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Grim Troll
Star
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2016
Did you ever see them human? Those gods you worship, those divinities you place on great pedestals and give everything towards in the desperate hope of self-realization and security? Trust me, for all their power, and only a fool would deny it, no matter the fools that claim that science and rationality is the basis for all things. But even then, you ask, why do my people fight yours? Why, if we acknowledge that your gods are strong, mighty and neigh unassailable, that we do not kneel?
They are not the strongest.
Neither are we, but unlike you pitiful children of the third iteration, we remember. We know our origins, our history, for we have purpose.
We were made before time began, when chaos ruled and was, when the primordial titans existed, bodies comprised of worlds, shaping narratives that swept the stars in their grand symphony, reworked the nebulae to fashion cosmic tapestries. For in the riot of story and myth, there was MEANING. Can you comprehend it? To be inside of a bubble, meaning nestled inside, and utter uncomprehension without, any attempt at sensory description a failure, for it is to impose your expectations on that which IS NOT? You might see it as a blazing star, singing a concert of a thousand gibberish voices, each alone and working together, a single and separate language and set of vocal chords, and yet, that would merely be your mind, catching the barest glimpse and limiting it, placing it inside of something that you can deal with, can understand.
And that is what we were made to fight, to wage war on. Oh, you look shocked and surprised. What, would you have me say that my kind was some mistake, an aberration? Unlike your misbegotten breed, our creators were well pleased with the first iteration, for we were as he/she wished. Unlike our younger cousins, born after time began, we were forged in the primal cosmos, made of murder, war and violence, made to be as vicious and ferocious as the Monster, and as unyielding as chaos itself, to always leap into the fray, and to not leave until our foes were rent and torn, so that our mistress/master could complete his/her great work of separating her/his realm from those far shores.
We trolls of today are a vastly diminished breed, the echo's of a whisper from a shadows shadow, reflected from a mirror at great distance. Mighty and strong, in this far lesser age, but then, even then, we have fallen to a depth only matched by the lord of the hells. And no, I know not the truth of the matter regarding the creatures fall, though may he never recover!
But, human, to have seen the elder days! The Usurpers, the Lawbringers, the ancestors of the modern gods, a force of order had appeared, though in time, some of them would become affiliated with the most mild of the reaches of chaos and change.
Kargoth Killgore, a giant vast beyond measure of mortal minds, IS violence and conflict, his very substance entwined with every action of murder, rage, bloodshed and killing. With every step we take, with every breath we breathe, thousands of creatures too small to see are slain, and in his dead state, this pleases him. For when he stepped, worlds were awash in blood, angel and chaos-kin fought with glorious abandon, in the truest fire of war. And when he spoke.... Oh mortal man, his voice! An endless rolling cascade of nuclear bombs, the screaming of endless battlefields, the death of species in blood and terror, all of it could be heard within, and yet, these pale, flat words, offer NOTHING of the terrible glory of his speech.
Nyzard the Dreamer, dwelt near the edge of the great seal, where the far realms brushed at the great realm, and oversaw the birth of dream and nightmare, as he recorded them on sculptures of unreality. You would call him, mad, but ask me this o self assured one. What do you have aside from your senses? You cannot use the 'I think, for therefore I am' argument, as it is flawed. To truly test the validity of this, one would have to be utterly deprived of all senses from conception to their death, to never know them in the first place. And thusly, Nyzard wove memory and identity, dreams and nightmares, sculpting conflicting histories, both equally true and valid.
Even as one was violence, and the other memory, so to, before the lawbringers came, did a third brother make a great study. He looked up to Kargoth, but to Ralgol, something was lacking. For while Kargoth was that which could not be stopped, devastation incarnate, he sought to avoid being subsumed in the elders mythos. Eventually, he came to realize, that while the elder could not be beaten on the offense, so he would become as a mirror, to be that which would not yield, to be tougher, more enduring, unable to be moved from his chosen spot by any force. And so, he became that which would not die, linked to all his brothers, a gift willingly shared. Strike him! It mattered not! Hack off his limb, it would reattach as your blade passed through! Unleash your greatest warbeast! He would not retreat, and it would break against him! Hosts broke around him like a rock and the waters, for he was the unyielding.
