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Troll Battle SummaryThe following is a summary of the Troll Battle Interactive, written by Joe Streeper. This event occurred at RAGECon in the spring of 2003. I knew it was coming. The crops were failing in the north. The air had a bitter bite not seen in ages. The geese had left much earlier than ever before --just before Brewfest, making their way toward the gentler lands of Sunndi, or so they say. With the flight of geese I knew that an omen was being bestowed upon the holy land. And now it has come to pass: The Troll Winter.
I first heard news that things were amiss in a letter from my son in Holdworthy. He sent word that he would be visiting Wintershiven soon, for he had received a note from the Knights Valorous about a call to arms to fight off trolls in the north. And if the truth be told, I then recalled a story I heard about some rambling several years ago by that fool in the tower, Jarret Beak, who warned that the trolls would be coming in this very year of 593 CY. When my son arrived, he handed me the note that read,
Imagine that! Avern, the very essence of bravery and devotion to the Pale, was asking my son for help. I knew better than to try and stop him from joining with all the others who also were asked. Like any good father I feared for his safety, but I was proud that he would be a part of something great. Even if he was killed, I would have wanted nothing more than to see him sacrifice his life for the good of Pholtus and the protection of our land from these horrid beasts on our northern frontier. I've seen my share of trolls. Their claws can effortlessly tear open a man's chest. Their thick hide shrugs off most blows, and those that strike true have little effect after a moment or two, for they have amazing regenerative powers. It is no wonder that most trolls have no fear. Even still, a troll can be defeated by a capable man, especially if he can burn him with acid or fire. But this is no ordinary time. If this Troll King, whoever or whatever that is, was raising an army of trolls, there would be terrible consequences. The Trolls Fens are vast, blighting the border from Rakervale to Atherstone. It's no wonder than the Brilliant Castles keep a watchful eye to the north in these parts. And so I too decided to travel with these brave men and women. Of course my days with the sword are long since past. Instead I would be equipped with quill and parchment at the ready to record the epic events which came to pass. On Waterday we made our way to the great hall of the Knights Valorous. I have been inside these hallowed halls on two previous occasions, for reasons I shall not share with you today. Suffice to say on my previous visits it was common to see the knights going about their chivalric business, each of them well trimmed and trained for the art and glory of war. This day was altogether different. The main hall was littered with a good thirty people, each of which was more strange than the next. A tall Suel man who was clearly rather proud of his huge glowing greatsword was leaning against a pillar talking to an Oeridian woman who was mostly unimpressed, despite only having a pair of shortswords sheathed on each hip. Another stout warrior had clearly not found himself indoors much in his life, and I could have sworn I saw some sinister markings on his arms that shifted every so often. Another few people were less obvious in their skills, but I saw more than one of them accompanied by small animals that betrayed their arcane talents to one as observant as myself. Elves were in no small numbers, with groups of them speaking amongst themselves. And adding to this cacophony were some dwarves who were clearly intoxicated and engaged in a debate over whether mashed beets would ease the pain of saddle sores; I shudder to think how that conversation got started. Eventually Avern entered the hall. He seemed irritated at first by the apparent lack of discipline of the group. However, I'm sure he knew what he was doing when he sent the notes to each of them. When the hall finally quieted, he addressed them.
Such ironic words, for the Theocrat would be dead within two weeks. But that is another story altogether. And without much further ado the group left Wintershiven and headed northward to face destiny.
