Chapter 1: Dismissed and Delicious
The castle gates closed with a final, echoing thud that seemed to shake the very road beneath Jasper’s boots. He adjusted his pointed hat, its bells giving a pathetic jingle, and brushed a bit of courtyard mud from his patchwork sleeve.
“Inappropriate conduct,” he muttered to the twilight. “A bit of poetry, a stolen kiss behind the tapestries… since when is joy a crime?”
The forest path swallowed him quickly, the cheerful jester now just a blot of fading color against the gathering dark. His bravado lasted until the first wolf howl sliced through the coming night. Then, he was running, his pack slapping against his back, the bells on his hat and shoes chiming a frantic alarm with every stumbling step.
A darker opening in the mossy bank presented itself—a cave mouth. Better than the wolves. He plunged inside.
The cave wasn’t a cold, damp hole. It hummed. A crackling fire threw dancing light across walls lined with rough shelves, which held a bizarre collection: chipped mugs, a tarnished hand mirror, a lute with one broken string. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweetly smoky, like cedar and honey. And the floor was covered in a deep pile of dry, golden hay, soft as a down mattress.
Jasper sank into it, catching his breath. Sanctuary.
“That’s my bed.”
The voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together deep in the earth. Jasper froze. Slowly, he tilted his head back.
The troll filled the rear of the cave. He was a mountain of moss-covered flesh and muscle, his head brushing the soot-blackened ceiling. Rough, bark-like skin, tusks curving up from a heavy lower jaw. Eyes the color of swamp water blinked down at him.
Jasper’s training took over. Fear was just another audience to win.
A brilliant, practiced smile spread across his face. He swept into a deep bow, his hat bells jingling merrily. “My sincerest apologies, good… sir! A traveler, lost and weary, seeks but a moment’s respite from the cruel night. I meant no trespass.”
The troll tilted his enormous head. “You’re in my hay.”
“And such excellent hay it is!” Jasper plucked a strand, sniffing it with exaggerated delight. “Aromatic. Resilient. The bedding of a true connoisseur.” He dared a glance upward, flashing his most charming grin. “I am Jasper. Jester, poet, purveyor of fine merriment. And you are?”
“Thrall.” The troll settled back onto a massive rock seat, the firelight playing over his formidable form. He didn’t look angry, just… deeply curious. “You talk a lot.”
“A professional hazard.” Jasper relaxed slightly, though every muscle remained ready to spring. He gestured to the shelves. “A collector, I see! That lute… do you play?”
Thrall looked at the instrument, face blank, like he did not process the jester's words.
Thrall looked at the instrument, face blank, like he did not process the jester’s words. “It’s shiny,” he rumbled finally. “Found it in a bag. The bag had bones in it.” He leaned forward, the firelight catching the deep grooves of his face. “You’re very small. And very colorful. Are you a type of bird?”
Jasper let out a genuine, startled laugh. The sound seemed to please the troll, whose mossy lips quirked upwards at the corners. “A bird! I’ve been called a magpie, but never to my face. No, I’m a man. A human.”
Thrall inspected Jasper, trying to make sense of the information. Eventually his expression shifted to acceptance, understanding. "Hmm..." A deep hum left his throat. "Humans usually run away."
Jasper’s smile didn’t falter, though a cold trickle of fear traced his spine. “Well, I’ve always prided myself on being… unconventional. Running away is so predictable, don’t you think?” He settled deeper into the hay, as if making himself at home. “Besides, the fire is lovely. And the company is novel.”
The troll stared at him, clearly not fully understanding what he meant. But he seemingly decided not to bother asking. Instead he lowered himself down by the fire, leaving his bed to the jester.
Instead he lowered himself down by the fire, leaving his bed to the jester. The gesture was so unexpectedly courteous that Jasper’s smile softened from performance to something nearly genuine.
“A host as well! You’re full of surprises, Master Thrall.”
Thrall poked the fire with a stick the size of Jasper’s leg. Sparks spiraled upward. “You smell different than other humans. Sweeter. Like berries and… wine.”
“That’s the courtly essence,” Jasper said, flipping a lock of hair from his eyes. He leaned forward, conspiratorial. “A proprietary blend. Drives the nobles wild. Though it seems the duke’s son preferred a more… direct application.” He winked.