Much like Ragol, Yukan was not a master of the attack, or at least, not conventional attack. While the lawbringers would eventually use the Titans bodies to form the great wheel, Yukan's essence a=has seeped through, into every venomous plant and creature. For he was corrosion and poison, toxin in it's most fell form. He breathed in hope, and belched black clouds of despair and corruption, venoms and plagues rotting and burning from the out and inside. The vermin are his ancient creations, siblings to his children, his beasts of war, much as dragons were Nyzard's. He was and is the master of slow death, rust and rot, and the gods curse him to this day.
The last of the Trueborn, and all of his line have been hunted and killed by the gods, was Taloth. Made just before the Law-bringers created time, his purpose was simple. To steal and nullify the powers of the enemy. And in many ways, he was successful. While they retain a hold on their divine magics, Taloth devised the Arcane, Psionics, Shadow, Incarnum, True Names, Martial Disciplines and Science to counter it, even as he worked to counter it more effectively. While stolen, his Great Spire was a weapon but fired once, making a god never been. For that, he was feared and hated, beyond all others, for while the god had never been, all remembered his deeds, his actions and story.
As to their fates?
Kargoth Killgore's body was torn asunder, and fashioned into the great Battle Cubes of Archeron. But still, was the rage of his mind and spirit so great, that on several occasions, he attempted to rise. For this, they bound mind and soul in Ysgard, the source of the resurrections!
Nyzard was locked away, only his least creations still in the great wheel, though long ago, it's gravely diminished self, barely a flicker of what it was, was used to make Io, and then split into their still weaker forms. And yet, Nyzard dwells in a pocket of dreaming nightmare, endlessly asleep and eternally aware, reaching out, seeking to wake once more.
Like his brother, Ralgol was sundered, his body forming the Beastlands, shining vitality and soul the beating heart of the positive energy plane, fully alive and aware, and yet, separate and bound, shackled to provide the gods mortal servants with healing!
Yukan met his fate, as he poisoned the gods minds against each other, as he sowed discord and woe among their ranks, his venom creeping and spreading in silence and stealth. Dissolving his body, he was rendered unto ooze and rust, and indeed, makes up those demiplanes.
Taloth alone escaped, hiding in plain sight, powers stolen and warped shielding him from divine eyes and senses. None know where he has gone, or what he does, though all trolls know, sooner or later, he will free his brothers, and the war will resume.
And that, little creature, is what I think of the gods. Not your usurping brood, but the ancestor gods of my people, and their masters. Once, reality belonged to them, and so it shall be again.
They are not the strongest.
Neither are we, but unlike you pitiful children of the third iteration, we remember. We know our origins, our history, for we have purpose.
We were made before time began, when chaos ruled and was, when the primordial titans existed, bodies comprised of worlds, shaping narratives that swept the stars in their grand symphony, reworked the nebulae to fashion cosmic tapestries. For in the riot of story and myth, there was MEANING. Can you comprehend it? To be inside of a bubble, meaning nestled inside, and utter uncomprehension without, any attempt at sensory description a failure, for it is to impose your expectations on that which IS NOT? You might see it as a blazing star, singing a concert of a thousand gibberish voices, each alone and working together, a single and separate language and set of vocal chords, and yet, that would merely be your mind, catching the barest glimpse and limiting it, placing it inside of something that you can deal with, can understand.
And that is what we were made to fight, to wage war on. Oh, you look shocked and surprised. What, would you have me say that my kind was some mistake, an aberration? Unlike your misbegotten breed, our creators were well pleased with the first iteration, for we were as he/she wished. Unlike our younger cousins, born after time began, we were forged in the primal cosmos, made of murder, war and violence, made to be as vicious and ferocious as the Monster, and as unyielding as chaos itself, to always leap into the fray, and to not leave until our foes were rent and torn, so that our mistress/master could complete his/her great work of separating her/his realm from those far shores.
We trolls of today are a vastly diminished breed, the echo's of a whisper from a shadows shadow, reflected from a mirror at great distance. Mighty and strong, in this far lesser age, but then, even then, we have fallen to a depth only matched by the lord of the hells. And no, I know not the truth of the matter regarding the creatures fall, though may he never recover!
But, human, to have seen the elder days! The Usurpers, the Lawbringers, the ancestors of the modern gods, a force of order had appeared, though in time, some of them would become affiliated with the most mild of the reaches of chaos and change.