I was also pleased to see the group joined by Felodian of Wintershiven, Brattan of Holdworthy, and the incomparable Zenathian, a protégé of Jaramai Twist. With bards such as these, the deeds of these noble adventurers would indeed be sung. And I too would do my part, just as I tell you this story today. We made camp upon a bed of icy snow. Though the group was well prepared for the harsh weather, no amount of gear would make this trip comfortable. A few among us were able to ease the chill through the use of magic or prayer, but the rest sat around the campfire and made the best of the situation. It snowed for 3 days. Each day the scouts had little to report other than a few tracks here and there. We knew they were out there. At night we could hear the tell-tale growling of the beasts. And on several occasions a drum could be heard to the north. One of the scouts even brought back a crude enemy map which apparently showed each of the major towns in the Pale being destroyed by an invasion, with various words written in the giant language; I saw one word scribed over and over: "Kill." The group was getting restless, and bitter weather was testing the faith of all. I must confess I too was disheartened to see such divining talents as Duoghi, Tell, and the heathen Ramal all fail to locate the Troll King, despite their repeated attempts. I only hoped that the rumors were false, and this was just another cold winter. On the morning of the fourth day we were awoken by the cries of a dwarf. At first I thought it was one of our own, for the wait had seriously depleted the kegs of ale that were brought along by Garogg and Francis. One can only imagine the words said by a dwarf who is waist deep in snow and has an empty mug. But this dwarf came stumbling into the camp waiving an axe covered in dwarven runes which I immediately recognized, along with its wielder: the legendary Dorjan Oldrich had come with Birrvenin in hand, ready for battle. He yelled out some words to the group, some of which I can't recall, and some of which I care not to repeat. Regardless of what was said, the group knew it was time for battle. Armor was quickly strapped on, prayers were said, and magic energies were brought forth to aid the group. The wagons were quickly loaded and the entire camp emptied in a matter of minutes. The group pushed its way northward for what must have been the longest and bumpiest hour of my life. Upon reaching the frozen Yol River we followed it west until coming upon a little thorp known as Oldrich Flat. Oldrich Flat, named after the very dwarf who was with us now, sits upon the southern bank of the Yol. Not many people call this little village home, and as I sit here with you now I can only tell you that of those who did not perish, few chose to stay after the events of this day had come to pass. The villagers made their living from the abundance of fish and game to be found in these parts. Several dozen huts dotted the shoreline, and a few larger buildings consisted of a town hall and a chapel. Several bridges cross the Yol River, leading to the northern lands of bounty and bane. A palisade fence afforded some amount of protection to much of the flatlands, with each post being sharpened to a spike to highlight the always-present danger. These meager defenses were insufficient to hold back what was besieging the village as it came into view. Huts were being set on fire by hulking beasts wielding fiery clubs. Ogres. The villagers were running from hut to hut trying to fight them off, but it was hopeless. The bravest were already lying motionless in the snow. The defensive palisade wall had been smashed to pieces in so many places, it was now useless. Not one guard dog remained alive as the ogres smashed their way from hut to hut and from villager to villager. The adventurers sprang into action fanning out into the village to fight off the attack. They ran over the crunching snow toward the ogres who snorted their breath in the icy air. The villagers cried out in wild praise of thanks, for surely Pholtus had delivered them from certain death. In the center of the village was the largest group of ogres. Towards the edges of the village I could see several smaller groups causing trouble. The most seasoned adventurers waded right into the middle of the village, while those with a bit less experience made their way to the fringes. The arrows of Txala, Nailo, Shaelin, Jon Crow, and Mandelay began to rain upon the attackers. Once this got their attention some of the villagers were able to run for cover. Meanwhile I saw the stout warrior Vendd kick his hearty steed toward the town hall where he saw several opponents clubbing a villager who was rolling on the ground trying to cover his head. Several of the wizards began their incantations; the sage Duoghi rose above the field of battle to get a birds-eye view, while Tell suddenly began moving unnaturally fast as the ogres began moving rather sluggishly. In the distance I saw the brave Pelyin skewer an ogre, driving his lance deeply into the back of the beast, an act which surely saved a fisherman who was about to be smashed to pieces. The battle with the ogres raged on for some time. Just when the adventurers thought they had gained the upper hand, one or two more screams from other buildings would require their attention. It was certain that the adventurers could deal with the ogres eventually. The problem was that the villagers were dying quickly with every passing moment. Kar-Vilen was able to cover the large battleground atop his charger. Some of the dwarves had a harder time in the deep snow, but managed to throw insults to the ogres, which got their attention. It wasn't long before the enraged Francis was sinking his axe into every ogre he could get close to. Occasionally the ogre's clubs were able to land a lucky blow. The always confident Kherina moved in for a killing blow, but only after being greeting with a bash that left her barely able to hold onto her swords. Ah, and I almost forgot to mention that a few of the ogres were a little different than the rest, such that they were completely unseen at the start, but when they appeared they were in mid-air and were breathing a burst of chilling air that was most unpleasant. Once discovered, the group made short work of them; I saw the versatile Mytiral cast a spell highlighting one of them, while the rest of the group blasted it with arrow fire. Meanwhile there was movement in the fens across the river. I heard drum beats, and every now and then a foreboding jostle of a large tree indicated that dire things were headed this way.
