The King of Trolls
Skewfiend
The Corruptor of All Things
- Location
- The Darkness Behind Your Eyes
+++++++++++++++ This Sort of Shit Is Why I Carry a Grenade Launcher About my Person at all Times +++++++++++++++
Conclusion: The King of Trolls
Conclusion: The King of Trolls
You are Governor Frederick Rotbart, the most martially skilled bureaucrat alive, which is quite fortunate, given the planet you were accidentally sent to govern. You are surveying the progress of the new planetary administratum centre, being talked at rather excitedly by the younger administrator in charge of the project. "And as you can see," he says, pointing at the dataslate in front of you, "we have not had to make any alterations to the plans since taking up your recommendations on how to establish the wiring around the existing promethium pipe infrastructure..."
You follow along vaguely, keeping an ear out for anything important, and making the appropriate responses as you take the opportunity to study the space. The area had been carved out of the rock of the mountain, and filled with the necessary support structure, but the internal walls and floors had yet to be built, leaving a cavernous, almost cathedral-like feel to the space.
You start suddenly as something catches your attention. "And the small army of trolls entering through the rear wall, are they also on the plans?" The administrator blinks at you for a few moments, before following your gaze to where a large group of trolls is slipping out of the walls, rock flowing around them like wet mud. He gives out a short "eep" before running for the opposite entrance. You size the trolls up carefully, gauging their strength, and are alarmed to notice that standing at their head is the largest troll you have ever seen, standing almost twice as tall as even a 'regular' troll, which tower over men. More confounding is that instead of rushing across to attack you, the trolls are forming a relatively orderly throng, a respectful distance from the giant troll, who you now see is wearing a tiny crown of some dark material, perched at a jaunty angle above one of his ears. Most concerning of all is the fact that he is staring right back at you with a similarly appraising look.
Getting an inkling of what is going on, you motion over your new head bodyguard, Agamemnon, and whisper: "Call reinforcements, but don't have them enter just yet, and hand me my grenade launcher, and a reload. I've got a plan."
"Are you sure you know what you're doing sir", he replies with an anxious look.
"Neither more nor less than usual"
He smirks a bit at that, and replies, "Understood sir. Poor Troll King" as he passes you your grenade launcher.
You are pretty sure you know what is going on here. Unlike most of the denizens of Avernus, trolls are intelligent. Stupid, mind, but intelligent enough to be stupid like a human is stupid. They tend to form loose tribal groups, usually with a dominant troll at their head, and it looks like this particular troll has managed to bring several tribes under his dominion. It is fairly obviously challenging you for dominance, perhaps in an attempt to steal your 'tribe'. The extent to which that aggravates you comes as a great surprise. Who would have thought of you a little over a decade ago that a clerk like you would ever feel the need to meet the challenge of a giant troll trying to steal your position.
The civilians and workers having already fled to safety, you order your troops to stand back, and stride out onto the floor of the building site, mimicking the position of your opposite number. The Troll King strikes his chest, and begins to bellow out a challenge in his own language. You don't understand it, of course, but you don't need to.
You call out in turn, "I am Frederick Rotbart, and I have been appointed governor in the name of the Emperor himself! This world is under my aegis, and I will never relinquish it to the likes of you!"
He doesn't understand you, either, nor does he need to.
He gives a roar, and begins running towards you, his arms like tree trunks spread out to either side of him. You approach him at a rather more sedate pace, carefully aiming down the sights of your grenade launcher. You fire off a few krak rounds as you close, which tear small hunks out of his basalt flesh, but don't appear to slow him down in the slightest. As he rushes towards you, yelling his bloodlust, you are struck again by just how large he is. You almost suspect that if one was on hand he could probably club you with a sentinel. After your fourth krak grenade robs him of a chunk of flesh above the shoulder, you pause, and wait for him to draw closer.
He bears down on you like a tidal wave on a jetty, but you manage to keep your resolve, estimating distance in your head as he charges.
Fifteen metres.
Ten metres.
Five metres.
NOW!
Dropping the barrel of your grenade launcher towards a very specific place on the ground, you fire three shots from your grenade launcher in quick succession, a silent prayer to the Emperor on your lips. There is a trio of sharp cracks, and your prayers are answered by a giant explosion just beneath the Troll King's feet, as you brak through the floor, igniting the concealed promethium pipe. Shielding your face against the shrapnel, but otherwise stung all over by errant shards of rock, you reload your grenade launcher. There is still one shot in it, but there's no sense taking any more stupid risks today.
As the smoke clears, you return your attention to the Troll King. There is no sign of one of his legs, and the other is resting nearby, next to his crown, which doesn't look so tiny now, and you can now see is made out of a black crystal of some sort. Screaming in rage and pain, he hurls his leg at you, with greater enthusiasm than accuracy. It is not as though legs are balanced for throwing.
