(Special Thanks to Lusey for being my beta reader this chapter!)
The final school bell couldn't come fast enough, and when it did, there was a flood of warm bodies into the hallways, voices buzzing and growing in number.
In the struggling mass, two boys picked their way through, keeping their bookbags close as they shuffled towards the door and out into the day. It was a rather overcast afternoon, but a few birds were out and about, flitting from skinny tree to skinny tree. Tobias watched a robin pick a wriggling worm from the damp soil, one of the remaining birds out for the day. They were becoming less common now, the smell of pumpkin and wet autumn leaves replacing their cheery, fluttering presence. Cooler weather was in store in the next week or so, and Toby was already ready for the coffee shop to stock up on the pumpkin spice cappuccinos.
Jim, traveling alongside the shorter teen, bumped him with his shoulder, smiling. Tobias smiled back gently, glad that the hard day was over and they could travel home for a nice —.
"Pepperjack!"
The stern voice cut through the courtyard and the pair turned as a body collided into the row of blue lockers. Jim winced, staring over Tobias' shoulder as the one and only Steve Palchuk made an appearance at Arcadia Oaks High, blonde hair, clenched fists and all. Tobias paused and stared as the small body of Eli shook the lockers again. The smaller boy clutched at his essay, whimpering in a short protest as it was ripped mercilessly from his hands. There was a flipping of papers, a chuckle, then a slap against a cheek as Steve marched victoriously away, the pair of blue eyes stealing a white hot glance in their direction.
Toby felt a hand slide around his back and shoulders - Jim, he realized, after a startled hair-raising moment, staring back at Steve's crinkly-eyed smile. There was a pause, the two locked in each other's gaze before Jim, breaking contact first, lead Toby away towards the waiting rack of bicycles, grip secure.
There was the squeaking of sneaker shoes as the form of Steve retreated and Toby and Jim approached their bikes.
"You alright, Tobes?" Jim asked, removing his arm from around Toby's shoulder.
Tobias nodded his head, looking up and back at Jim.
They both smiled at the sensation of a synchronized pat - ba-dum pat! - finishing with a circular motion on their shoulder blades before releasing, reaching for helmets and bike locks.
The "Ba-Dum Pat " was one of the few secret gestures Toby and Jim held close. A bit odd to outsiders, especially if one didn't see them on the daily.
But to them - it sign they had each other's back - strong and reassuring.
"Where to?" Toby asked, pulling the strap of his helmet closer around his chin.
Jim thought momentarily, clicking the clip close with a snap.
"Tacos? But I know we had that recently."
"True. What else do we have? You choose this time." Toby hummed as he pushed forward with his feet, pedaling out of the schools courtyard and onto the street. Jim wasn't far behind, and, after catching up to Tobes at the light, gave him a small knock on the shoulder with his knuckles.
"How about we go pick up groceries at the store and bake something at home?"
The auburn haired teen's face lit up at the idea, his feet bouncing side to side against the asphalt.
"An apple pie?" Tobias suggested, braces shining, "I can grab the apples if you get some eggs."
The light turned green and Jim nodded, leaning forward.
"Sure thing! Five bucks I can get to the checkout faster!"
"You're on!"
In a flash of speeding green and blue the pair of teens tore across the street and further downtown, tires squeaking, hair flying, and brown leaves stirring as they sped by.
A few turns away from the aging, stuck in the 90s supermarket, Tobias' eyes widened as he squeezed his brakes and skid to a stop, looking back over his shoulder.
It took a few moments for Jim to realize his closest companion was no longer at his side, hit his brakes and pushed himself back with his feet, brow furrowed.
"What?" Jim asked, "What is it?"
The teen blinked, staring down the long stretch of street.
"Is that Mr. Scarbaach carrying a phonograph?"
Jim followed their gaze and, indeed, their newest neighbour and English teacher - disheveled, sweating, and out of breath - ran inches to being flattened by a vehicle as he rushed across the street, holding a cardboard box with a dusty green horn close to his chest. A foul mouthed shout escaped the rolled down window and Otto Scarbaach shot something back the pair couldn't make out, a German curse of sorts.