Kargoth Killgore, a giant vast beyond measure of mortal minds, IS violence and conflict, his very substance entwined with every action of murder, rage, bloodshed and killing. With every step we take, with every breath we breathe, thousands of creatures too small to see are slain, and in his dead state, this pleases him. For when he stepped, worlds were awash in blood, angel and chaos-kin fought with glorious abandon, in the truest fire of war. And when he spoke.... Oh mortal man, his voice! An endless rolling cascade of nuclear bombs, the screaming of endless battlefields, the death of species in blood and terror, all of it could be heard within, and yet, these pale, flat words, offer NOTHING of the terrible glory of his speech.
Nyzard the Dreamer, dwelt near the edge of the great seal, where the far realms brushed at the great realm, and oversaw the birth of dream and nightmare, as he recorded them on sculptures of unreality. You would call him, mad, but ask me this o self assured one. What do you have aside from your senses? You cannot use the 'I think, for therefore I am' argument, as it is flawed. To truly test the validity of this, one would have to be utterly deprived of all senses from conception to their death, to never know them in the first place. And thusly, Nyzard wove memory and identity, dreams and nightmares, sculpting conflicting histories, both equally true and valid.
Even as one was violence, and the other memory, so to, before the lawbringers came, did a third brother make a great study. He looked up to Kargoth, but to Ralgol, something was lacking. For while Kargoth was that which could not be stopped, devastation incarnate, he sought to avoid being subsumed in the elders mythos. Eventually, he came to realize, that while the elder could not be beaten on the offense, so he would become as a mirror, to be that which would not yield, to be tougher, more enduring, unable to be moved from his chosen spot by any force. And so, he became that which would not die, linked to all his brothers, a gift willingly shared. Strike him! It mattered not! Hack off his limb, it would reattach as your blade passed through! Unleash your greatest warbeast! He would not retreat, and it would break against him! Hosts broke around him like a rock and the waters, for he was the unyielding.
Much like Ragol, Yukan was not a master of the attack, or at least, not conventional attack. While the lawbringers would eventually use the Titans bodies to form the great wheel, Yukan's essence a=has seeped through, into every venomous plant and creature. For he was corrosion and poison, toxin in it's most fell form. He breathed in hope, and belched black clouds of despair and corruption, venoms and plagues rotting and burning from the out and inside. The vermin are his ancient creations, siblings to his children, his beasts of war, much as dragons were Nyzard's. He was and is the master of slow death, rust and rot, and the gods curse him to this day.
The last of the Trueborn, and all of his line have been hunted and killed by the gods, was Taloth. Made just before the Law-bringers created time, his purpose was simple. To steal and nullify the powers of the enemy. And in many ways, he was successful. While they retain a hold on their divine magics, Taloth devised the Arcane, Psionics, Shadow, Incarnum, True Names, Martial Disciplines and Science to counter it, even as he worked to counter it more effectively. While stolen, his Great Spire was a weapon but fired once, making a god never been. For that, he was feared and hated, beyond all others, for while the god had never been, all remembered his deeds, his actions and story.
As to their fates?
Kargoth Killgore's body was torn asunder, and fashioned into the great Battle Cubes of Archeron. But still, was the rage of his mind and spirit so great, that on several occasions, he attempted to rise. For this, they bound mind and soul in Ysgard, the source of the resurrections!
Nyzard was locked away, only his least creations still in the great wheel, though long ago, it's gravely diminished self, barely a flicker of what it was, was used to make Io, and then split into their still weaker forms. And yet, Nyzard dwells in a pocket of dreaming nightmare, endlessly asleep and eternally aware, reaching out, seeking to wake once more.
Like his brother, Ralgol was sundered, his body forming the Beastlands, shining vitality and soul the beating heart of the positive energy plane, fully alive and aware, and yet, separate and bound, shackled to provide the gods mortal servants with healing!
Yukan met his fate, as he poisoned the gods minds against each other, as he sowed discord and woe among their ranks, his venom creeping and spreading in silence and stealth. Dissolving his body, he was rendered unto ooze and rust, and indeed, makes up those demiplanes.
Taloth alone escaped, hiding in plain sight, powers stolen and warped shielding him from divine eyes and senses. None know where he has gone, or what he does, though all trolls know, sooner or later, he will free his brothers, and the war will resume.
And that, little creature, is what I think of the gods. Not your usurping brood, but the ancestor gods of my people, and their masters. Once, reality belonged to them, and so it shall be again.