The troll’s swamp-colored eyes watched the wink, uncomprehending. "Are you a special kind of human?"
Jasper laughed.
It wasn’t his courtly titter or his practiced giggle. It was a real, full-bodied sound that burst from his chest, rich and warm, bouncing off the cave walls and mixing with the fire’s crackle. The bells on his hat shivered with the force of it.
“Special?” he managed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. His makeup probably smudged, but he didn’t care. “Oh, sweet, tusked mountain, you have no idea. They threw me out for being too special. Too loud, too colorful, too… much.” He sighed, the laughter fading into a wistful smile. “So, I suppose I am. The kind of special that gets you tossed into the woods after dark.”
Thrall watched him, that deep curiosity unchanged. The laugh seemed to puzzle him more than the words. “Too much what?”
“Life,” Jasper said simply. He plucked a piece of hay and twirled it. “Most people prefer it in measured doses. Quiet. Controllable. I’m more of a… spontaneous combustion kind of fellow.”
The troll processed this. He glanced at his shelves, at the chipped mug, as if comparing Jasper to his collection of shiny, broken things. “You talk in pictures. I like it.” He shifted, the ground faintly vibrating. “The others just screamed. Or tried to stab me. Boring.”
A chill, sharper than the cave’s damp, traced Jasper’s spine. The others. He kept his face a mask of playful interest. “You've had other visitors?"
The troll just hummed thoughtfully at the question, as if it were a hard one to answer. "Visitors..." he mumbled, tone off as if saying the word for the first time and not quite sure what it meant.
He was still trying to form the right word when a sound cut through the cave’s quiet hum.
It started deep, a subterranean grumble that vibrated up through the packed earth of the floor. It grew into a long, rolling gurrrrrrrrrrrn that echoed off the stone walls, a hollow, hungry thunder that silenced the crackle of the fire and froze the smile on Jasper’s face.
The troll’s stomach had growled.
Thrall looked down at his own midsection, then back at Jasper, as if surprised by the noise. He placed a massive, moss-dappled hand flat against his belly. "Ah," he said, the simple syllable hanging in the suddenly much smaller-feeling cave.
Jasper’s pulse, which had begun to settle, was now a trapped bird fluttering against his ribs. The charming words dried up in his throat. Every story, every warning about trolls rushed back in—not as whispers, but as a cold, screaming truth. Humans are his favorite food. The sweet-smoky air now carried the scent of his own sharp, sudden fear.
The sweet-smoky air now carried the scent of his own sharp, sudden fear. It was a clean, metallic smell, cutting through the cedar and honey. Jasper saw the troll’s swamp-colored eyes drop to the flutter of his throat, watched that massive head tilt again in simple, pure assessment.
It happened faster than thought. A hand the size of a shovel shot forward, mossy knuckles and thick, dirt-creased fingers closing around Jasper’s torso. The air left Jasper’s lungs in a whoosh. He was lifted, the world tilting, hay tumbling from his clothes. His hat, with its pathetic bells, fell to the floor with a soft jingle.
The grip wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute. It was like being held in a cage of warm, living wood. He could feel the immense power in those fingers, a casual strength that could pop his ribs like kindling. The sweet, smoky scent of the cave was overwhelmed by the troll’s own smell—
He could feel the immense power in those fingers, a casual strength that could pop his ribs like kindling. The sweet, smoky scent of the cave was overwhelmed by the troll’s own smell—a deep, loamy odor of wet stone and old growth.
“Whoa, hey! Easy there, big guy,” Jasper squeaked, the charm evaporating from his voice, replaced by raw, metal-edged fear. He pushed against the fingers, but it was like trying to bend ancient oak. “We were talking! The conversation was flowing!”
Thrall brought him close to his face. Those swamp-colored eyes swam with a curiosity that was utterly detached. “You’re not like the screamy ones. You’re… shiny.”
“It’s the sequins! Just the sequins!” Jasper’s mind raced, a frantic, spluttering engine. Flirtation had worked with the duke’s son. Why not here? He forced a shaky, desperate smile. “You know, for a terrifying mythical beast, you have incredibly… kind eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?”