Jim and Tobias exchanged a brief stare, before, in a flurry of pedaling, they rushed forward, trying to keep their neighbour in their sights as he moved along again at a steady pace.
The German man rounded the corner, the teens momentarily blind, before Jim skidded to a stop at the edge of the building, holding out an arm.
"Wait."
Toby followed suit in stopping, leaning to one side and peeking around the corner, pressing his rounded cheek against Jim's.
Otto Scarbaach was beelining for a squat brick building with tinted windows and a painted front. It one of the older buildings scattered in Arcadia's downtown and it wasn't impressive by any means.
It caught their attention, nevertheless.
"A travel agency?" Jim spoke aloud, brows furrowing.
"Since when do those still exist?" Toby inquired, pressing his cheek further into Jim's as he leaned forward, "When dinosaurs walked the earth?"
They continued to watch as Otto reached for the door, fumbling momentarily, before managing to pull it open, the overhanging bell ringing softly as he squeezed in, box held close to his chest.
With a final exchanged look, the teens dismounted their bikes and hurried forward once he was out of sight, taking two steps at a time.
Jim stopped at the edge of the tinted window as Toby slid underneath the window pane, dropping and gliding forward on his jeans.
Both teens flinched at the sound of ripping fabric and Toby looked down at his now holey jeans before over his shoulder at Jim, eyes wide.
"I... regret that tremendously."
With squeaking red and white sneakers, Toby finished his journey cross, crouching low as he reached into his back pocket, fumbling to find purchase.
The boy extracted a pair of round silver rimmed glasses and pushed them up his nose, his green eyes slightly larger with the lens.
Then, carefully, they pressed their face together against the glass, and peered in.
Nomura announced her presence with a crisp, clean crunch.
The sliding door of the Janus Order monitoring room closed behind her with a hiss and she chewed on the apple she held tightly in a fist, her pearly teeth shining as she reached up and wiped the excess juice of the fruit off her chin.
In the mid-afternoon and birth of Monday evening, many changeling comrades were present in Arcadia Oak's headquarters of the Janus Order. Nocturnal workers, this bunch. Nightfall seemed to act as the best cloak for things wished to be left unseen. The masked faces of her fellow changelings she encountered gave Zelda Nomura a generous berth as she passed and chewed her snack slowly, thoughtfully.
It was about time to finish her break, then there was extended hour tours, closing, before finally installing more of the -.
The hollow clattering behind a door as she passed caused Nomura to pause, turning her hand and staring. She took another bite, sharpened teeth gracing the hard core.
It sounded like trouble.
And, therefore, it sounded like her.
Shifting her weight on her feet, Nomura reached for the keypad, entering the four digit code with a thumb as she placed the apple in her mouth - holding it firmly between her teeth. Beeping at the correct entry, the metal door yawned open and Nomura stepped inside before it snapped shut as she crossed the threshold.
The throne room for Gunmar was nothing short of decorated. Every detail, every carving on the wall, hand done. A massive throne was still being built in the middle, grey, stone steps leading towards the incomplete chair. The anticipation of their Dark Underlord's return to the surface world could be felt from the cool cobblestone steps to the blue tinted lights the oval shape of the ceiling cast overhead.
And now, cast in the gentle beam, was the form of Otto Scarbaach laying flat on the floor, the Pavillion of the Order's phonograph over his head.
"Otto?"
"Humph." A dissatisfied voice echoed from within, dainty hands reaching up to tug gently at the horn, "Unfortunately."
A laugh broke from Nomura's mouth as soon as she removed the apple from her mouth, nearly bent in two with her giggling.
Otto gave another groaning noise as he rolled side to side and failed rise.
"Help. Me."
Setting her apple from her mouth onto the rolling cart next to the door, Nomura stifled a few more chuckles with a bitten lip and made her way over to the man, watching as he struggled against the contraption trapped over his head. With inhuman strength, she grasped his wrists and pulled him to his feet, his wingtip shoes setting down with a soft plop against the stone floor.
