided lesson, bare feet shuffling against the cobblestone as he stared at the life around him.
He had only read of Heartstone Trollmarket's beauty. It's divine descriptions of halls, curving crystals, and fine architecture held nothing to the the sights and sounds and smells observed in the flesh. The main hub was buzzing with life, trolls of all species moseying around the market spaces and booths. They passed female troll at a small booth, cross stitching nonsensical patterns into cloth, another burlier troll sold oversized pints of glug, the green substance sloshing over the rim, and as they turned onto another street, Otto spotted a squat troll, grilling their finest choice of argyle socks over a homemade charcoal grill.
It didn't take much to see that Heartstone Trollmarket was an everyday's trolls paradise - big, bustling, and beautiful.
Damn the limits of a fleshbag guise, Otto inwardly groaned as they passed by another heavenly concession lined with heated, still sizzling, trash.
"Stay close." Blinky spoke, as they wandered deeper into the more crowded street, his rambling slowing to a stop as he placed a hand on Otto's shoulder, "Human feet have never graced the ground of Trollmarket before."
Otto Scarbaach jumped at the touch, staring at the smiling troll addressing him.
Right. Otto had nearly forgotten about the fleshbag situation.
"J-Ja?" Otto finally questioned, lips curling in a parody of a grin.
Blinky patted his shoulder, the elder troll's eyes wide and genuine in his excitement.
"Yes! The sacred mantle has never been passed onto a human before. This is a historic occasion indeed."
Otto lowly laughed, cheeks reddening a bit as a nervous chuckle escaped past his lips.
Oh. If only you knew.
Content, they looked back to observing their surroundings, the smaller of the three beings managing to step out from between them. Otto froze when he found himself met with sidelong stares from nearby vendors and trolls, who stood a little taller at the sight of him.
"Human?"
"Friend." AAARRRGGHH! growled in response, placing his bulk between Otto and the hissing stranger as they passed.
The goliath, with a gentle nose and push of his horns, encouraged Otto to continue his trek and, with a small glare over his shoulder, he fell in line with the trolls again, Blinkous continuing his jabbering with ease.
"Come now, Master Otto," Blinky encouraged, taking him by the wrists, "There is much to see!"
"I can handle myself, danke! "
Alas, his complaint fell on deaf ears and Otto Scaarbach, briskly rolling his eyes, allowed himself to be dragged down Trollmarket's winding roads, legs shuffling to keep up with Blinky's wider strides. Upon the next history lesson, they passed up more concessions, stands, and beautiful archways of stone he could count.
They rounded the next corner and Blinky stepped out of his line of vision, allowing Otto to step forward from between him and AAARRRGGHH!.
Otto Scarbaach stepped forward, stare unwavering as he approached the edge of the market square, his small hands reaching and gripping the cobblestone railing and the end of the path. The man's mouth opened in a voiceless question and the pair smiled, ear-to-ear, at his awestruck expression.
"Heartstone."AAARRRGGHH! explained in rumbling hush.
"Yes. The life force of trollkind," Blinky hummed, coming up and staring after Otto, "the means that keeps us from crumbling to stone and provides our light, here in Trollmarket."
"It's … wunderbar ." Otto breathed, hands gripping as he leaned against the wall further, closer to the gem.
Of the many things that had transpired that evening, this was the most pleasant.
It rose like a tower, that pillar of pure energy. Trollmarket's Heartstone was a large one, larger than any he'd seen in his changeling lifetime. The warm, yellow-orange crystal gave off a radiating glow, illuminating the air in warm streaks of light. Otto felt an electric buzz linger and faintly pulse, like a heartbeat, rushing through his veins. It was a heartbeat, his heartbeat, Otto realised after listening closer, a rush of rejuvenated blood pounding in his ears.
It was powerful. Beautiful. A lifeforce and blood of an army.
A bead of sweat fell down the back of Otto's neck.
His fingernails dug briefly into the stone.
Oh, how he wanted to touch it.
He heard and felt the all too familiar thrum of the Amulet from his back pocket and he pulled himself back in a jerk, willing his drumming heart to slow.
He was sure they could hear it, the pounding noise deep within his chest.
He was getting too excited. He had convinced them well enough. He relaxed his fingers, bit to the wick nails uncurling from the cobblestone.
There was no use in spoiling his guise so soon.