With the last of the ogres being dealt with, the group turned its attention to this new threat. The ruddy Garogg called forth his mighty fire magic. With the wave of his right hand, a curtain of fire appeared in the middle of the frozen river and worked its way upstream. With a wave of his left hand, another curtain of fire continued downstream, but a hole was left between the two walls. Clearly this dwarf knew a thing or two about fire and trolls. And what of the mighty Dorjan Oldrich? Sure, he was right in there with all the rest of them, swinging Birrvenin at the foes. However, I could not help but think that something was wrong with him. Among the trolls, I've heard he is called "Doombringer," and always imagined him to be unequaled in skill when it comes to destroying trolls. Today he was no better than any of the others beside him, despite clearly relishing the battle at hand. Perhaps the stories were exaggerated? The first wave of trolls pressed ahead as the adventurers braced themselves for their attack. As they closed ranks another mighty wave of trolls crashed into the clear and charged forward. This was what we expected. The villagers that weren't already dead were generally safe now, having fled into the dense trees of the Palish lands, and the adventurers at their back. Fire, arrows, swords and spells were unleashed upon the troll horde. A few of the trolls started to fall, but most of them absorbed the damage and pressed forward. Then a chilling discovery was made by all. The trolls would take a swipe at anyone nearby, but then they just kept moving on to the south. How strange that they didn't want to fight. And thus their tactic became apparent. Most of them didn't come here to wipe out this village and fight this battle. They were here to invade the interior of the Pale. The trolls had spread themselves widely across the field of battle, making it nearly impossible to engage them all. If they had clumped together they would surely have been decimated eventually. These trolls had other ideas, or at least had someone wily guiding and organizing them. And so the adventurers did what they could to stop them. They ran after the trolls killing them as quickly as they could. Some tried to use barriers of various sorts, some tried magic, others simply bashed away at them. A few trolls were even lured by insults that I dare not translate from the Giant language. But it was inevitable that some of the trolls got through. I even needed to draw my own weapon as a grunting troll made his way past me, only glancing with a hollow menace before running southward. I know not what his destination was, but I fear for the area he was headed toward. It became even more clear when the drummers made their way into the clearing. The drums were hideously adorned with human skulls that rattled with each drumbeat. I saw a group of three drummers chanting in their grunting tongue, "We will destroy the town of Eltison. The Troll King shall rule the Pale as he rules the Fens! Death to Eltison!!!" Of course Eltison is far to the south from here. If they were headed to Eltison, perhaps these trolls had some ambitious goals. On the other hand, once they were past the border, how many farmers would actually be able to stop them? A light wind blew the drifts of snow about the battlefield, churned up by the violence of war. And with this I prayed to Pholtus that this would act as a "second wind" for the brave adventurers, for a final wave of combatants had come forth, and they were much worse that anything that had come before them. On the fringes of the battle, the trolls kept trickling in. Joining them now in this onslaught I could see a new group of ogres moving forward in a tight formation. These ogres were nothing like the brutes that had come before them. They walked in step and moved with obvious discipline. They wielded greatswords rather than the usual club one might expect. On their shields was a sign that I recognized all too well: a mighty gray clinched fist. These ogres had some association with the Stonehold army from the north; I had seen such shields in Vlekstad. One of the ogres belted out a command to two nearby trolls who promptly stuck something in their mouth, and then disappeared. With that the mighty adventurers braced themselves for this new threat. Elsewhere, pushing his way forward was a lone troll in heavy armor. With a mighty swinging motion he cleared a path around him with a mighty chain that clanked against itself, and churned up the snow and shrubs wherever it touched them. On another portion of the battlefield I could just make out another rare sight: a troll with two heads wielding mighty clubs in each hand. He bellowed a mighty double war cry when he spotted the battle before him. Another troll wielded a vicious harpoon which he used to spear foes at a distance and then pull them into close quarters. A mighty frost giant entered the fray, flanked on either side by what I believe to be a rare type of salamander that can only be found in the most frigid of areas. Three wooden siege platforms rising 40 feet tall pressed their way into the battle. In the middle of the village, one of these platforms (being pulled by two laboring trolls) stopped just short of where the adventurers had erected burning walls of fire. Inside the barricaded platform a lone figure moved about. The other two "platforms" were something I never would have imagined in all my years. They walked. Somehow these machines of war had been given life by sinister magic, and were slowly marching forward into the battle. From the middle platform rained fireballs and lightning bolts with deadly frequency. The adventurers responded in kind with magic of their own, but the platform was well defended and the attacks were having little effect on whoever was inside. I wondered if this could be the leader of this fray. I didn't need