"Hold still." Nomura instructed, placing her hands around the base, "Lemme see about getting this off."
"Bitte." Otto echoed, hands fumbling up towards his head. Nomura gave a swift slap on the wrist when they got in the way and Otto flinched, lowering his fingers from trying to assist.
The female changeling twisted and tugged and pulled, Otto's feet momentarily lifting off the ground with a muffled yell.
"Nearly there! Nearly -!"
With an audible 'pop!' it came off of his head and the disheveled German couldn't help but gasp aloud once he was free. He stumbled back, feet pedaling, but was able to right himself again, rubbing a cheek.
"Danke." Otto breathed, taking a moment to catch his breath before giving a crooked, golden toothed smile.
Nomura just stood quietly, holding the horn tightly in her hands. She looked down, looked back up at the polymorph. She gave a small, amused look.
"How the Hell did this happen?"
Otto's smile faded into a scowl and he huffed.
"A screw came loose on the horn and I dropped the nut inside. I was just retrieving it!"
"By sticking your head inside?"
The man's ears grew a shade of salmon, he opened his mouth to protest before he settled for waving a hand dismissively.
"That wasn't my intention."
"How do you survive?"
The German man returned to his work with a snort, kneeling to sweep his hand for the fallen bolt and screw that blended well with the ground.
Nomura sighed, rolling her neck, and walked to Otto's side.
"Here." Nomura spoke, ramming the horn on the base before he could protest, "This is too tragic to watch."
Otto gave a small stare, pushing his glasses up his nose again, before he continued his search, blue eyes sweeping the stone as he muttered under his breath. He hit something recognizable, a sigh of relief as he picked up the two pieces, scooting forward on his knees. Nomura stifled an amused grin as she watched the small hands fumble with the relic before finally getting it to catch, a delighted sound coming from Otto as he grabbed a wrench and began to twist it tighter.
Nomura held it stead as he feverishly worked, straightening the arrangement a bit himself before he pushed up from his knees and stepped back, admiring their handiwork before he wiped a curved edge to shine with a sleeve.
"Now!" Otto chimed, trotting a ways and reaching into the cardboard box it had traveled far and wide in. "Let us see what we should play."
Removing a few pieces of yellowed newsprint, a packing peanut or two, Otto found what he was looking for - a lone record that sat as the base at the bottom of the box.
The vinyl was carefully removed from the worn sleeve, the front image tarnished and rubbed till it was nearly blank. It was carefully placed atop the table and the polymorph cranked it to life with vigor, the mechanism clicking within. Otto stepped quickly back as the large, inky black disc began to spin - a disjoined voice singing some sad tune deep within the horn.
Otto gave a laugh, clapping and clasping his hands together at the slow, steady melody.
"The Song of the Pale Lady…" Otto breathed, tone a bit awestruck as the lost tongue echoed off the walls and back to the pair, "I feel we might need her advice quite soon." His eyes shifted behind his glasses, and he pushed them up, swallowing, " Quite soon…"
Nomura stared momentarily at her colleague and nestmate before her pair of dark eyes peered back to the spinning record - the song composed of a piano and male voice playing, ringing, for all to hear.
Pale Lady's advice… pah!
In all her years, sulking in hallways of Orders and playing her role as Zelda Nomura - she hadn't heard a damn word.
"Again!"
There was a dropping of axes, a spark of flame and the arena was breathing - alive.
A blue blur dove from the topmost platform, a victorious howl breaking out as crystals glinted, spun and shone in the light of the Hero's Forage. It was a glorious sight to behold, the Kitlar deflecting flying projectiles and dummies and fire shot from various traps and pitfalls and totems around the arena. Draal stopped spinning when he landed the next platform - his thick crystals protecting him from a flying spear, the weapon bouncing off the outer shell on his back. He twisted his body, snagging the spear and flinging it towards a dummy that had leapt up from the floor, knocking it clean off its stand and impaling it on a far wall.
