Author: Tristraam
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Preface
As world-shattering, nigh extinction-level cataclysms go, this one didn't turn out too badly for the trolls. From their perspective, they developed from a perpetual state of outcast proletarianism to becoming a welcome addition to Norrathian society. In a very short period they went from living in tick-infested swamp-hovels and rickety shacks on the arse-end of Neriak to being invited to live in what was, for them, a five-star luxury hotel of a city (still tick-infested, but a lot less swampy). The average troll on the street would tell you (and by tell I mean a few random words and a lot of gesturing) that they were extremely pleased with their new status, and that they couldn't believe that they got it for the bargain price of two-thirds their population. In fact, if they'd known that was all it would take, most of them would have bumped off the rest of their families a long time ago.
And so, when word came that Freeport was the new place to be and that, instead of the usual "driven off in a mad hail of arrows" greeting they were, in fact, being welcomed into its arms, they were packing their belongings and waving goodbye to their homes faster than a froglok on a hotplate.
Freeport was about to get a lot smellier. And, between you and me, that's saying something.
I
The serene quality of a mountain at dawn is something so pure, so blissfully perfect as to be impossible to describe. Amber fingers of sunlight creep upward along its back, massaging away the last remains of evening. Spindly-legged mountain goats hop precariously between invisible footholds, dropping their heads periodically to munch on the sparse tufts of grass. High above, tracing lazy patterns in the milky clouds, an eagle circles, its eyes scanning the cliffs for signs of rabbit or mouse. No hint of civilisation has disturbed this place for a thousand years. Until now.
There is a faint scrabbling, followed by the clatter of falling rocks. Several goat-heads turn in unison to this new and unfamiliar sound. One of the older bucklings, filled with curiosity, springs nimbly towards the source of the disturbance, picking his way upward. The animal stops short, staring up at the peak from a wide plateau. Slowly, the trembling shape of a massive hand slips into view, its fingers, the colour of month-old sausages, probing the rocks for purchase. A second hand appears next to the first, tendons visibly tightened with effort.
Suddenly, like a scarred and grotesque sun, a knobbled green head breaks the horizon. Eyes strained and bulging, the head completes its rise over the summit, pulling the engorged shape of a body behind it. The gargantuan form heaves forward, swinging a tree-sized leg up for leverage, and slowly works its way down the other side of the precipice to the clearing below. Leaning back against the mountain wall, gasping with exertion, his head swivels around, taking in the surroundings. The creature's eyes fall upon the goat, which scampers neighbourly forward, bleating as it sniffs his legs. Mouth widening into a smile, the monster reaches one of his misshapen hands over his shoulder, grasping for the object strapped to his back. With a mighty grunt, he swings his arm down, driving a massive club through the top of the buckling's skull. It collapses in a heap, a look of benevolent curiosity fixed on its face.
The creature turns, calling above him. Two more shapes appear over the peak, slowly making their way down to him. Once to the bottom, the three fan out, seeking to introduce themselves to some of the other cliff residents.
Hours later, their bellies full, the three intruders finish their journey downward. The few remaining goats peek fearfully from their hiding places as the interlopers decend out of sight.
The mountain had met the trolls, and it would take a thousand years (and a lot of therapy) to forget them.
II
Rockfist moves down the broken road, his gnarled feet kicking up a massive cloud of dust as he shambles along. In his left hand, he drags his massive club behind him, angry spikes protruding from its dangerous tip. In the other hand, slung over his back, he carries his luggage, which consists of one extremely soiled, second-hand sack. Inside the sack are all his worldly possessions, including his spare tunic (never worn), a broken fishing pole (never used), an extra club (used often, worn by many as a hat), and other assorted keepsakes. The bulk of his luggage space, however, is taken up by his gardening equipment.(1)
He pauses a moment, scratching his backside, his eyes giving the vacant expression of someone who has forgotten something mildly important. Abruptly he turns, giving a retrospective grunt (most troll emotions and gestures are accompanied by some sort of grunt, although snorts and belches are also popular) and calls out, gesturing wildly with his club.
Through the slowly settling dust cloud, the shapes of two more trolls can be seen, ambling along the road some distance behind. Every so often, one of the trolls goes running off the road, screaming and swinging his club wildly at a passing animal. They hadn't, as yet, successfully hit anything except a couple tree stumps and a large but very suspicious-looking boulder. Obviously this land knew about trolls.