to wonder for long. At last stepping into the scene was a massive figure in gleaming white metal armor. He roared and tipped back his visor, revealing a green trollish nose and peering at his opponents with the black eyes of a northern troll. Although I couldn't quite hear him at the time, I would later find out that he introduced himself as Bragnak, a mighty general of the Troll King, who announced the arrival of the trolls as a new era of feasting on the humans and their allies in the Pale from here to Nyrond. He moved forward into battle, stepping through flames without any hesitation or concern. The adventurers rallied with new resolve. Garogg's fire magic had funneled many of the trolls through the hole he intentionally left behind. This herded some of them together where they were easier to deal with. The middle siege tower continued it's mighty assault of magic. Francis, while raging against any troll that dared come near him suddenly froze. Duoghi, who by now had sprouted some wings, flew overhead and was able to quickly apply a reversing magic that freed the dwarf from his affliction. Once free, Francis exacted punishment on countless trolls that dared come near. The figure in the tower was still busy casting magic spells when the trolls below, responsible for moving the tower, made a fatal mistake. They moved the tower forward onto the frozen river. The river would likely have supported the tower despite its massive weight. However, the ice had been bombarded repeated by magical fire, and most importantly had the roaring walls of fire slowly burning through the thick ice. As soon as the weight of the tower was transferred to the river, the ice broke apart, causing the mighty tower to topple. The war machine splintered against the massive chunks of ice, and a portly man with wild gray hair cried out in pain as he was expelled from the safety of the platform directly into the frigid ice water. In the distance I heard a mighty cry from Halpxanthes Mastin, calling out, "By the power of Pholtus!" He was surrounded by the shield ogres from Stonehold, and his companions were occupied elsewhere. With that he smote down two of them with a mighty slash of his guisarme. Several of the trolls on the battlefield drank potions that made them disappear from view. Fortunately the peculiar talents of Corwyn were there to assist. He shifted his form to that of a pudgy aquatic creature, that apparently helped him see where the trolls went. Once located he was able to light them up with magical fire that highlighted the hapless trolls until they were brought down by repeated bow fire from Mandelay. Meanwhile the incomparable Nailo was felling trolls as fast as his arrows could nocked and fired. Though the trolls could regenerate these wounds, they were not coming fast enough to withstand this withering onslaught. Elsewhere the other two "towers" were slowly being hacked apart and eventually they were toppled as well, their animated life now over. The tide of the battle was turning in our favor, with each mighty foe wilting under the renewed power of the forces of the Pale. But one more twist was yet to come. I have seen my share of grumpy dwarves, upset dwarves, angry dwarves, irritated dwarves, and livid irate ill-tempered dwarves. None of those compare to the dwarf that came crashing across the Yol River surrounded by 8 trolls who were determined to see that he would not see another rising of the Mistress. The trolls swatted their claws at him and yelled out "Death to the DOOMBRINGER!" But Dorjan Oldrich was already here, fighting side by side with our forces, or so we thought. Upon seeing this "new" Dorjan Oldrich arrive, the first one stopped fighting the trolls and instead charged toward Francis, dealing him a mighty blow from Birrvenin. The mighty leader Bragnak was nearby swinging a spiked chain that hummed with a strange magical sound that also landed a painful blow to the adventurers who dared to face him. In the distance the angry dwarf who was apparently the real Dorjan called out for his axe to be returned to him, for he had no weapon at all, and was being pummeled by trolls on all sides. With that, Mytiral streaked into action, moving with inhuman quickness across the battlefield to where the imposter wielded the famed axe. With the punishment of mighty blows, withering arrow fire, and powerful magic, the attackers were finally falling in defeat. The imposter Dorjan was struck repeatedly by all who were near, and then finished off by Francis, who struck a blow with such vengeance as to leave this creatures head separated from its body by no less than twenty feet. Once dead it reverted to its apparently real form, that of a gray skinned doppelganger. Kherina stepped forward and picked up Birrvenin throwing it mightily toward Mytiral who picked it up and headed back toward the mass of trolls surrounding the Doombringer. Meanwhile, the remaining foes fell in turn. The frost giant, the frost salamanders, the shield ogres from Stonehold, and all the special trolls that were armed to the teeth for this invasion died on the field of battle with no mercy being asked for or being given. The portly man who fell from the tower made one last attempt to take someone with him as he pointed a wand from out of the frigid water and fired off a lightning bolt. His targets were able to jump out of the way of the electricity and quickly responded with magic that sent him sinking beneath the ice, never to be seen again. Bragnak, the fearless leader, fared no better, as he was surrounded and hacked to bits. And finally Dorjan, who had bloody claw marks covering most of his stout frame, was rescued by the mass of adventurers who were finally able to defeat the trolls who were determined to slay their nemesis. And though the battle was now won, Dorjan Oldrich was only calmed once he had Birrvenin finally returned to him.
