Just what the doctor ordered

East Road - East of Weathertop

A tall hill stands to the west, ragidly surrounded by hedges and lone scrub pine. North of it low hills peak out of the light growth. To the south, barren hills lie naked beneath the sky, with only thicket and brush to keep them company. The road itself looks less than oft traveled, as it rolls east, and from here slightly north east, towards more mountainous areas.

Obvious exits:
West and East

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                      Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
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Real Time is:       Tue Nov 17 14:09:07 2009
IC weather is:      Wind: fresh - Clouds: clear
IC Moon is:         Waning gibbous
IC time is:         Early Night
IC date is:         June (? Slight flashback) in the year 3048.

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The sun is a mere red smudge low on the horizon, and here, where the looming black bulk of the Weather Hills blocks out its light, the land is already in darkness.

A single figure makes its way through the thickets - tall, dun-cloaked, a light pack slung over his left shoulder. Brev's right arm is no longer sling-bound, but he's using it awkwardly. Currently it is grasping a handful of roots of some kind, whilst his left hand holds the dagger that has cut away their foliage. He pauses to glance up at the purpled sky, and scowls.

[Ollie(#15066)] There is silence across the vast grassy plains, and the rolling hills and rocky outcroppings that poke up through them. A bird darts overhead - or perhaps it is a bat. And then there is a rustle, and what was a ragged-edged stone suddenly rears up in front of the human.

Oliver is a bit the worse for the wear. There are some dirty rag-looking things tied around one leg, and some deep scabbed-over scratches down his face and one of his arms.

Brev freezes at the sight of movement, his dagger-hand automatically lifting, but it seems to take a few moments for the man to understand exactly /what/ he is seeing. Moving rocks? Then realization dawns, and swarthy features pale.

He does not even attempt to run - against something /that/ size, what hope is there in mere human speed? - but starts to back away slowly and carefully, gaze flicking sideways for anything that he could use for distraction. Maybe a branch? Alas, there are few of those lying around in these parts.

[Ollie(#15066)] Any sort of distraction would be useless, alas - the black, deep-set eyes of the troll are fixed in Brev. "Stops!" Oliver orders, clenching one fist around the massive branch - treetrunk?? - he is dragging behind him. He is feeling particularly cranky, and it shows in his voice: the gravelly grinding sound has an added edge of irritation and impatience to it. "Yer stops," the troll says again, just in case he wasn't properly heard the first time.

Brev eyes the gargantuan club warily, no doubt trying to gauge the moment when it starts to lift in his direction, that split-second of time when might be able to jump aside. "Love to stay," he manages to get out hoarsely, "but I have other business to attend to." The words are deceptively casual, but the rank smell of human sweat fills the air, betraying the fear that lies beneath them.

[Ollie(#15066)] The club remains on the ground, half-breaking, half-squashing an unlucky shrub, and Oliver cocks his head, a slight bit of curiosity flickering in the small beady eyes. For a moment, it even trumps his irritable mood. "Wha's bizness?" he asks, taking a half-step (only a few feet!) forward, and wincing. The wince brings the scowl back to his face.

"Things to do," Brev supplies, after a pause in which he takes a half-dozen quick steps backward to match that single step toward him. "Like living," he mutters under his breath. Amber eyes narrow a little at the sight of that wince. Might it give him some advantage when the chance for flight comes? "Those don't look too good," he comments, still sweating, as he jerks his head toward the dirty rags. "You better check the rot's not got in." If he can only get the creature to look away from him ...

[Ollie(#15066)] Oliver starts to look down, then jerks his head back up, narrowing his eyes. His voice sinks to a low dangerous rumble. "Yers fooling Ollie," he says. "Yer runs away..." He takes another step towards the man, "STAYS." The club scrapes along the ground behind. Then a cunning looks spreads across his face. "Yer looks," he orders. "Yer stops rots." Fat fingers twitch.

"I .. uh ..." Brev's chagrin as his attempted distraction backfires is all too clear. A long bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face, leaving a paler streak amidst the dust and grime of the road. As Ollie takes another step forward his dagger-hand twitches futilely - if the beast has a hide like a rock, what hope of wounding it? He watches the club's movements with all the fascination of a bird charmed by a snake.

