Bloodlore Troll Nethermancer
When Chorak Bonecracker first laid eyes on the young Troll he first almost mistook him for his own son. The spawn of newot parents; the young troll who was barely old enough to pull an oar stood atop a body of Chorak’s own fighters, slain at his young hands. His parents and the other newots lay strewn about the foredeck of the drakkar where Chorak’s men had done away with them. No prisoners, the Bloodlore way.
The young remaining survivor was tall for his age, he gripped the jawbone of a fallen troll; comrade or foe – Chorak did not know. Any other raid and Chorak would have sprung into a furious combat with this troll fledgling, but there was something in his own heart that cautioned him. He saw a look in the young troll’s eyes that reflected a madess he had not seen in a generation. A look that spared no mercy, showed no fear and sought no reason.
Chorak approached the young troll carefully, spear held slack, but alert. The raid was coming to a victorious end. He could hear his men celebrating of the capture of another drakkar, chanting and singing their victory and jar’arak. But this lone troll, barely a child, stood poised in defiance – the last name-giver between Chorak and victory.
Chorak knew not to approach this madness with a blade. Whereas Chorak had dyed his own furs and armor with blood of enemies past, this young troll was similarly painted in the fresh blood of his fallen soldiers. His eye glinted red in the Twighlight Peaks’ night sky. The red of madness.
“The battle is over young warrior”
The young troll whipped to face Chorak and the moonlight shone on his face, wide with fear and fury. His left tusk shone a dark blue in the moonlight. A trademark that Chorak well knew…
“Peace young Bluetoof! I know your father, I know your clan.”
Chorak watched as the young troll’s eyes glazed over and his grip on the jawbone slackened. He could see the madness waning, and he continued his attack.
“Young Bluetoof, I did not know your mother became newot. Come with me and join our moot. I will not dishonor your name. Come and regain your clan’s place.”
The young troll’s eyes shone with mistrust. Chorak well knew the war-fever that he saw, and sought the only way to pierce the bloodlust.
“I speak plain. Cast your eyes upon upon the harlequin moon. The blood moon is nigh upon us and we shall have moot in three days. I know in you the blood of legends, and offer you entrance to our moot. What say you young troll?”
Then Chorak saw it, the look he would forever remember as he personally saw over this young troll’s upbringing. The look of defiant survival, of conniving strength. The Outkast Warrior blood of his legendary father coursing through his veins.
“I seek vengeance. Will you stand in my way?”
Chorak smiled at first and then hung his head back in a maniacal laugh. Thystonius would be pleased at what would be the newest addition to his clan. Would he lose him to Raggok? Only time would tell. But Chorak knew that he would keep an eye on this outsider, for greatness was in his name.
Thom Edrull, Archivist and Scribe of the Hall of Records
Born to a newot mother, young Blort Bluetoof quickly rose to favor in Chorak Bonecracker’s clan of Bloodlore Trolls. After three days as a newot, he received the invitation to become initated as an adolescent troll into the Bloodlore Troll clan. He was one of the youngest initiates to complete initiation and his garb and skin was already stained the crimson of the Bloodlore clan. Chorak Bonecracker had known his Outcast Warrior father, and took a special interest in the upbringing of the young Blort. While he excelled in all his martial training, he showed a special interest in pursuing the rich legends of Troll history. Blort was never one to back down in a raid or battle, but he never quite fit in with the rest of the Bloodlore clan.
Blort was undeniably loyal to his savior clan, his sense of Kat’ral was unquestionable. He was one of the few verbal opponents of Prokkvar Tornflesh, during the Bloodlore trollmoot and was rumored to have turned down the position of vig on Chorak’s drakkar. He was one of the few Bloodlore’s who openly quarreled with disputes of Katera, with both trolls or other name-givers. This trait soon piqued the interest of a few of the Bloodlore elders, and he quickly formed a close bond with the many aged adepts of the clan. By the time he reached full troll maturity, he was one of the most learned advocates of troll history and crystalworking.
He was one of the few trolls in his raiding part who went into battle without a weapon. His large troll frame was deceptively agile, and he during battle, he would pummel foes with all shapes and sizes of weapons, only to leave the battle unscathed. His fellow clan members would swear that his eyes shone a bright red during battle, but this was never confirmed. What was confirmed was the level of intensity witenessed whenever they rode agains Stoneclaw trolls. Blort displayed such a ferocity and bloodlust that any raiders in his party would agree to give him a tenspan head start before entering the battle for fear that they would accidentally be injured by his bloodlust.