Rockfist swings his club in the air, letting out a loud howl. The other trolls, finally getting the message, cease their haphazard safari and quicken their pace to catch up with him.
Shaking his head, Rockfist gives an exasperated grunt (trolls don't do sighs). If he were capable of it, he would have wondered about those two. As it is, he is satisfied with a bit of vague resentment before turning and resuming his shuffle down the road. After a few moments, he hears them come trotting clumsily behind him. "Try to keep up," he snorts at them without turning around, "There's still a long way to go yet."(2)
The three companions had been plodding along with typical trollish stealth(3) for weeks, carving a strange and circumlocutory journey Eastward. They were the last survivors of a large expedition that had set forth toward Freeport many months earlier. It wasn't through some strange and horrible plague or massacre by a bloodthirsty tribe of nomads that they were now alone, but rather because they accidentally got left behind after a particular long call of nature. They'd finished their business, tried to find the rest of the group, and ended up heading in exactly the opposite direction.
Though they didn't know it, this was actually fortunate for them, since the main party had contracted a strange and horrible plague, and the survivors were consequently massacred by a bloodthirsty tribe of nomads.
So it was that the three travellers began their journey, and through that journey became closer than any trolls in recorded history. They had been friends now for nearly three months - an amazing amount of time for their race. The trollish word for friend, roughly translated, actually means both "troll who I have not killed yet for trying to steal my dinner" (for other trolls) and "person I have not killed by accident or because I was hungry" (for non-trolls). As such, a special bond had formed between them; One that could only be broken by a particularly choice bit of pork or beef.
Through dense wood and craggy cliff the stout adventurers had trekked, blissfully unaware that if they had simply turned slightly left and gone in a straight line, they would have been in Freeport over a month ago.
(1) It is a little known fact that trolls are extremely passionate gardeners. The troll race are trail blazers in the fields of creative landscaping and lawn decorations. Not so much in that they are connoisseurs of rare flora, or have a particular knack for colour schemes. In fact, most troll gardens are little more than bare earth. The few plants that do grow in a troll garden do so very cautiously. Mostly out of fear of being noticed by the troll.
A troll garden is more distinguished by the interesting (if somewhat grizzly) objects that they choose to adorn it with. From wind chimes (made from bones of varying sizes), to statuettes (dip small woodland creature in hot wax, set aside to cool), to their now infamous garden gnomes. These last are the centrepiece of any troll's garden. Garden gnomes (and dwarves and halflings) are one of many innovations that trolls deserve credit for, though most of the civilised races do not employ the same method for creating their decorations (Sit gnome on top of sharp stick. Press down, hard.).
Even less credit is given to trolls for their pioneering work in the art of puppetry.
(2) A rough translation of what is said. For the benefit of intelligibility, anything spoken in trollish has been paraphrased.
(3) Trollish stealth is highly underrated. It is extremely difficult to track a group of trolls, given that the trail they leave bears such a striking resemblance to a herd of rhinoceros. On the other hand, many rhinoceros hunters have met a very sticky and professionally embarrasing end when what they were following turns out not to be what they thought they were following.
III
Rockfist stops abruptly, glancing about the area. His companions, unaware that the march had been halted, nearly topple him over as they collide.
"Wait!" he says to them, "Listen. What is that?"
A faint sound tickles the air.
tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-whirrrrrr-clackaclackaclacka-tick-tick....
The three trolls turn their heads round, trying to find its source. They reverse their course, looking along the road behind them. The trail had been moving downward, and the sound seems to be coming from the other side of the slope. The tickle rises to a faint mechanical clattering.
tick-tick-tick-clackaclackaclacka-tick-tick-whirrrr....
A strange shape appears over the rise, trundling along at a rapid pace. The afternoon sun glints off its approaching form.
Tick-Tick-Whirrrrr-ClackaClacka-Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick....
"What is it?" Rockfist queries.
"Big metal bug?" guesses the troll to his right.
"Can we eat it?" the other wonders aloud.
