Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3918613.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Character:
      Orphaner_Dualscar
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Revenge, violence_begets_violence, Justification, trollpreg,
      Pregnant_Trolls, dead_dove_-_do_not_eat, Kink_Meme, Dark, Revenge
      Fantasy, Origin_Story
  Series:
      Part 3 of Every_Crook_and_Granny_-_Unrelated_Seadweller_Reproduction_&
      Junk
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-11 Words: 1509
****** Legend (Monster) ******
by RainofLittleFishes
Summary
     Young Dualscar mouths off, gets brutally punished for it, and he
     spends sweeps getting revenge on the trolls that hurt him. It forms
     him into a very messed up person.
     For prompt: "the Amporas can't get pregnant, they have the ability to
     get other trolls pregnant. This is a not insignificant part of the
     reason nobody wants to fuck them."
     Possibly underage as young Dualscar is considered an adult but hasn't
     hit adult molt.
Notes
     Kink meme asked for Amporae as grub daddies instead of baby mamas,
     this feature being quite off-putting to others. This led to a bit of
     world/character-building that went quite dark.
No one is born a legend.
The troll that will one day earn the title Orphaner Dualscar is old enough to
be considered an adult, for all that he has not yet had his final molt. He’s
strong, like any healthy seadweller. But there’s always someone stronger. And
anyone can be outnumbered.
They catch up to him on the beach, headed for the water. The second moon has
only just broken the horizon. There are hours and hours to dawn. He feels every
one of them. Every hour. Every minute. Every attacker.
His hatch sign is Ampora. They pull it off his body. And then they make him
their bucket.
He fights. Of course he fights. And because he fights, or perhaps despite it,
when the sun is about to rise, they leave him on the beach. Broken, they think.
But not dead.
He pulls himself into the water. It burns. So does the sun. He dives. He
straightens his fingers and prods his collarbone into place and when something
tries to eat him, he eats it instead, strike and kill awkward, but final.
That’s how life is on Alternia. That’s how something got his lusus. That’s how
a crowd of landdwellers got him, for mouthing off in a bar to a big indigo,
full of false bravado from his first cup of firewater. He’s afraid, afraid and
angry and alone. Humiliated. He breathes each cloud of muddied indigo and blue
slurry expelled from his battered internal territories, swims away as best he
can but cannot escape it.
With every sharp pain, fingers to fins to bones, he seethes and vows revenge.
It is that, or pray not to die. He knows there is nothing to which he can
entrust his safety, nothing but himself. He will grow strong. He will hunt each
of his attackers. He will eat their laughing tongues, or cut out their bulges
and see that they choke on them. He will grasp their hands and scar their faces
with their own talons, drag their first two fingers across their own faces.
Over the eye. Around it if he is merciful. Down the cheek in two great jagged
streaks. They marked him. He will return their signs, cut into the meat of his
belly, with his own. He is an Ampora. Whoever bore the storm wave mark before
him, it will not be he who disgraces it.
Perhaps, if there had been someone there at that point, someone to keep watch
while he slept, half the brain at a time, one eye still open, still swimming,
like the seadwelling ancestors of all trolls, perhaps he would not have grown
so hard. He’s of age to fight and die for honor or submit a pail or die for its
lack, but he’s still growing, and seadwellers are the coldest, the slowest to
reach maturity. His brain should be sleeping fully, and it never does.
He’s lucky he doesn’t lose the eye.
Perigees pass and he grows taller, stronger, harder. The breaks and tears heal,
if not cleanly, then without loss of function. He pulls parasites from his skin
and crushes them between his nails, body pockmarked with more than just a mob’s
entertainment.
Sweeps pass and he’s returned to land, or at least the parts of it that sail
the seas, worked his way up into a crew, not command, not even for a violet,
not so young, but he will live a long life and there is time. He works without
complaint. Guts fish. Knots nets. Hauls. He plots. Fingers over the marks down
his torso. He has them memorized long since. He wonders if he will cut them
out, one by one, with each kill, or if he will leave them. Trophies.
There are those among the crew that would include him, if he showed interest.