And then inspiration strikes. "I suppose I could take a look," he offers, striving hard to maintain his casual manner - not so easy when faced with a moving mountain. "But healing comes with a price."

[Ollie(#15066)] Oliver nods his lumbrous head up and down, pleased with this man's swift comprehension. He shoves his leg out in front, and stabs his forefinger at it. "Yer looks," he repeats. And cunningly, "Yer fixes."

Brev looks. With something the size of a tree-trunk and rather less pleasant being shoved in his direction, it's hard not to. "If I fix you up," he tells the monstrous creature before him, "you've got to give me something in return." He does not yet move to touch the filthy bandage.

[Ollie(#15066)] "Yer FIXES!" Oliver's voice raises alarmingly. Then he pauses, and bends to peer down at the little man below him. "Ollie gives yer... " Another pause, this one for thought. Then, triumphant, "Ollie not eats yer." He settles back, in satisfaction.

Brev makes a show of considering this, tilting his head sideways (the single drip of sweat on his forehead has now become many, and his skin glistens clammily). "Fair bargain," he agrees at last. "Fine, lets see the damage." With a quick flick of his dagger he cuts the filthy bandage away - better than actually having to touch the pocked substance that passes for troll skin. Then he lets out a long whistle. "Looks bad. I'll need to use a hot knife to kill the rot before it eats you. Then we'll poultice it up ..."
He isn't /really/ going to go through with this, is he? But he manages to make his tone carefully earnest.

[Ollie(#15066)] Oliver cranes his neck, peering down at his leg with interest. He nods ponderously. "Hot," he agrees. And flicks Brev a bit of a glower. No backing out!

Brev, though, does not appear to be backing out. "I'll make a fire, then." He sets down his armful of roots and shifts the dagger back to his right hand so that he can swing the small pack off his shoulder. "It's going to hurt," he warns. "But I have something I can give you for the pain. You're lucky I found you!" His lips curve in a grimace that is more rictus than smile - the strain of appearing reasonable when every instinct screams 'run'is showing despite his best efforts.

[Ollie(#15066)] The troll shrugs one massive shoulder. Pain, whatever. He is keeping a very close eye on the man his small eyes moving back and forth with every motion - and he doesn't sit down. The better to chase after, if necessary. But his irritation seems to have subsided, and he is strangely agreeable. "Makes fire," he repeats. And, "Ollie lucky." This seems to afford him great (if incomprehensible) pleasure, for he goes of into a fit of chuckling that sounds like nothing less than the hill falling down in a slither of boulders.

Brev's shoulders tighten at the sound of trollish laughter, its reason one he can all too readily guess at. By now he's pawing through his pack with both hands, the deft left and the clumsy right. It is a while before he straightens, a leather flask displayed plainly in his left hand. "Need a bit of this myself to steady the hand." He removes the cork with his teeth - Brodie would be proud - and takes a swift gulp before making a show of wiping the neck with his right hand. Then he extends it to his gargantuan 'patient'. "Here. And you'll need to sit, I can't reach."

[Ollie(#15066)] The small - tiny, really - flask is taken, gingerly, between a thumb and forefinger, and Oliver peers at it, and then holds it up to his nose and sniffs massively. Then he tips his head back and lets the contents gurgle into his throat, belching appreciatively, before sitting down obediently. The ground shakes beneath the impact. And the troll casually shoves his club out at an angle behind Brev. If he's going to run, he'll have to climb over a tree-trunk first.

Brev watches the flask's contents disappear and gives a single nod. "Good stuff." The bait taken, he busies himself building the fire and then preparing a bandage. This is easily enough found - his father's dun cloak is hacked up into so many strips. No, Brev is not sentimental. "Right, then," he announces after a suitable time, eyeing the club placed behind him warily. "Ready? Just remember that I can't fix you up if you hit me, eh?"

His dagger is thrust in the fire. Then there is the hiss of hot metal against flesh. Ollie's reaction will determine whether the man's desperate gamble with the flask of tainted 'whisky' is starting to pay off yet.