But, Otto, despite his lingering distain over everything, couldn't help but crack a small grin.
Two things the organization had been searching for - in one day!
Gunmar would be pleased. The luck of it all.
His hand fell over his trouser pocket, the smile on his lips faltering.
Well, perhaps there was one stroke of bad luck.
Dangerous bad luck.
But, Otto Scarbaach would make it work.
He always made it work.
"Fleshbag!"
A unfamiliar shout rung out from behind them and Otto, still loosely holding the carved ledge, turned, pushing his slipping glasses back up his nose. A small handful of trolls, including a few that had he'd passed earlier, had gathered behind them, frowns and scowls of disdain equally shared between them.
"What's a human doing here?" Another shouted.
"Yeah!" A stray voice exclaimed in a animalistic huff, "Humans! Strange!"
"Friends! Friends! Do not be alarmed!" Blinky spoke, stepping forward and between Otto and the advancing crowd, holding his hands out in an attempt to soothe the growing agitation.
But, despite his actions and reassurances, the questions and voices grew louder and pressed closer until a hunched form emerged, shoving a path for themselves towards the front.
"What is the meaning of this?!" They shouted, Otto's view of the speaker blocked by the larger form of Blinky in his line of sight.
"Ah," Blinky chuckled, nearly falling into Otto as he took a few hasty steps back, "I was just going to get to that-."
"Human feet have never sullied to ground of Trollmarket before." The voice hissed, before a massive fist shoved the historian roughly aside, "Who is this… fleshbag ?"
Otto felt his skin break out his gooseflesh.
The towering troll before him needed no introduction. Draal, the Destroyer. Draal, the Deadly. Kanjugars heir. Here he was, standing face to face to the face he'd throw knives at in his small house in Germany. Face to face to the last troll he wanted to encounter - especially that night.
The brute gave a flare through his nostrils as he leaned in closer, hot glog-laced breath fogging up the edge of Otto's glasses.
"Otto." the man curtley responded, taking off and wiping his glasses with his shirt, "Otto Scaarbach. And, you are?"
"Draal the Destroyer," the troll hissed back, leaning in closer, noses almost touching, "Draal the Deadly," He added, clenching a fist.
"Hm." was all that Otto replied, returning his glasses to his nose and crossing his arms in shared aggravation.
Lip curling, Draal directed his glare towards Blinky, the six-eyed historian being helped up by from his last shove by AAARRRGGHH!.
"W-Why have you brought this fleshbag here?" Draal slurred, a great blue finger pressing against Otto's vulnerable chest.
"We were just getting to that, Draal." Blinky explained, rushing forward and placing a pair of smaller, matching hands over his. He gave a wide toothy smile, "It seems our fleshbag friend, Master Otto, has been chosen as the new … Trollhunter?"
There was a collective gasp in the crowd and Otto's eyes shifted around at the faces baring in, glaring over his spectacles.
Draals face twisted in a frown, tugging his hand away from Blinky's grip.
"Impossible!"
"It is true."
"He cannot be the Trollhunter! He's not a troll!"
A large fist broke the ground at Otto's feet and with an intake of breath, Otto stumbled back, caught from falling flat by the oversized hand of AAARRRGGHH! behind him.
"Amulet chose ." the krubera retorted, holding his stance steadfast.
Draal gave a mighty roar directly to the trolls stoic expression. Otto couldn't help but flinch at the sound, wiping a stray strand of spit from his cheek with a curled lip.
"Show him." AAARRRGGHH! encouraged, voice and face softening as he pushed Otto back onto his two feet again, the man stumbling forward to remain upright. He jerked and back to look up at the towering form of Draal. Wiping his wet hand on his trousers, Otto muttered a German curse as he dug in his pockets, hands feeling before producing the familiar object.
"Here." Otto murmured, holding it out in a flat hand, "Your stupid Amulet."
The Amulet of Daylight glowed bright when he produced it, the humming light keeping in time with Otto's growing pulse. He felt the crowd take a collective step backwards before Draal stepped close again, face set in a permanent scowl.
"This doesn't prove anything." Draal snarled, "Speak the incantation."
Otto felt his forehead line with sweat.
"The ... incantation?"
"Speak the incantation," Draal parroted, smiling, " Trollhunter. "
Otto looked down at the Amulet, face illuminated by it's glowing light.
