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Scarred for life.

As you tumble in an out of flashes of pain and darkness, you know that the creature is still slicing away at you. The abuse of your body is maddening, and you can feel your blood boil with rage and anger. Troll blood. Between the pain and anguish, you are able to form a few conscious thoughts. Maybe the transformation has affected you more than you thought, for desires unfamiliar to you have appeared, mostly in the form of rage... maybe you are more troll than you believed. After a time, the burning subsides, and you slip into an undisturbed slumber.

You awake with a start, jerking your body upright. You immediately regret it, as pain once again shoots through your body. You fall back once more, and land on something soft. You look at your surroundings, finding that they have once again changed. You are in a dungeon-like place. Chains and manacles hang from the walls, and various items litter the floor; dice, cards, and other mundane items. You are on a bed of straw, one of many that litter this place. Though it is dank and smells of rot, you find you are quite comfortable in these surroundings.

Then your memories return... the blades slicing into your flesh, the ink, and the poker. You look at your body, running your fingers down the long and painful tatooed scars. A fresh streak of pain explodes along them, and you wince. You decide you need to see the damage fully. Gritting your teeth against the pain, you rise to your feet, and search the wall, finally coming across a broken mirror. In the shards that remain, you see yourself. The tatoos run in strips along your shoulders and arms, forming a seemingly ritualistic pattern. You remember the few words you heard before your ordeal, a new design from a tourist picture. The markings remind you of tigers, which the picture must have shown.

Pictures? YOUR CAMERA! Your eyes quickly dart around the room, landing on the pile of straw you were lying on. There, half buried, is your camera. You quickly check it over. You let out a sigh of relief; still in working order. You take this opportunity to take pictures of the dungeon, fumbling the camera between your thick fingers. You strap the camera to your... wait, your belt is gone. Your jeans, shoes and shirt, too. Instead, they have been replaced with a new wardrobe... a pair of shorts that appear to be made out of some sort of mammal's hide, but fortunately it is definitely not human hide. They extend just past your knees, with a large ring of thicker hide edging the design. They are only a little tight, enough to show the muscles of your thighs, but still baggy enough to hang just a little. Then you see your feet for the first time. Your toes are clawed, but the nails are white, as opposed to the dark talons of your hands. The underside is thick, and feels worn. Obviously, trolls were made for barefoot walking.

You look around, and see an open archway, leading into the all-too-familiar hallway of obsidian. You head in that direction, holding in the yells of pain as new agony streaks through your scars.

Written by Dream Weaver (edited by wanderer)

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