CLACKACLACKACLACKA-TICK-TICK-WHIRRRRRRRR-CLACKA-TICK-TICK
As it gets closer the trolls realise, with a mild bit of disappointment, that it is not a big metal bug, or any other creature for that matter. They have no idea what it is, except that it is probably not edible(4). What keeps their interest, however, is the fact that on the whatever-it-is's back, riding along like a pint-sized paladin, is what appears to be a little person. At least they think it's a person. Either that, or one of the four wee-horsemen of the tiny apocalypse(5).
The diminutive vehicle skids to a halt in front of the trolls. Up close, it is even stranger. It appears to be made of a small chair, which sits atop many wheels (three, actually, but anything more than two is just labelled "many" by most trolls. Some races count with their fingers. Trolls use the whole arm). Several buttons and gears poke out from various locations. It sits there cheerfully vibrating and clicking away, its rider gripping the two sticks that protrude from above its front wheel, his head and face hidden behind a small metal helmet and dark goggles.
The trolls take a cautious step back, preparing themselves for the end of the world. Suddenly the figure reaches out and presses a button. Rockfist winces reflexively, but the machine merely sputters a moment and then falls silent. The stranger's hands stretch up to his head, removing his helmet and goggles, and revealing....
A gnome.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" he says in common-tongue, hopping off his curious vehicle. "A lovely day for a ride, wouldn't you say?"
He scampers up to Rockfist, stretching out his hand, "Professor Bartleby Winklethorpe, at your service! And who might you be?"
"Err.." the troll replies, his hand rising involuntarily to meet the gnome's, "Rockfist?"
"Pleased to meet you!" the tiny fellow chirps, grasping one of the troll's fingers and pumping it up and down. "And who are your friends?" he says, turning to the others.
"Umm.." Rockfist stutters in broken common. Gnomes usually ran screaming. They didn't just pop up with a smile and shake your hand. This novel approach had rendered Rockfist completely off guard. "This," he says, gesturing to his left, "Clobberface."
Bartleby the gnome shakes Clobberface's finger.
"This," Rockfist continues, turning to his right and pointing, "-trollish word-".
"What was that last?"
"-trollish word-" he repeats.
"Hmmm," ponders the gnome.
(4) This is usually enough for a troll to lose interest. Some races are driven by a hunger for power or knowledge; Trolls are simply driven by hunger. If a troll identifies you as a possible source of food, there isn't a lot you can do. The age old tactic of "playing dead" doesn't really work, since a troll has no qualms with eating a corpse (or fast food, as they call it). To fool a troll, one must go well beyond simply playing dead, and actually play decomposed.
(5) An ancient troll legend about the end of the world. Most races' end-o-the-world stories revolve around the things they fear the most. For the dwarves, who are a bit insecure about their height, the end comes when the gods decide to turn Norrath into a jogging path, and accidentally trample everyone. So for trolls, who are quite a large race, the thought of several tiny men on horseback riding around chopping everyone off at the ankles is a fearful one indeed,
IV
A brief explanation on trollish nomenclature is warranted at this point, specifically a common misconception regarding troll names. Most people think that every troll they meet is going to be a "Clobberfist" or "Dwarf-muncher" or "Bashemgud" when, in fact, they probably aren't. Or weren't, as the case may be. The reality is that trolls have a far more straightforward way of naming their children. Most races would, if their alphabet had less letters than the word "alphabet".
The typical way a troll is named goes something like this: After a few gruelling hours of labour (usually mistaken for indigestion), the troll baby is born (drops to the floor). The mildly surprised mother looks down upon her newborn child, a gaze of immense love (or idiocy - scholars are still debating this one) on her face, and names it the first thing that pops into her head.
Given that a troll has all the imagination of a meat sandwich, these names are usually the perfect description of what they see. As a result, names such as "Brown lump", "Little slimy me" and "What's that?" are quite normal. Occasionally, an uncommonly clever troll mother might be inspired with such a name as "Brownish-green lump with arms", but this is pretty rare.
In actuality, the names that other races associate with trolls are usually just nicknames that were given to the troll in question by either 1. The first non-troll that they encounter - a person who, more often that not, isn't around later to take credit for the christening, or, 2. a person who has employed the troll (they are extremely popular in certain circles for use as bodyguards and other professions which require a lot of force but little creative thinking) but can't be asked to pronounce his/her name.