Stepping under the clumsily thrown appendage, you carefully take aim at him, taking advantage of his immobility and your new-found proximity.
With a low 'foont', your grenade launcher sends a Krak grenade straight into his still-bellowing mouth, a feat that would be more impressive if it wasn't bigger than your head. There is a sickening crunch as his head implodes, and all is silence, save for the crackling of the burning promethium. Feeling the gaze of both sides upon you, you walk forwards and pick up the fallen crown. It is cool to the touch, and when you place it upon your head, you find that it fits you perfectly.
Turning to glare at the trolls, who are looking at you with an unreadable expression, you gesture with your grenade launcher at the wall they emerged from, and call out "Go on, show's over. Piss off now". To your immense surprise, they comply, turning away from you and walking through the walls, back, presumably, to where they came from. As they move you see your reinforcements piling into the room and beginning to gawp at you in disbelief.
"How the hell did you do that?" yells your exuberant bodyguard as you walk back towards the entrance."I redesigned the floorplan around those promethium pipes.", you smile as you reply. "Who says Administrators can't be soldiers?"
"No-one on Avernus any more, by my reckoning, sir."
Suddenly remembering the crown upon your head, you take it off and peer at it closely, as people start to throng around you. It is formed of a single piece of crystal, elliptical at its base, but curving up and out into spikes around the edge at the top. How it was made, or why it fist you so well, you cannot imagine.
Your reverie is interrupted by Agamemnon saying "It suits you, sir". When you give him a confused look, he clarifies: "The crown fits you well, sir, maybe you should add it to that gubernatorial regalia that Henry keeps bothering you about."
Grimacing a little as you are reminded of your protégé's nagging, you respond "Maybe if the sanctionites check it and find no warp taint, and the cogboys find out what it IS, then I will consider accepting a suspiciously well-fitting crown stolen from a warp-fuelled abomination"
Handing it to an aide with instructions to run it to the sanctionites, you continue, "That said, if it is clean, why not. But I'll only accept this regalia nonsense if he can find a way to add a grenade launcher to it. Days like this make me want to carry one about my person at all times."
+++++++++++++
Several weeks later, are shown the newly-minted gubernatorial regalia of Avernus. While your reservations about the point of having a regalia on so new a colony continue unabated, you must admit that you are impressed. The crown, which you are informed is made of black saphire, although no light has been shed on its origins or manufacture. An elaborate powerknife, hilt modelled on a gnaw-worm, the blade of which has apparently been made from a tooth from the one you killed. But best of all, sitting in pride of place is recognisably the grenade launcher that has seen you safely through these last few years, but you are stunned by the transformation. Some enthusiastic artisan has covered every inch of it with elaborate designs of precious metals, etchings, and inlaid gems. It is a thing of beauty, and more importantly, you doubt anyone could object to you carrying it around in formal situations.
Maybe this regalia business isn't so stupid after all.
You follow along vaguely, keeping an ear out for anything important, and making the appropriate responses as you take the opportunity to study the space. The area had been carved out of the rock of the mountain, and filled with the necessary support structure, but the internal walls and floors had yet to be built, leaving a cavernous, almost cathedral-like feel to the space.
You start suddenly as something catches your attention. "And the small army of trolls entering through the rear wall, are they also on the plans?" The administrator blinks at you for a few moments, before following your gaze to where a large group of trolls is slipping out of the walls, rock flowing around them like wet mud. He gives out a short "eep" before running for the opposite entrance. You size the trolls up carefully, gauging their strength, and are alarmed to notice that standing at their head is the largest troll you have ever seen, standing almost twice as tall as even a 'regular' troll, which tower over men. More confounding is that instead of rushing across to attack you, the trolls are forming a relatively orderly throng, a respectful distance from the giant troll, who you now see is wearing a tiny crown of some dark material, perched at a jaunty angle above one of his ears. Most concerning of all is the fact that he is staring right back at you with a similarly appraising look.
Getting an inkling of what is going on, you motion over your new head bodyguard, Agamemnon, and whisper: "Call reinforcements, but don't have them enter just yet, and hand me my grenade launcher, and a reload. I've got a plan."
"Are you sure you know what you're doing sir", he replies with an anxious look.
"Neither more nor less than usual"
He smirks a bit at that, and replies, "Understood sir. Poor Troll King" as he passes you your grenade launcher.
You are pretty sure you know what is going on here. Unlike most of the denizens of Avernus, trolls are intelligent. Stupid, mind, but intelligent enough to be stupid like a human is stupid. They tend to form loose tribal groups, usually with a dominant troll at their head, and it looks like this particular troll has managed to bring several tribes under his dominion. It is fairly obviously challenging you for dominance, perhaps in an attempt to steal your 'tribe'. The extent to which that aggravates you comes as a great surprise. Who would have thought of you a little over a decade ago that a clerk like you would ever feel the need to meet the challenge of a giant troll trying to steal your position.