Aside from his exploits as a Sky Raider, Blort was renowed for his tattooing. He was the only tattoo artisan who was able to recreate the dark red color that the Bloodlore’s armor stain was known for. Many said that he had found a way to use the fallen blood of his foes as ink. Many of the younger trolls swore that certain runic patterns of Blort’s tattoos had protected them from harm during raids or increased their strength in battle so his services were well sought after. Blort would explain to them that any power drawn from his tattoos must be from the Bloodshard, the crystal needle that the elders bestowed upon him. Blort had never consciously drawn power or knowledge from the needle, but his intuition told him that he should handle the ancient crystal with extreme respect and caution.
The only visible tattoo on his body was the troll rune for newot on the back of his right hand. Those who knew him well enough knew that he also bore a rendering of a sawed off tusk on his inner shoulder blade. Those who knew him further knew that his hand went to that mark when he was in deep contemplation and focus. Only Blort himself knew that it was the symbol of his father, the Outcast Warrior.
Although barely born, Blort retained a vivid memory of his father’s death. As an outcast warrior, his father and mother were constantly on the move. With Blort still at his mother’s breast, they had mostly kept to the lowlands, but Korffan Bluetoof longed to return to the vast caverns of the Twighlight Peaks. In his mind, the Stoneclaw Clan that he came from had long forsaken their Katera, but still held residence in the peaks. Korffan was convinced that if they continued to cut their hair in dwarf fashion and dress themselves in dwarf garb, then they would eventually rehabitate to Throal.
They approached a nondescript town called Kelna. Blort was walking astride his father’s massive frame, trying to keep pace with his father’s huge strides. His father had recently taken conscript with the Bleeding Tongue, and they were hurrying to honor their contact to defend Kelna. As was the norm, Korffan far outstrode he other name-givers in the Bleeding Tongue and arrived four full candlemarks early. He turned to Blort and grinned. A single dark blue tusk gleamed in the daylight, brightening his smile. His right tusk was sawed to the root, giving Korfann’s grin an irregular easiness.
“Now we wait, soon battle will come!”
His smile did not fade, but his gaze slowly dissolved to a premeditative battle stare. They were cautious and aware, and stared into the distance. His hands began the ceremonious wrapping of his knuckles: thin leather straps with crystal studs, the only weapon Korfann ever used. Blort watched his father in reverent awe. Too young to speak, the infant troll was wise beyond his years and absorbed every movement and habit of his legendary father.
The conscript detailed the defense of this town, so Korfann circled the perimeter. Blort followed suit, knowing that danger was candlemarks away, and that when the time came for battle, he would be whisked away with his mother until the killing subsided. Although nigh a season old, Blort had become familiar with the excitement and furor of battle, and had learned to mimic the calm preparedness of his father.
As they rounded the southern end of town, Korfann suddenly froze. All the calm battle sense that Blort had witnessed had faded and he watched his father’s muscles tense. Blort peered ahead and saw what appeared to be a large ship, hovering just above the ground, docked on the outskirts of town. He saw a large group of trolls, similar in build to his father disembarking from the craft and transporting large crates of goods to the airship.
The trolls looked similar to his father, but lacked any sense of what Blort understood as honor. They wore outrageous clothing and had their hair cropped in an absurd fashion. Korfann still had not moved, and stood rigid.
“Blort, run to your mother. NOW”
Young as he was, his father’s commanding shout compelled Blort to stumble backwards and run into a dead sprint around the town. As he ran, he heard the battle cry of his father challenging his foes, and Blort turned to see Korfann charging headlong into a crowd of troll enemies.
“STONECLAW TRAITORS! Have you lost your Katera? I will help you find it, in the afterlife!”
Blort sprinted on, kicking up a trail of dust. His short legs were no match for his father’s enemies and they caught him before he reached his mother. He was hauled back to the drakkar, where he was thrown with his mother in the hold to begin his life as a newot.
Before he was thrown belowdeck, he caught a glimpse of his father’s head stuck atop a pike on the deck of the drakkar. The crates that the Stoneclaws were loading on the drakkar had been broken and their contents were spilled out on the deck. They were dwarven clothes sized to fit trolls.