Additionally, due to a combination of a troll's poor memory and the fact that most non-trolls tend to think they all look the same, a single troll can accrue many names over the course of their professional career, depending on the number of employers they have. For example, Rockfist, who had worked for others on several occasions, was in fact named "Rockfist Elf-Crusher Bonegrinder Stinky Bloodbath Rockfist". Clobberface, who had worked for humans on a couple occasions, was actually "Clobberface Facemasher". Their companion on the other hand, who had never left home in his life, still retained his original trollish name, which was "That's not poo".
V
"Hmmm," repeats the gnome, "I've never learned to speak trollish. Would it be alright if I called you something else? ...Perhaps a name that reflects this new age of cooperation and understanding between all the races...And since our new home is with humans, I think a human word would be appropriate. Let's see... How about 'Ken'? It means 'to understand'".
Ken visibly brightens, "Ken!" he says, looking at his fellow trolls and pointing to himself proudly. It's as easy as that.
"Yes!" continues the gnome, "and I, as I said, am Bartleby Winklethorpe, professor of alchemical studies, crafter of fine poisons, collector of rare diseases, and inventor of the fantabulously contractable, utterly self-motivating tri-cyclical clockwork horseless horse!" He finishes with a flourish, waving grandly at the vehicle behind him.
Rockfist scratches his bottom absently. The initial shock of the gnome's arrival was gradually wearing away.
"Winkie..." hazards Ken, emboldened by his new name.
"Wink-AL-thorpe." Bartelby corrects him.
"Winkie." the troll repeats with conviction, smiling vapidly.
"Errr, yes... well... it takes a while for the full majesty of my creation to sink in. Luckily I've written an entire dissertation on not only its design principles, but also many of its pratical applications in today's Norrath. By Bertoxuluus' knees it will be wonderful to read all 3,326 pages to you! That is, of course, if you also happen to be heading to Freep-mmphmmph!"
The gnome is cut off mid-lecture as a massive hand encloses his head. His arms flail about in confusion as Rockfist raises him into the air and dumps him unceremoniously into his sack. Hoisting it back over his shoulder, the three trolls turn and continue on their way.
After a few moments, a tiny muffled voice ventures, "I say, is anyone there? This is terribly humiliating. I am a full professor of alchemy at Ak'anon University! A gnome of my station deserves better! It's terribly cramped in here, and quite dark. And there are several extremely offensive smells. Hallo....?"
"Hush now, Winkie. Rockfist make nice home for you in garden."
"Oh. Ummm.. thank you. I...that's quite friendly of you. It would be nice to have neighbours..." Bartelby falls silent. It was pretty dark, and smelly, but it was a free ride, so who was he to criticise? He started thinking about how nice it was that the trolls have offered to build him a workshop in their garden, and he'd only just met them!.
Trolls weren't anything like what he had read - which wasn't all that much. Bartleby had never actually been anywhere. Like most academics, he was extremely focused on his chosen fields, and not much else. He didn't even leave his office-workshop very often. While he was a highly brilliant gnome, even by gnomish standards, he was not exactly world-wise. The thought that any race who could walk upright (mostly) and had their own language (kind of) would even consider making a garden trophy of another intelligent creature didn't cross his mind. Religion, rapture, and right-to-rule: These were historically the three R's of murder. He couldn't conceive that the trolls had added a fourth one... Redecorating.
Reaching into his tiny rucksack, Bartleby pulls out a pair of lantern goggles and his dissertation. He leans back against the relatively soft shape of Rockfist's spare tunic and settles down to read. After a while he begins to think about his new home, getting back into the inventing business, and becoming the richest gnome in the world. Perhaps the trolls might want to work for him? He had heard that troll salesmen were some of the most successful in all of Norrath (6).
Eventually he falls asleep, visions of a horseless horse in every gnome's front yard dancing in his head.
(6) If a troll steps in front of someone and says "Buy this.", more often that not the person will manage to find a bit of loose change in their pockets. Those that can't usually find themselves broke. Literally.
VI
The fantabulously contractable, utterly self-motivating tri-cyclical clockwork horseless horse sits there, its metallic form shining in the afternoon sun.
After a few minutes, a wolf wanders up to it. It circles the contraption once, sniffs its front wheel, and cocks its leg. Having marked its territory, the wolf wanders off in search of something to eat.
The horseless horse sits there, resenting the world, and gnomes who couldn't invent autopilot.
-- End Part 1 --
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