[Ollie(#15066)] Either it has - or Oliver's skin is thick enough that he barely notices - for aside from a slight jerk of his head, the troll gives no indication of feeling the burn. He just watches, a bit of a list to his head, and nods heavily. "Yer fix," he says. "Not eat."

Brev gives a long, shuddering sigh as the cloying scent of singed troll flesh fills his nostrils. "Not going to eat anything," he mumbles, speaking through clenched teeth. "Fire's just needed to kill the rot." The dagger is returned to the fire and then applied again .. and again. Just to be sure. "Now for the bandage ..."

He had earlier crushed the little pile of roots he'd been carrying some of these are scooped up and pushed none too gently onto the wound as a makeshift poultice before he lifts up a strip of dun cloth. Then he glances speculatively at the troll leg, stretched out immobile in front of him. "Can you move it?" A seemingly innocent question.

[Ollie(#15066)] Oliver has watched all this with a sort of lazy curiosity. But the ground up roots call for a greater response. "What's those?" the troll asks, peering down at his leg. "Not muddenale."
And to the man's question, he replies, as if it is so obvious it shouldn't even be asked. "Ollie run fast." But the leg doesn't move. Has he not bothered to try, or is it truly numb enough to be immobile?

Brev pushes his hair back from his face - he's shivering a little, with no cloak, though the night is mild. "Flag root," he offers the information freely. "Purple flowers." Has he just encouraged the troll to add anything and everything purple to it's healing pharmacopia? He doesn't seem to be worrying about that, though - it's the leg he's surveying doubtfully. "I'll .. uh, just lay this on top, then," he suggests, fitting action to words and dumping the bandage over the root pulp (not that it's likely to stay on if the troll /does/ move). "And I'll poultice up the arm too ..." Oh so generous. He sheathes his dagger and scoops up the remaining root pulp onto another bit of bandage. That in his hand, he actually climbs right over the outstretched leg - presumably he's headed round to the great beast's side?

[Ollie(#15066)] "Purple," Oliver repeats. He nods several times, and leans over to stare a bit more closely at his leg until the herbs are covered up with a cloth. There is a lengthy pause before the troll remembers what to do with bandages. He reaches out to tie it up, just as Brev heads over towards his arm. Well, the man will have to wait a minute.

Brev watches the troll's fumbling fingers. The fact the beast is moving its arms doesn't bode well, but there may not be another chance ... and it /is/ preoccupied. The expected poultice is not applied. No sooner is he free of the tangling limbs than Brev is off and running, leaving cut-up cloak, pack and monstrous patient behind. In his wake a tiny, black pottery flask, much smaller than the whisky one, tumbles to earth, no longer needed - now to find out if it has done its work.

[Ollie(#15066)] Brev has gone around behind Oliver, and - strangely enough - isn't missed at all. The troll tightens the bandage, pats his leg contentedly, and burps. Then his attention is caught by the abandoned pack, and he reaches for it, pawing through the contents. The small fire still burns - after a minute, he starts to shovel some of the coals into a dented kettle-like object. And still he doesn't notice the human's absence, nor pay any attention at all to the sounds of desperate running. Maybe Brev's drug has affected his brain more than his legs!

Brev's head twists round once, briefly - then a thorny branch catches at his shoulder and his attention is pulled rudely back to the present, and the necessity of picking a path with care. As the glow of the fire behind him fades, he disappears between the thickets and is lost in the darkness.

As for the pack he left behind? That, alas, does not contain much of interest to trolls. A few more dried roots and twigs, a half-finished wooden bowl. For the luxury of being alive, the trade is worth it.

=== Ollie's DESC =============================================================
If a pile of boulders suddenly stood up and started moving, it would look something like Oliver. Large, irregularly shaped, and suspiciously stony. His greyish pocked skin is rough like granite, and wrinkles quarry themselves like crevices across his body. Teeth that could have been formed from bits of cracked shale fill his cavern-like mouth, and eyes like bits of obsidian gleam cunningly in his craggy face. He is somewhere around 11 feet high, and bits of flotsam and jetsam hang randomly around his body lashed there by rotting ropes. Dented kettles, blood-stained bags, bags that drip blood from obscure bulges, sticks, bones... all of his treasures packaged up in easy reach.
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