Majinboo
09-13-2006, 05:09 PM
He squatted in a dark corner of the Drag, with weapons and armor splayed messily around his feet yet with a rhyme and reason to their placement. Whistling quietly to himself, the troll picked up each piece of armor, holding it up to the few rays of sunlight piercing the shadows of his hiding place, and inspecting it closely. Everywhere he found a bright reflection, a brilliant shine, he carefully smeared some black paste between his fingers and applied it to the offending location, smoothing out the material solidly and evenly with practiced motions. Methodically he went through each piece of armor, until every last part was dulled and gray.
He then shifted his position slightly, and hefted a dark, heavy-calibre rifle. Furrowing his brow in concentration and making clucking noises with his tongue, the troll disassembled the weapon, taking each bolt, gear and bore and oiling it down with meticulous effort. With the completion of his ministrations came the cessation of his vocalizations. With practiced ease, he snapped and slid each component back into place until what lay in his hands was a dark, heavy-calibre rifle, solid and glistening like blackmouth oil.
"Never was able ta get tings started ba' ma'self," the troll reflected ruefully. "Guess dat's why even 'ere ah do da grunt work ratha' den da organizin'." He chuckles under his breath, his chest shaking slightly with each sound. He plays idly with the gun, holding it lightly by the grip with his right hand and juggling the barrel up and down with his left. "Ah well," he sighed.
With a sudden, sharp movement, the troll brought the rifle up to eye level, straight as an arrow. His lean muscles had gone from idle bands of rubber to forged steel.
The troll grimly thought as he sighted his slitted eye down the barrel, "One day, dat will change."
A soft whisper escapes his lips, with all the force and conviction of the wind that heralds the coming of the hurricane. "An' on dat day, our enemies will tremble."
"Mark ma' words."
He laughs and sets the gun to lean against the wall, wiping his grease coated fingers against his shirt. The troll brings a clean hand to his face and lightly brushes a tusk, and smiles.
He then shifted his position slightly, and hefted a dark, heavy-calibre rifle. Furrowing his brow in concentration and making clucking noises with his tongue, the troll disassembled the weapon, taking each bolt, gear and bore and oiling it down with meticulous effort. With the completion of his ministrations came the cessation of his vocalizations. With practiced ease, he snapped and slid each component back into place until what lay in his hands was a dark, heavy-calibre rifle, solid and glistening like blackmouth oil.
"Never was able ta get tings started ba' ma'self," the troll reflected ruefully. "Guess dat's why even 'ere ah do da grunt work ratha' den da organizin'." He chuckles under his breath, his chest shaking slightly with each sound. He plays idly with the gun, holding it lightly by the grip with his right hand and juggling the barrel up and down with his left. "Ah well," he sighed.
With a sudden, sharp movement, the troll brought the rifle up to eye level, straight as an arrow. His lean muscles had gone from idle bands of rubber to forged steel.
The troll grimly thought as he sighted his slitted eye down the barrel, "One day, dat will change."
A soft whisper escapes his lips, with all the force and conviction of the wind that heralds the coming of the hurricane. "An' on dat day, our enemies will tremble."
"Mark ma' words."
He laughs and sets the gun to lean against the wall, wiping his grease coated fingers against his shirt. The troll brings a clean hand to his face and lightly brushes a tusk, and smiles.