He hadn't stopped to look close upon the Amulet's surface more than need be. Granted, he had held it, stared at it for a few hours in his human home but he had never seen the words of the incantation appear on the smooth metal surface.
Then again, he hadn't had the courage to hold it close to his face after it had screamed his name.
Fingers shifting, Otto Scarbaach held it closer, blue eyes staring down at the Amulet's humming, glowing surface. The Trollish letters on the edge of the Amulet shifted, from Changeling to English, before, finally, settling on German, the Amulet of Daylight giving a small, satisfied ping when it was finished in it's translation.
And there it was. Clear as day.
"For the Glory of Merlin," Otto read, albeit quietly, to himself, "Daylight is Mine to Command."
Daylight. His to command.
If that wasn't damning proof enough.
"Well?" the impatient voice of Draal spoke through his consciousness, "Speak it!"
"I-I just did." Otto muttered, gaze unwavering from the Amulet, "What more do I-?"
There was nother shove, another scramble of legs to keep himself upright. Otto fell back this time, there were no hands to catch him, a slight "oof!" escaping his mouth as he fell. He watched as the Amulet fell out of his hand, clinking against the stone and coming to rest at his side. Draal laughed a bit at that, a glug-laced chuckle that encouraged the others around him to join in. The heavy noise hit Otto's chest, his spare fingers curling around the Amulet as they laughed.
"You are no Trollhunter." Draal spoke, "If I was a Gum-Gum, you are barely a worthy fleshbag to eat."
Otto, fist clenching, shot back to his feet and stormed forward, inches from Draals wide face.
"I am just as capable as any troll, danke! "
Draal, staring at the squinting eyes of Otto behind his round spectacles, laughed even louder, the guttural sound booming from his wide, open mouth. A few more of the trolls in the surrounding crowd joined in at the banter, and Otto resisted the urge to look over his shoulder to meet the sympathetic gazes of Blinky and AAARRRGGHH! searing into his back.
"A fleshbag as the Trollhunter ?"
Draal pressed a heavy hand on Otto's left shoulder and the man cried out, the force and grip strong enough to bring him to his knee, grimacing.
Through his stinging eyes, Otto saw Draal's satisfied grin, Blinky's illegible shout drowned out by the fresh, pumping blood rushing in Otto's ears.
"Please." Kanjuagar's hier hissed, hot breath and spit spraying Otto's face, "That is worse than if any Impure filth took up the amulet."
The curved edge of the Amulet dug into Otto's palm.
"W-What?"
"You heard me." Draal spoke low, amber eyes boring into him as he spoke low enough for them to hear, "You're worse than Impure filth ."
That was it.
Before he could stop himself, Otto's mouth erupted in a German shout, the man swinging his arm around in a curled, clenched fist. A flash of blue light erupted from his hand as he came into contact with his target, the sound of metal against stone ringing out in Trollmarket's open square.
Blinking the blinding light from his vision, he stared after Kanjuguar's heir, who had fallen back a few steps and landed on his knees in a unceremonious heap. Otto glared after Draal as the troll held a bleeding nose, the blue-blackish blood seeping between his wide fingers. For the upteeth time, Otto felt the eyes of several beings upon him, and, panting out of his mouth, risked a glance down at his hand.
The Amulet was gone, replaced by an armored fist with a silver suit of armor to match. It covered every inch of his exposed flesh, a lightweight silver metal with dark and fitting chainmail that hummed with pumping, magical adrenaline. His hand briefly touched his chest, the Amulet vanished from a clenched fist and placed over his heart, humming and glowing with his pulse. He gazed at Draal, the silver blue glow of the Daylight Armor reflecting in his burning irises.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.
There was another flash of blinding blue light and Otto Scaarbach, the Trollhunter, shrunk back into his crumpled button up, suspenders, and trousers, catching the Amulet in his spare hand, now still and cold.
Otto pushed his loose round glasses up his nose.
There were a few, tense moments where they stared at each other, troll to fleshbag, fleshbag to troll, before the changeling pocketed the Amulet and approached Draal, pressing a delicate hand against one of his protruding horns to turn the troll's face to face him, the burning ambereque eyes semi-dazed.
Otto, blinking owlishly, gave him one of his nervous chuckles, a thin smile spreading across his lips.
His golden canine shone in the light of the Heartstone.
"I think I'll manage, mein Freund ."