Bel: Visit even more rainbow drinkers.

"How do you castrate a seadweller? Kick her chamber slave in the chin!" You hesitate, then grimace. "You know what, forget I said that. We can call each other stupid and vain all night, but I'm not going to imply you force yourself on the lower castes. And all the other seadweller jokes I can think of are on the same theme." After you swallow your next bite of fish, you brighten: "What sex position is 72? 69 with three people watching."

(yeah bel is out of jokes, this is not his best event)

 

You take a smidgen of pity on him.

"What's the difference between a fish and a fishtroll? Your friends are more concerned to find you pailing the fishtroll."

You finish your salmon and take another playful swipe at Bel's.

 

"You know, I had the opportunity to test that scientifically, but Pancho would've swatted my head off if I'd wasted good food that way." You finish your piece of salmon and smugly suck your fingers clean. "God, thinking about Pancho's cooking is driving me crazy. Thanks for the snack, but we need a proper meal. Let's get off this butte. Think you can free climb it, or should I rig the route? It's harder going down, usually."

There's a dirty joke to be made there, but you can't quite put it together. All you can focus on is how the smoked salmon just awoke your appetite instead of sating it. What you wouldn't do for a bowl or three of Pancho's scalebeast chili!

 

"As you like," you say indifferently. A few skids and spills aren't likely to ruin your night, but with a line to follow you could poke around for interesting rocks and bones and things. You haven't been to this region before.

 

"Free-climbing's faster," you say skeptically. "If you break your leg so I have to carry you to civilization, so help me I will never let you live it down." You let yourself over the edge and begin descending with methodical care. "Five hundred sweeps from now I'll be using 'as you like' for a code phrase to mock your failures. Don't give me the opportunity to do that to you."

 

"Five hundred sweeps from now you'll be too decrepit to put up a fight when I tip over your wheelchair," you retort, and drop down beside him.

"Race you down," you offer.

 

"That's a terrible idea," you sniff, and continue at your own methodical pace.

 

"Oh, now you won at rock climbing once you think you're just so important," you sniff, and drop a few lengths, skidding with your clawtips set til you catch a ledge.

You grab up a little pebble and flick him with it square on his prissy blue butt.

 

"Oh for crying out loud, would you pack up your deathwish until after I get some lunch? The fastest way to the bottom is to let go, you idiot, if winning means that much to you! I will leave you here to dry out and go get McDespot's by myself!"

 

You look down, look at him, look down again. The only really tricky bit is the jaggedy scree, sharp enough to break you open-- and of course the storm-thorns, you don't fancy pricking prickles out of your fins while Bel laughs at you. But you feel good.

"Right, then," you say, brightly, and let go.

The next minute is a jumble of sliding, scrabbling, falling, and clawing, with a bit of bouncing thrown in for spice. No thorn patches are encountered, by an excellent stroke of luck. Then, too, your prosthetic serves admirably, and you manage to coast down the jagged scree metal-leg first in a rattling cataclysm of dust and tumbling rock, roaring laughter from the trill of speed and violence.

The abrupt impact with the ground flips you ungracefully over and you land flat on your front. A heavy tide of rock washes over you-- you sputter, choke, and scramble upright hacking your stupid gills off.

When you catch your breath you dust yourself off, still giggling a bit, then turn and take an elaborate bow towards your distant kismesis.

You're going to be sore as the Empess's punching bag tomorrow, but like hell does Bel have to know.

 

The next thing you know, you're at the bottom and charging at him. You're not at all sure how you got down; you fear you might've done a bit of scree-surfing yourself. Your hands are scraped up, definitely, and sting when you grasp his shoulders and shake him. His laughter infuriates you beyond words. All you can muster is a wordless roar of frustration.

 

You throw your arms around his neck and swing him around as he stumbles, still uncontrollably giddy-- ah, that rush, the joy of it-- and kiss him hard. It's entirely likely he'll rip your face off for it but you can't care, you're alive, invulnerable, born for this power.

 

You kiss back, then break away snarling, shake him some more, garble something about how it would've served him right if he broke both his horns off, and kiss him again. It takes several minutes of this before you're calm enough to form a sentence.

"I hate you so much," you croak, resting your forehead against his, hanging onto fistfuls of his shirt. "You're so awful, oh my god."

 

You hold him a bit more gently, as you calm down, and run your claws through his hair. This is you, though, the part of yourself you like best to be, that you thought lost, that you're finding again. You're so glad he hates you for it.

"Someone's got to shake you up, love," you tell him happily. "Now, let's get some lunch into you, if you faint along the way back I will take compromising photos of you and put them online."

 

"I don't faint, you're the fainter," you say sulkily, as you both pretend not to notice that you're still sort of hanging onto his shirt. As soon as you're both astride the vehicle, you wrap your arms around his waist, and you cling to him as hard as you can without impeding his ability to drive.

By the time you spot the drinkers' hive ahead, you're calm enough to admit to yourself that he's pretty much right; it does you good to be reminded that your quadrants aren't made of glass, and that you don't need to stand guard over them every moment lest disaster befall. Galley's illness and Erskin being victimized by Cloris were statistically unlikely events, not business as usual. Just because they happened within a few perigees of each other doesn't mean you can expect to nearly lose one or the other of them a couple-three times a sweep forever.

"I don't know if Hess will give us lunch," you point out as he slows for the turn into the driveway. "We might just be dropping off the thorns and collecting the fluffcheep, and then have to find somewhere else to eat."

 

"Who's Hess?" You want to know. "Can't we just pay them in money?"

 

"Hess is the rainbow drinker I went to for advice. The fat lady with the knitting circle, remember? I thought you were sort of friends with these guys." You shake your head. "I don't think they want money, or she wouldn't have asked me for these thorns for the night's lodging."

Rather than ring the bell, you lead Erskin around to the patio where you last saw the drinker in question; you doubt she'd appreciate you de-captchaloguing the bundles of thorns inside the hive.

 

A long table is covered in plates and bowls of interesting meats and significantly less interesting plants. A few trolls are scattered along the length, reading and writing and pecking away at husktops. A little glowing wiggler is curled up in a pile of fleece, gnawing sleepily on a bone.

You look at the trolls. A few of the trolls look at you. You strategically edge further behind Bel.

 

You don't blame him; how many trolls even live here? This hive is even more crowded than yours! You don't see Hess, but you spot one of her knitters. "Where would you like the thorn canes? And have you got my fluffcheep?" you ask him.

You deposit the bundles as directed, and accept your sleeping pet from his hands. "I hope he hasn't given you any trouble," you smile. Belatedly, to the rest you haven't met, you nod a greeting. "Hi, I'm Bel. That's Erskin." It's taking quite a lot of self-control to ignore the food smells wafting around, but manners are important.

 

Too late to get back on the bike and get out of here, damn. You don't mind the sardine-school anonymity of hivecluster crowds, but just a handful of trolls having a campfire sitdown gives you the screaming jitters.

You are going to kick Bel in the shins for this the moment he stops looking quite so precisely like a ravening howlbeast.

"Hallo there!" you say with your best forward manners. You stride forward, sit down and clasp the hand of the highest-blooded troll on your side of the table— teal, that's not so bad— pat it a few times, and lean an elbow on the plank tabletop. "We're starved as anything, what's on offer?"

The tealblood mumbles something and waves at the spread. The other trolls are starting to watch you sidelong, measuring.

"Excellent," you decree grandly, "thanks ever so," and pat the pillow beside you with a bright smile up at Bel. "Here, sit down, you big lump, you'll give us all a crick in the neck."