Upon returning to Wintershiven, the adventurers were hailed as heroes. The valorous Avern saw fit to award the title of "Champion of the Fens" to Nailo of the Phostwood. He, and all others who participated in this battle, are to be saluted with the greatest of honors for their deeds. Tales have spread in taverns throughout the Theocracy of the Pale of these heroes who answered the call to battle, and performed their duty with courage and distinction. Should you see any of these adventurers, I heartily recommend that you buy them a drink, for they deserve the thanks of all the Pale people and so much more. But do not rest easy my friends. The trolls are still restless in the fens. The day may yet come when even greater hordes amass on our northern border. And those trolls that managed to escape into the land have been turning up far from the northern border. Just two weeks ago, two trolls attacked farmsteads to the west of Ogburg. They rampaged for several days, killing countless countrymen before finally being slain. The terrible beast are out there, and the Troll King is commanding them. Walk with Pholtus in your heart and caution in your step, for the land is not safe until the Troll Winter recedes. Let us never forget the valiant heroes who fought on the border of the Troll Fens. Pholtus teaches us to never give way to the forces of chaos and evil. These heroes are truly the finest examples our holy land has to offer. My hat goes off to each them. May Pholtus bless them always.  A Call to ArmsBy Brattan of Holdworthy This is another perspective on the Troll Battle Interactive, written by one of the participants. Alone on the edge of Oldrich Flat, blinded by snow and fighting against the biting chill, the Phostaldaron waited the only way they know how. The fog of war covered the battlefield as the lumbering trolls advanced upon the elven defenders who answered the call of war. They stood firm with their hearty allies. Those counted among the defenders are Tell, the human diviner, Damosian, the councilman, Nailo, the deadly marksman, Tyarine with his great feline, Kar-Vilen, the charger, and Kai, the brave rogue. As the bestial ogres fell by the dozen from hearty blows, the horrid trolls advanced two-fold under the crackle of lightning, the bolts of force, the blood soaked blades, and the most accurate and deadly hail of enchanted arrows. The enemy fell with an unmatched quickness. Mighty enemies advanced upon the defenders to only fail and fall before the courageous warriors. Each troll succumbed to their deadly wounds to fall by the wayside. The last troll standing was their chain wielding leader who had pulled a heavy engine of war off to the frozen plains the elves with their allies had defended as their own land. Then the elven warriors continued with arrows in beautiful flight to carry the battle to other sections of the field. With Nailo showering scores of blessed arrows, Damosian charging forward, Tyarine in flight above the field, and Tell the Pholtan diviner guarding the flank, they advanced. At that point, Kar-Vilen and Kai answered a call for help, and rallied to aid some beleaguered defenders. They sallied forward with renewed vigor. The wind driven snow blinding and obscuring the field of battle, the defenders fought on toward the only choice left — victory. | ||
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Call me Keos. In my youth I traveled far and wide across the Flanaess to lands most strange. It seems such a long time ago that I set sail upon the Icy Sea finding port from Jotsplat to the Barren Wastes, where the ice blankets the lands in its white embrace. Now that my hair too has turned with the seasons, I can only dream of those long days under the arctic sun. My home is here in Wintershiven now and I am content to live out my days among my family and my books. And when an audience is indulgent, I can pursue my other pastime: telling stories of adventure and bravery. Come and pull up a chair near the fire and let me share just such as story with you today.
The trip was make quick by the whole lot of us riding in wagons or on horseback to a northern encampment near the edge of the fens. We were led by scouts from the Prelatal Army who came along merely to aid us in finding the enemy and providing information to our group.
Suddenly trolls began pouring out of the frozen swamp. Being some nine feet tall helped them wade toward us through the snow. With the Yol River being frozen, they merely needed to walk across it and they would be setting foot in our homeland.
The village of Oldrich Flat still stands today on the border of the fens. Many villagers died despite the amazing efforts of the heroic group sent to confront the trolls. Those that remained were soon joined by a small contingent of the Prelatal Army who sit in watch over the Troll Fens. Scarcely a day goes by in the small tavern, that tales are not told of the brave men and women who fought the battle here against the troll invasion.