Ah, yes. His techniques were common, precise, timed. It would've been impressive, very much so, to the current Trollhunter. That is, if Otto Scarbaach hadn't been waiting for the past hour for what he reasoned as hisdeserved turn.
Late.
He was so incredibly, incredibly late.
Blinky. Arrgghh. Training for his part as the Trollhunter. He'd nearly forgotten it all. And for a bit, wish he had.
With dropping of the relic, finishing vocabulary books, piling his plate with another can of sardines, and scrolling clumsily through his emails to find the status of the next bridge piece, he had wanted nothing more than a soak in the clawfoot tub to aid his aching neck, sooth his jumping nerves and worries of more than one approaching deadline.
But, now, sitting on the edge of the arena, Otto Scarbaach paced from side to side, the sinking feeling of a hot bath wouldn't be anywhere in the near future.
The polymorph found himself falling late in the present moment - once again, running behind. With his half hour tardiness to meet the pair of trolls under the bridge, Otto could only watch as the arena was alight and moving wildly - without him, acting as an audience to the last troll he wanted to see.
Watching the next set of spears launch, Otto felt his jaw clench.
In their time, sitting on the sidelines, the blue brute hadn't even noticed them yet - too lost in his own training to care he was hogging the primary training area. Blinky had suggested a wait on the sidelines, seeing that the troll was in the middle of practicing his technique when they had entered. Trolls were not the most considerate when it came to manners, but, none of the three raised their hand to volunteer taking the position of training from Draal. It seemed only necessary, even if it was itching after a while.
The elder troll tapped Otto's shoulder when his attention waned and pointed to Draal's form through the air on occasion, speaking excitedly at the sight. Form, technique, speed. The meaning and importance fell upon deaf ears, the polymorph focusing shooting daggers at the Kitlar as he passed instead.
Brutish, inconsiderate, a kink in the smooth running system that was supposed to be his evening! His life!
To Hell with him!
He kicked a stray stone in his frustration, his impatience of getting his task over and done with boiling to a breaking point in a swift, strong kick.
He watched at the stone clatter across the floor and couldn't help but widen his eyes in horror as it bounced and hit a newly lit torch, rolling it as Draal rounded a corner in another one of his spins. There was a startled yell at the unmarked danger and the blue speeding ball had to serve quickly to avoid being burned completely alive. The smell of sulfur filled the air and the trio of awaiting bodies had to dive out of the way to avoid the collision course of Draal, the Kitlar troll rushing by and colliding with the row of weapons and spears behind them.
Otto Scarbaach bent over with the sound of metallic scraping and clattering, and, only after did the Forge settle in a still silence, did he bring himself to look up, opening a singular eye behind his round glasses.
Smoking, charred, but very much alive, Draal sat up from where he landed against the swords and spears, pupils burning.
"Who -? What-?"
Draal's eyes narrowed, recognition and realization filling his face.
"You."
"Ah… Hallo…"
The Kitlar stood, swaying heavily on his feet from his fall. A spear was snagged in his curved, oversized horns and he reached up, gripping it tightly in a fist.
"What -" tug, " are you - " tug, tug, " doing here? "
A crack sounded as the spear split and splintered, the troll throwing the stump of the weapon to the ground, right at the polymorphs feet.
Otto stared at the broken half as the Kitlar struggled with the other still stuck in his antlers.
"Training!" Blinky chimed, raising his upper two hands in a joyful gesture, "or waiting, till you were done with the arena, of course. Teaching the our newest Trollhunter is of utmost -."
A snarl cut off the librarian and the singed Kitlar stepped forward, clenching a fist.
"He is no Trollhunter!" He spat, lowering his face towards the librarians level, "He's not a troll!"
"But - well! He's -!"
"I am just as capable." Otto piped, furrowing his brow, as he crossed his arms, "I think we've already had this discussion – as proved by your smarting nose."
Draals face shifting into a scowl, one nostril flaring, as he flinched at the small, purple bruise.
"Hardly a fair fight." The Kitlar spoke as he turned his body to the newest champion, clenching a fist.