The troll blinked. He didn’t seem to understand the compliment, or the terror behind it. He was simply observing. A low, thoughtful rumble emanated from his chest, vibrating through Jasper’s body.
A low, thoughtful rumble emanated from his chest, vibrating through Jasper’s body.
“Shiny,” Thrall repeated, almost to himself. His breath was warm and smelled of earth and slow decay. One thick finger, its nail crusted with dirt, stroked the sequined patch on Jasper’s thigh. The touch was oddly gentle, almost fascinated. “Soft, too.”
“See?” Jasper babbled, the words tripping over each other. “Better for… for conversation. For… for appreciating your lovely cave. I could… I could tell you jokes. Or stories! I’m excellent at stories.” His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against the troll’s encircling fingers. He could feel the sheer, immovable mass of the hand that held him aloft.
Thrall’s gaze drifted from the sequins to Jasper’s face, to his heaving chest, to his throat. That simple, awful curiosity remained. “The screamy ones are jerky. Tough. You look… tender.”
Jasper’s bravado shattered. “Please,” he whispered, the word a raw scrape in his throat.
But Thrall wasn’t being cruel. He was just… deciding. His tongue, thick and grey, wet his lips. It was a pragmatic, hungry gesture. The firelight gleamed on the slick curve of it.
“No, wait, listen—” Jasper’s mind, usually so quick, folded in on itself, leaving only animal fear. He thrashed, a useless, pathetic movement in that vise-like grip. “You can’t! I’m a person! I have thoughts, I have… I have a fucking lute song I haven’t finished!”
“I am listening,” Thrall said, and he sounded sincere. He brought Jasper closer, until the jester’s boots dangled over the broad, mossy plain of the troll’s lower lip. The heat coming from his mouth was immense, a boggy, visceral warmth that smelled of deep places. “You are a talking meal. This is new.”
The world tipped. Jasper screamed then, a short, sharp sound, as Thrall tilted his head back. The cave ceiling spun, a vortex of shadow and firelight. He was dangling headfirst, the blood rushing to his skull, his patched clothes fluttering. The troll’s mouth yawned below him—a dark, wet cavern wider than a bucket, lined with blunt, pebble-like teeth.
“Don’t! Fuck! Don’t do this!” Jasper kicked, his heel connecting with the troll’s lower lip. It was like kicking a wet tree.
Thrall just blinked, unfazed. “It will be quick,” he rumbled, a note of what might have been reassurance in his stone-grinding voice. “I do not chew the little ones.”
And then he let go.
Jasper fell only a short distance, but it was into fathomless, stifling heat. The world became dark, wet pressure. The roof of Thrall’s mouth was a firm, ridged arch above him. He landed in a heap on the tongue, which was soft and strangely muscular, already shifting beneath him.
He gasped, and the air was thick, humid, and tasted overwhelmingly of peat and old mushrooms. It was utterly dark. The wet, encompassing heat was immediate and total, seeping through his clothes, pressing in on him from all sides. He tried to push himself up, but his hands slipped on the slick surface.
“Let me out! Let me fucking out!” His voice was a muffled, echoing shriek in the confined, resonant space.
Outside, he heard a low, gratified hum. It vibrated through the flesh surrounding him, a deep, inner thunder. Then, the world moved.
A powerful, undulating contraction surged beneath him. The tongue lifted, tipping him backward. He slid, helpless, toward the back of the throat. He threw out his arms, his fingers scrambling for purchase, finding only slippery, yielding flesh.
“No, no, no, no—”
The throat opened.
It was an irresistible, smooth pull. A final, convulsive swallow.
Jasper was compressed, squeezed by a relentless, rhythmic pressure that moved him downward. The sound was deafening—a wet, rushing gulp that echoed in the tight chamber of the troll’s gullet. He was pushed, folded, drawn deep. The heat intensified. The air vanished, replaced by a thick, organic closeness. The last thing he felt was a final, decisive squeeze, and then a falling, dropping sensation into a more open, but utterly dark and suffocating, space.
Then, nothing but motionless, sweltering black.
Outside, Thrall sat back on his rock. He ran his tongue along his tusks thoughtfully, then swallowed once more, a final, settling gulp.
He looked down at the empty space where the colorful human had been, then patted his stomach. A pleasant, solid fullness bloomed there, warm and comforting.