Veneer From Trolls 3 Novels & Stories

Jarnja said, voice slow and thick like poisoned milk, her black fur bristling, the troll queen's ram horns shining with helafire as a light snow began to fall. With a spiked claymore, Jarnja slit her throat clean through to the larynx and bled copiously down into the hoary mead horn. The bindrune on her drinking cup shaped like the Devouring Wolf lit with icy blue runefire, and as the troll queen's ichor poured out until her veins ran dry, the black soup gathered in princess Aslaugh's outstretched hands, pooling in the horn and dribbling onto Aslaugh's muscled, sword honed fingertips.

Unfortunately for these, they have a misled Lord. Fenrir was sprinting to the troll who was about to ram into the gates a second time when it vines climbed up its limbs like snakes, hindering it from moving. He stops in his tracks and curiously tilts his head. The vines covered the troll’s body until it slowly penetrated him. The troll groaned when the vines tightened around him.

“Trolls! Welcome our latest victims—did I say victims? I meant members!” Laughter erupted from the crowd. Raven raised a hand and the laughter dissolved. “I need a volunteer to wrestle them,” she continued. “Let’s see how fast their bones snap!” A troll stepped forward. He was massive—twice my height, thick with muscle, his skin the color of wet clay. “I’ll break them in two!” he bellowed, slamming a keg to the ground. The crowd cheered louder. I stepped forward. They laughed harder. “She’s serious?” one jeered.

"Explain." "Water balloon," Dante says, crossing the room with the ease of someone who believes he is about to be forgiven. "We could not find actual balloons anywhere in the villa, so we went through your desk drawer, found one, filled it with water, and rigged it above the door frame to drop on Matteo when he came in." I absorb this. Matteo Ferraro. Our Enforcer. The man who resolves situations before I even become aware they exist, who has never once given me a reason to question his capability, who is arguably the most useful person currently on my payroll.

The bass thumped through the crowded mansion like a second heartbeat, but Elena Voss felt hers stuttering in her throat. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across designer dresses and tailored suits, while laughter sliced through the air like shards of glass. This was supposed to be a celebration. Richard Hale’s latest business triumph but for Elena, it felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of wolves.

Not knowing the true depth of the wizard’s abilities, she didn’t want to take the chance of being interrupted. Reaching in the small pouch attached to her waist, she pulled out a pinch of ground herbs, tossed them in the air and muttered, “Loa, verberg me van die bose oe.” Loa, hide me from evil eyes, she reiterated in her mind. After a brief moment to gather her strength, she held her hands up and muttered, “Lao, verwyder die struikelblok tussen myself en my opponent. Wees saam met me in geveg. Deur me werk vir die dier wat werk met bose ongediertes soos diegene wat binne die mure woon te verower.”

I mumbled to myself. “Wow, you're gorgeous despite the panda eyes you're possessing,” I snapped out of my thoughts as I heard Shirley say this behind me. It was then I noticed the look of awe and confusion I was getting. “Well, this was expected the moment I pulled my hoodie down,” I said to myself, pretending not to hear Shirley, though I knew she wouldn't stop pestering me.

They had what one could call craftsmanship. One source of that had been unexpected. When the Alva’himar had somehow managed to get the Trolls to join their cause, a number of them had displayed surprising skills in metallurgy. Gerth had always considered them slow of wit, but there was no denying that several of them had those particular skills in abundance. They had helped craft the many molds that now filled with molten metal, forming the blades that would arm his forces. Longer and more refined than typical Goblin swords, they would be a better match for the swords of the Grenyaar. Khortaal, wasn’t that what they called them? Yes. Well, the Goblin blades could be named as well. He would c

Amy’s Oath: “Ego, Amy Finn, juro te custōdere sicut ferrum et ignem, protegere cor tuum a umbriīs mali, et in amore nostro invenire virtutem. Semper ero tua armatura et scutum.” translated in English as…“I, Amy Finn swear to guard you like iron and fire, to protect your heart from the shadows of evil, and in our love to find strength. I will always be your armor and shield.” Their voices trembled but did not break. When both oaths were spoken, they sealed them with ink and wax— Amy’s seal red as blood, Ellie’s dark as the night they had conquered. They exchanged a look of quiet triumph. A servant brought two small goblets of fortified wine. Ellie raised hers.

The trees swayed distorted. The rogue leader's jaws snapped mere inches from my face. I countered with a swipe of my claws, ripping the rogue leader’s ear. The rogue howled, enraged. I seized the opening, delivering a crushing blow. The rogue leader immediately crumpled, defeated. The remaining rogues rushed to me but it was easier for me. My claws singled around, cutting their heads, tails, and ears. The smart ones among them ran with one of their body part missing while the rest stayed to be killed completely.