"Agreed ." Otto snapped back, raising on his toes in an attempt to make himself more eye to eye. "But, I won anyways, didn't I?"
Blinky glanced between the two, his six eyes widening as the tension mounted atop the next.
"Hmm!" He interjected, placing a hand on Otto's shoulder, "I do believe that our Trollhunter should experience -."
"A spar?" Draal suggested, "What a marvelous idea."
"Actually, I was going to suggest-."
"What say you, Trollhunter?" Draal interrupted again, stepping forward till they nearly touched noses, the hot, uneven breath of the troll hitting Otto's face in a rush.
"Master Otto, I do believe -."
"Fine." Otto snarked, shrugging Blinky's grip and raising his fists.
A booming laugh shook the walls of the Forage, and the polymorph deflated slightly, lowering a hand a bit.
"Your armor, Trollhunter." Draal sneered as he turned to put some running space between them. Otto felt the Amulet hum in his pocket at the mention and he felt his hand fall over it, slowly turning a heel.
"Master Otto." Blinky hissed, gripping his shoulder again, harder this time, "Do you realize what you've done?"
"A spar." He chirped, reaching in his pocket, "As Draal wishes…"
The historian was incredulous, his six eyes blinking.
"But do you even have experience with fighting?"
"Of course."
Rarely.
"Much experience?"
"Ja."
A blunt lie. Most combat involved attacking from behind, a knife of some sort. There was rarely struggle.
Blinky shook his head, scowling, holding that shoulder firmer.
"You need to understand. Draal the Deadly is no match for someone of your stature just starting out. I implore you to stop this rivalry at once. Your arrogance and pride will only get you - !"
"Fleshbag!" Draal called from across the ring and Otto turned to meet his gaze. He hit his fist against his open palm, chuckling, "I do not like to wait!"
Blinky opened his mouth to protest at the quick unfolding of conflict as Otto pulled away, gaze just as stark, hard, and hot to Draal in return. Blinky's words caught in his mouth as he stared after him, his four hands folding on themselves before he backed out of the ring, joining AAARRRGGHH! on the sidelines. The maned troll gave the pannoxi a reassuring pat on the back – despite his expression of concern.
Otto Scarbaach stopped on the edge of the inner ring, widening his stance and gripping the Amulet in his hand, fingers trembling. It gave a pulsing glow against his skin, illuminating the spidery veins within his flesh, but Otto did not notice this, his gaze locked with the Kitlar.
He swallowed, staring at the troll, before he held out an arm, his focus on the extended limb in front of him.
"For the Glory of Merlin - Daylight is Mine to Command!"
There was an eruption of blue light from Otto's palm and the changeling felt his feet momentarily leave the ground, the silver clad armor forming around him, securing with a metallic click. He landed on his feet, his back suddenly heavier than before. An oversized sword, which with another fiery glow, shrank to fit his human size, the deadly blade glinting in the light of the arena.
An unfit sword. He felt the eyes of Draal settle heavily upon him. Visibly inexperienced with Daylight. This made the troll smile.
Otto cleared his throat, furrowing a brow, his blood boiling at the look.
"So... did the last Dummkopf who had this job do this sort of thing often?"
"My father was no 'Dumb-cough'!" Draal snorts, lowering himself into a defensive crouch, "He was the Trollhunter! A true troll! A warrior!"
"Was..." Otto chuckles, unsheathing his sword, and widening his stance. "Explains so much... I sense what side you got your dumb brashness from. Or... wait..." The polymorph tapped his chin, eyes set aflame, as a crooked smile presses into his rounded cheeks. "Is this from your mother? Pray tell, mein Freund , where is she?"
There was a flash of blue blur, and Otto fell to the side as Draal whizzed past him, the sound of crystal scraping stone electrifying the air. Otto reached and felt the minuscule intention left by the blue beast's claws as he rounded the arena spinning in a ball, before speeding back.
Otto raised his weapon, brow furrowed.
The fight had begun.