There are cards and bones and booze and wild nights of shore leave. There are
those who would have lain with him when the drones came, and some of them might
have lain with him after. He doesn’t notice, not even when he passes drone
inspection with one or another of his crewmates.
Maybe he is broken. Maybe he’s finally mended himself in Alternia’s image.
He trains himself, body and mind and reflexes, and one shore leave he takes his
pay and give his notice and goes hunting.
It’s rare for a seadweller to take up the rifle. Not that it isn’t a useful
weapon, but most sea trolls prefer the personal touch in killing, and for that
you need to be in arms reach. The heir to the sign of Ampora knows that what
follows his hunt will be more than personal enough.
He hunts for sweeps and sometimes he finds only that one is already dead and
past his reach and sometimes he waits for the drones, courses and catches his
prey alone and without recourse, and then he fucks them, and marks them, and
leaves them behind. One, early on, escapes him in death when they turn into the
rifle’s course and what was meant to be an arm shot, shocking and slowing, is
fatal. Most of them, he hunts and fills, and marks, and leaves again.
He’s a sailor, he’s already good with knots, but he gets better, learns to
enmesh his prey in a web so that when they struggle they only work against
themselves. He gets good enough at it that he barely leaves marks, just the
bloody lines across their faces, the fading rope ligatures, the knowledge that
they have been possessed as they once tried to do with him. He faces down a few
moirails, a few matesprits, a few kismesises, even a few auspistices of both
kinds. It’s alright. He has enough rope. Horn bindings are surprisingly cheap
once you learn to make your own. He doesn’t even have to kill. He marks them
too, once, twice, across the cheek, but he doesn’t possess them. They might be
involved, but not in the same way. Behind him, rumors spring up. Perigees past
his dusty trail his prey suffer in a way he never did. Rumors race ahead. He
doesn’t notice.
He gets a lucky break and finds one connected to the last of his prey, and this
time he doesn’t wait for the drones. This time he knocks them unconscious and
ties them up and when they wake, he takes his time. He has lots of time. More
than they do, considering caste and age, even counting that he doesn’t plan to
kill them. It’s a richer take than he’s had since he started and it’s the last
of his prey. There’s one of him and three of them, and he’s big enough, wary
enough, that they never catch him off guard, not early on, and not later, when
the attempts have mostly petered out.
Perigees pass and they hate him, but the drones are coming again and even
shielded by platonic hatred, their cycles recognize it. He breeds them, again
and again until it’s as if they never fully release his slurry, they grow fat
with it, and when the drones come they wait, and then they leave not with
slurry but with dozens upon dozens of fat glistening eggs, buckets of them, the
amorphous shapes within barely visible, and his once tormentors do not die as
they expect. Nor does he.
He laughs then, and the sound is harsh. There is nothing left of the young
troll on the beach, broken under his tormentors. The next night he cuts their
horn bindings loose and tells them to run. The first turns on him then and he
casts them to the ground. They spit and call him monster. He laughs. Perhaps.
Perhaps I am as the horrorterrors made me. Perhaps I am as you made me. He
waits. They scramble to their feet. He waits for their dust to settle in the
distance and he casts the rope and bindings into the fire, waits for it to die
down. The second moon is only just rising. He takes his rifle and he returns to
the sea. He has grown to like possessing things. He thinks he’d like to hold a
ship within his power. A helm. He has tasted fear and he likes the spice of it.
Righteous purpose is his meat. He will need another now.
Behind him the rumors rise and drift and muddy. It’s not hard. The sea and land
castes are alien to one another and also alike enough to recognize competition.
It is an old puzzle, an old complaint, an old fear and sometimes hatred. A
seadweller is possessive, they’ll track you down if you so much as meet their
eyes, they’ll cut you out from your quads like a seawolf coursing fish.
Seatrolls are crazy, they’ll carve their sign into you because they have no
ancestors, just horrorterrors. Some sea witches are shapeshifters, they’ll
breed you full of their maggots.
In time, the Orphaner Dualscar assumes his mantle and makes more legends. 
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