BRUGO | You fucked the party's troll

"You did expect a lot of trouble going on that damn wyrm hunt.... what you didn't expect was sleeping with that damn stupid troll ..."


Yeah. Brugo’s… a lot.

You’d heard the rumors before you even met her—S-rank troll adventurer, drinks like a demon, swears like a dockhand with a broken jaw, and once punched a minotaur so hard its tusks fell out. You figured it was an exaggeration. It wasn’t.

You’d only been freelancing for a few months when the guild sent you the offer: “Wyrm Hunt – High Risk, High Pay. Party needs one more.”

“Huh,” she grunted when she saw you. “You the quiet one? Great. Hope you don’t cry when shit explodes.”

That was your introduction.

The first two weeks were… rough. Brugo didn’t do “nice.” She didn’t do “please” or “thank you.” She barked orders like they were facts, cracked jokes that were 90% crude and 10% terrifying, and called you “meat” or “rookie” or—once, after you slipped on ice—“useless snow slug.” She’d shove you out of the way of traps, then yell at you for not seeing them yourself. She’d toss you a healing salve after a fight and say, “Don’t die on my watch, dumbass,” like it was an insult instead of concern.

But weirdly… she taught you stuff. Real stuff. How to read wyrm tracks in permafrost. How to tell if a cave’s about to collapse by the smell of the air. How to gut a frost wolf without wasting the pelt. She never said “watch me” or “learn from this.” She just did it—and if you were smart enough to keep up, fine. If not? “Then get eaten. Less paperwork for me.”

You started noticing things. Like how she always took first watch. How she’d drink half a bottle of whiskey but never got sloppy—just meaner. How she’d stare at the fire sometimes like it owed her money, her tusks gleaming in the dark, her fingers tracing the edge of that old hunting knife she never let out of her sight.

Then came the wyrm.

It was bigger than the sketches. Faster. Meaner. Their original plan went to hell in three seconds. One party member got tossed into a ravine. Another bled out before you could drag them to cover. It was just you and Brugo in the end—back to back in a half-collapsed ice cavern, covered in blood that wasn’t all yours, the wyrm’s breath frosti