02-25-2016, 03:58 PM
Darkness swirls around me, refusing to let up for what seems like an eternity. Silence lingers in my brain, and it’s just me in the void—alone, empty, quiet. Until… suddenly… there’s old lady singing ringing in my ears.
I bolt up and immediately lurch over in pain, clutching the spot on my abdomen where Mr. Dead Troll decided to shove his spear. There’s no hole there now, though—just stitches. Like I’ve been sewn up. Somebody’s mom fixing a hole in a pair of edgy light wash jeans. Except instead of jeans, it’s my skin, and instead of ruining my reputation with the sk8r boi crowd, whoever closed up my hole saved my life, probably.
There’s still the matter of that old lady singing, though. A little time spent making connections and using my deduction skills helps me figure out this woman with the voice of a vulture probably holds the title of ‘Jessica’s Sticher-Upper,’ but I’d love to put a face with a rasp.
Speaking of light wash jeans, mine are currently slumped over a chair just across the room, slid up under some fancy stone desk. The dwarves and their stone. I slide out from beneath the sheets of this semi-comfortable bed they threw me on. It feels like some soft-ish material thrown on top of a flat slab of boulder. Once again, so much rock, so little Dwayne Johnson to make it worth it. How hard would it be for these dwarf losers to invest in some Tempur Pedic mattresses?
The correct answer is ‘not too hard’ since you can summon anything you fucking want with omnilium. I mean, come on, you guys.
I pull my pants on faster than I would when desperately trying to escape morning-after shenanigans at a hookup’s house. Zipped up and buttoned in record time, I lean through the archway these people probably call a ‘door’ (I mean, it’s not like I can talk after how long my door’s front window was covered with cardboard) and try and pinpoint the source of this Amy Winehouse-wannabe.
Then, I see it.
Another fucking troll.
“Nope,” I say audibly, “Not about that.” Troll-in-a-Dress turns and looks at me. She doesn’t have the same bloodthirsty fire in her eyes that the first one I met did, but I’m not about to take any chances. That means, of course, that I’m running in the opposite direction as fast as my still-aching body can take me.
Unfortunately, just as I’m about to reach the door, it slams and locks without anybody touching it. I tug on the handle as hard as I can, but all I manage to do is rip it off. Let’s be real: sometimes super strength is a really sucky power.
I turn around and glare at Mrs. Troll. “You gonna poke me with a spear too, lady?” Hopefully my tone accurately conveys how unbelievably irritated I am. Also, was that some fucking magic she just pulled to make that door close by itself? Or the Force or something? Given that there’s Stormtroopers in this weird fantasy world, that doesn’t seem to be a farfetched guess. Speaking of which, where the hell is Trey? He should be helping me fight this bitch.
“Leaving so soon?” she drones, and already her speaking voice is even more nails on a chalkboard than her singing voice. Which I honestly didn’t think was possible. My head cocks to the side involuntarily. Sometimes I can’t help being bitchy.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” I sigh, “but accepting help from people who look like Meryl Streep in Into the Woods before she turned hot again isn’t exactly on a list of things I’m likely to do. So thanks for sewing me up, if you did that, but I really should go find my pet Stormtrooper.”
“He’s being taken care of,” the crone waves the subject off, folding her hands over her cane and looking up at me. “You’re Jessica. I’m Magda.”
“Jessica Jones, Private Eye,” I shrug, “If you need someone found, I’m your gal. I don’t make house calls though, so I’m gonna leave. You can come to my office if you need me.” I smirk, placing my hand on the door. “…when I get an office.”
A little pressure and the door separates from its hinges, falling down onto the rocky cave floor behind it. The troll lady glances down, surprisingly not irritated.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I bite my lip. This is a bit awkward, so I turn and step out of this lady’s little hovel and back into the slightly-familiar streets of Dwarveholm. I don’t hear footsteps behind me, so I assume that Magda is still standing there, hands folded over her gnarled little wooden cane, staring at my ass. Fucking creeper. At least Trey didn’t leer at me like some kind of weird stalker. Or did he? Hard to tell through that tinted-ass helmet of his. We’re gonna have to make a rule that he can’t wear that around me anymore; it’s pretty necessary for me to always be able to see his face.
I stop. I turn around. Yep, she’s still staring.