The civilians and workers having already fled to safety, you order your troops to stand back, and stride out onto the floor of the building site, mimicking the position of your opposite number. The Troll King strikes his chest, and begins to bellow out a challenge in his own language. You don't understand it, of course, but you don't need to.
You call out in turn, "I am Frederick Rotbart, and I have been appointed governor in the name of the Emperor himself! This world is under my aegis, and I will never relinquish it to the likes of you!"
He doesn't understand you, either, nor does he need to.
He gives a roar, and begins running towards you, his arms like tree trunks spread out to either side of him. You approach him at a rather more sedate pace, carefully aiming down the sights of your grenade launcher. You fire off a few krak rounds as you close, which tear small hunks out of his basalt flesh, but don't appear to slow him down in the slightest. As he rushes towards you, yelling his bloodlust, you are struck again by just how large he is. You almost suspect that if one was on hand he could probably club you with a sentinel. After your fourth krak grenade robs him of a chunk of flesh above the shoulder, you pause, and wait for him to draw closer.
He bears down on you like a tidal wave on a jetty, but you manage to keep your resolve, estimating distance in your head as he charges.
Fifteen metres.
Ten metres.
Five metres.
NOW!
Dropping the barrel of your grenade launcher towards a very specific place on the ground, you fire three shots from your grenade launcher in quick succession, a silent prayer to the Emperor on your lips. There is a trio of sharp cracks, and your prayers are answered by a giant explosion just beneath the Troll King's feet, as you brak through the floor, igniting the concealed promethium pipe. Shielding your face against the shrapnel, but otherwise stung all over by errant shards of rock, you reload your grenade launcher. There is still one shot in it, but there's no sense taking any more stupid risks today.
As the smoke clears, you return your attention to the Troll King. There is no sign of one of his legs, and the other is resting nearby, next to his crown, which doesn't look so tiny now, and you can now see is made out of a black crystal of some sort. Screaming in rage and pain, he hurls his leg at you, with greater enthusiasm than accuracy. It is not as though legs are balanced for throwing.
Stepping under the clumsily thrown appendage, you carefully take aim at him, taking advantage of his immobility and your new-found proximity.
With a low 'foont', your grenade launcher sends a Krak grenade straight into his still-bellowing mouth, a feat that would be more impressive if it wasn't bigger than your head. There is a sickening crunch as his head implodes, and all is silence, save for the crackling of the burning promethium. Feeling the gaze of both sides upon you, you walk forwards and pick up the fallen crown. It is cool to the touch, and when you place it upon your head, you find that it fits you perfectly.
Turning to glare at the trolls, who are looking at you with an unreadable expression, you gesture with your grenade launcher at the wall they emerged from, and call out "Go on, show's over. Piss off now". To your immense surprise, they comply, turning away from you and walking through the walls, back, presumably, to where they came from. As they move you see your reinforcements piling into the room and beginning to gawp at you in disbelief.
"How the hell did you do that?" yells your exuberant bodyguard as you walk back towards the entrance."I redesigned the floorplan around those promethium pipes.", you smile as you reply. "Who says Administrators can't be soldiers?"
"No-one on Avernus any more, by my reckoning, sir."
Suddenly remembering the crown upon your head, you take it off and peer at it closely, as people start to throng around you. It is formed of a single piece of crystal, elliptical at its base, but curving up and out into spikes around the edge at the top. How it was made, or why it fist you so well, you cannot imagine.
Your reverie is interrupted by Agamemnon saying "It suits you, sir". When you give him a confused look, he clarifies: "The crown fits you well, sir, maybe you should add it to that gubernatorial regalia that Henry keeps bothering you about."
Grimacing a little as you are reminded of your protégé's nagging, you respond "Maybe if the sanctionites check it and find no warp taint, and the cogboys find out what it IS, then I will consider accepting a suspiciously well-fitting crown stolen from a warp-fuelled abomination"
Handing it to an aide with instructions to run it to the sanctionites, you continue, "That said, if it is clean, why not. But I'll only accept this regalia nonsense if he can find a way to add a grenade launcher to it. Days like this make me want to carry one about my person at all times."
+++++++++++++
Several weeks later, are shown the newly-minted gubernatorial regalia of Avernus. While your reservations about the point of having a regalia on so new a colony continue unabated, you must admit that you are impressed. The crown, which you are informed is made of black saphire, although no light has been shed on its origins or manufacture. An elaborate powerknife, hilt modelled on a gnaw-worm, the blade of which has apparently been made from a tooth from the one you killed. But best of all, sitting in pride of place is recognisably the grenade launcher that has seen you safely through these last few years, but you are stunned by the transformation. Some enthusiastic artisan has covered every inch of it with elaborate designs of precious metals, etchings, and inlaid gems. It is a thing of beauty, and more importantly, you doubt anyone could object to you carrying it around in formal situations.
Maybe this regalia business isn't so stupid after all.