A swing of his sword rung out wildly in the air and Otto was more than horrified to find the weapon had missed it's mark - a clenched fist finding the back of his metallic armor as he passed. Otto's world twisted, the ceiling and floor meshing as one as he spun and felt himself fly across the Forge, bouncing against the floor and rolling to a stop.
Pins and needles shot up his legs and arms, and Otto struggled to rise - his hands pressing into the chalky surface. He didn't make it to far on his knees before a dizzying toss came again, this time in the other direction, where his shoulder caught a wall and he slid down with a hollow metal clank.
He bit his tongue to hold back a guttural scream, his left shoulder firing his nerves as a hand came to clutch his collarbone. His discomfort and pain did not stop Draal or his attacks, the polymorph unceremoniously flung, kicked, and swung around the arena, roars from the blue troll ringing loud and clear across the space. He did his best to rise and deflect them, but, it was no use. The troll gave him no time to act, speak, or properly defend, sending the Trollhunter back and forward across the Forage, a yelp, shout, or roar of growing anger erupting from Otto's mouth each time.
There was a rapid fire of fists against Otto's gut and chest, an uppercut to the jaw. Otto felt the gargantuan hand of Kanjigars son come around him, holding him firm and in place. His feet left the soil and his limbs pedaled for purchase, but found nothing but empty air beneath him. He peered over a knuckle and yelled at the sheer drop - the inky emptiness of the Forage's surroundings far below his sight. He panted, gripping the palm and fingers with his petite hands, struggling to break loose. Draal grinned at that, tilting his horns with his head.
"Never seen infinity, Trollhunter?"
Otto spat without hesitation, and the Kitlar flinced as the glob that landed on his cheek. He slowly turned his head back towards him, increasing the pressure on his armor. Otto yelled as the metal crackled and snapped under the massive fist before Otto felt the grip release, a scream escaping as he felt his body plummet and his hands caught the edge of the crumbling Forage.
A shooting hot pain came from his pinky, and Otto screamed as a gargantuan foot came down upon his digit, twisting it into the soil.
"You think you're something, Trollhunter." Draal hissed, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, "But you are wrong. You are nothing . And you will never be anything."
Another stomp, and Otto cried out again, his grip slipping.
"My father was the best of them all! And I have worked my entire life for that Amulet." He paused. "Soon, I hope I don't have to wait much longer."
There was an increased pressure, a popping noise, before Draal finally released his clutch, stepping back as two figures finally broke out and across the ring, over to them.
Otto felt his hands being grabbed and, through sweat, saw six eyes staring down, holding to his collar. There was panting and the pannoxi's grip tightened on Otto's collar, a disapproving noise leaving his lips at the both of them.
There was a flash of blue light and the Amulet fell away, clattering noisily to the stone. Otto watched as it rattled against the ground, bent over, glasses gone, and breath heavy.
"This was only supposed to be a spar," Blinky spoke, two of his eyes meeting Draal's, "Not a match."
"It became a match," Draal growled, bunching his shoulders "when he opened his fucking mouth."
A heavy silence filled the air, broken only by the ragged breath of the polymorph as he gripped his bruising ribs and the loose soil brought forth by their struggle, his air being sucked through his teeth.
There was shifting, Otto flinched, and he felt the hot breath settle over the exposed skin of the back of his neck, a vibrating growl filling the air.
"I suggest you keep that mouth of yours shut next time. If you wish to live, you fleshbag worm."
The Kitlar gave one last snort in Otto's direction, picking his ax from the ground and finally stomping off and out of the arena, as they had been waiting so patiently for him to do.
Otto coughed hollowly and watched as a bit of scarlet blood dripped from his mouth and onto the cold, unforgiving stones of the Forage. He felt his cheeks rush with anger and defeat, beet ears and cheeks and neck, flushing as he bit a busted lip and was lifted unceremoniously to his feet again, groaning. He stole a glance in the irises of Blinky's six eyes, the pannoxi yelling and chiding and fretting as he held him by the shoulders, shaking him on occasion. He stared at his tomato face and watched as scarlet ran down his chin and dripped onto his wrinkled, white button up.
Red. The most human color.