I step over the door and lean back into her place, once again cocking my head slightly to the side in confusion. Something she said just registered in my brain.
“…what do you mean he’s being taken care of?”
I bolt up and immediately lurch over in pain, clutching the spot on my abdomen where Mr. Dead Troll decided to shove his spear. There’s no hole there now, though—just stitches. Like I’ve been sewn up. Somebody’s mom fixing a hole in a pair of edgy light wash jeans. Except instead of jeans, it’s my skin, and instead of ruining my reputation with the sk8r boi crowd, whoever closed up my hole saved my life, probably.
There’s still the matter of that old lady singing, though. A little time spent making connections and using my deduction skills helps me figure out this woman with the voice of a vulture probably holds the title of ‘Jessica’s Sticher-Upper,’ but I’d love to put a face with a rasp.
Speaking of light wash jeans, mine are currently slumped over a chair just across the room, slid up under some fancy stone desk. The dwarves and their stone. I slide out from beneath the sheets of this semi-comfortable bed they threw me on. It feels like some soft-ish material thrown on top of a flat slab of boulder. Once again, so much rock, so little Dwayne Johnson to make it worth it. How hard would it be for these dwarf losers to invest in some Tempur Pedic mattresses?
The correct answer is ‘not too hard’ since you can summon anything you fucking want with omnilium. I mean, come on, you guys.
I pull my pants on faster than I would when desperately trying to escape morning-after shenanigans at a hookup’s house. Zipped up and buttoned in record time, I lean through the archway these people probably call a ‘door’ (I mean, it’s not like I can talk after how long my door’s front window was covered with cardboard) and try and pinpoint the source of this Amy Winehouse-wannabe.
Then, I see it.
Another fucking troll.
“Nope,” I say audibly, “Not about that.” Troll-in-a-Dress turns and looks at me. She doesn’t have the same bloodthirsty fire in her eyes that the first one I met did, but I’m not about to take any chances. That means, of course, that I’m running in the opposite direction as fast as my still-aching body can take me.
Unfortunately, just as I’m about to reach the door, it slams and locks without anybody touching it. I tug on the handle as hard as I can, but all I manage to do is rip it off. Let’s be real: sometimes super strength is a really sucky power.
I turn around and glare at Mrs. Troll. “You gonna poke me with a spear too, lady?” Hopefully my tone accurately conveys how unbelievably irritated I am. Also, was that some fucking magic she just pulled to make that door close by itself? Or the Force or something? Given that there’s Stormtroopers in this weird fantasy world, that doesn’t seem to be a farfetched guess. Speaking of which, where the hell is Trey? He should be helping me fight this bitch.
“Leaving so soon?” she drones, and already her speaking voice is even more nails on a chalkboard than her singing voice. Which I honestly didn’t think was possible. My head cocks to the side involuntarily. Sometimes I can’t help being bitchy.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” I sigh, “but accepting help from people who look like Meryl Streep in Into the Woods before she turned hot again isn’t exactly on a list of things I’m likely to do. So thanks for sewing me up, if you did that, but I really should go find my pet Stormtrooper.”
“He’s being taken care of,” the crone waves the subject off, folding her hands over her cane and looking up at me. “You’re Jessica. I’m Magda.”
“Jessica Jones, Private Eye,” I shrug, “If you need someone found, I’m your gal. I don’t make house calls though, so I’m gonna leave. You can come to my office if you need me.” I smirk, placing my hand on the door. “…when I get an office.”
A little pressure and the door separates from its hinges, falling down onto the rocky cave floor behind it. The troll lady glances down, surprisingly not irritated.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I bite my lip. This is a bit awkward, so I turn and step out of this lady’s little hovel and back into the slightly-familiar streets of Dwarveholm. I don’t hear footsteps behind me, so I assume that Magda is still standing there, hands folded over her gnarled little wooden cane, staring at my ass. Fucking creeper. At least Trey didn’t leer at me like some kind of weird stalker. Or did he? Hard to tell through that tinted-ass helmet of his. We’re gonna have to make a rule that he can’t wear that around me anymore; it’s pretty necessary for me to always be able to see his face.
I stop. I turn around. Yep, she’s still staring.
I step over the door and lean back into her place, once again cocking my head slightly to the side in confusion. Something she said just registered in my brain.
“…what do you mean he’s being taken care of?”
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