The following are the archived plot events for the Mount Forge trolls. Archived events are organized by the RWH year and season in which they occured in story-type format. Significant events affecting troll history resulting from these plot events are recorded in the Troll Historical Timeline.
1770 (Bloom Rest)
The clank of armour announced the presence of the guards within the royal harem, quickly stifling the usual chatter of the women and whine of the mumps. Coming to an abrupt halt, the line side-stepped, providing a passage through which King Splitjaw ambled into the room, his richly dyed and fur trimmed cape trailing and polished gold crown seated prominently upon his brow.
His gaze swept the room, surveying its occupants, and a sneer tugged at his wide mouth. Both softened, almost imperceptively, as they passed over Dungberry and her son Mange - almost - then continued to sweep the rest of the quarters. The tension of silence mounted.
Finally the King spoke: "I hereby proclaim Mange heir to the Mount Forge crown. That is all."
Goldshrew's eyes narrowed upon Splitjaw's retreating back.
A furtive glance over a hunched shoulder showed the corridor behind to be empty. Slipping a liver-spotted hand into the hidden recess, the wall to the left unlocked with a metallic click and swung open on silent hinges.
Lodestone swept into his private chambers with the deftness of shadows, the carefully concealed door closing swiftly behind him. A broad, calculating grin spread across his aged, wart-crusted face. Splitjaw had named a new heir to his throne. Lodestone's plans were easily falling into place. It would not be long now, he was sure, before the backlash that would unseat the king came and Lodestone could start grooming a new pawn; a king with a more receptive ear to his suggestions.
1769 (Storm Rage)
Fire danced with gluttonous glee from the wall sconces, causing the multitude of riches displayed within to flicker, shine and wink temptingly. But it would be beyond foolishness indeed for anyone to even think of nicking such treasures here, here in the circular throne room of King Splitjaw.
Yellowtooth inspected the throne room with furtive glances. It was not unfamiliar to him, he had been submitted to its quarters on many an occasion but royalty did like to show off and there was always something new to be seen upon each visit, whether it was a new cloak, new sculpture or a new harem wench. Today's visit seemed to be the latter he noted with idle candor.
Women were but a pinch of gold dust amidst a mountain to a troll with the proper wealth, however, and today he intended to speak to King Splitjaw on the matters of wealth. Or more precisely, the possibility of its loss. So far the wily barterer had outsmarted the thugs that seemed so intent on robbing him and the King of their riches but Yellowtooth was too canny a troll to think such luck would last much longer. Better to inform the King of the threat now than wait to have the axe fall upon his neck later. So was the reason for his requested audience.
Ahead of him knelt a troll in ragged hides, piecemealed together haphazardly - obviously one of the Rust Finger caste and beneath notice. Yellowtooth was surprised that he had even been granted an audience. The lowly figured groveled and pleaded, for what Yellowtooth could not make out but could easily fathom.
Seconds later King Splitjaw's face hardened, his beady eyes narrowing. Little more than a twitch for a signal and his guards, alert for the cue, took action. Three barred the various exits while one leaned down, releasing the tether to the giant beast that lay by his feet. Idle no longer; the monster of a lizard suddenly came to life. It pounced - far quicker than one would expect for a beast its size - and hand-sized teeth rent the fetid green flesh of the Rust Finger before the troll even knew what was occurring or that his fate was sealed. Blood sprayed and shrieks filled the air, a glint of amused satisfaction sweeping around the room.
Long, yellow forked tongues flicked the air, testing…tasting. As the wind shifted a second time, the scent returned and the giant beasts strained once more upon their forged restraints, nearly dragging their masters in their wake. Gripping the chains more tightly in their clenched fists, the mercenaries grinned toothily at each other, lumbering along behind the monstrous lizards.
The prey was fairly fleet of foot but after three days of determined chase, the prey was tiring rapidly. But it wasn't the thrill of a fast-moving target that made this type of hunt so exciting - it was the intelligence of the prey that turned it into an adventure; an adventure of life and death.
"Think they've given us the slip finally?"
"Nah," Steeleye, the group's seasoned leader, replied. "They've figured out by now that it's no good - the razorteeth have seen to that." He paused to nod approvingly at the creature tethered to the end of his chain.
"No, they'll hole themselves up somewhere first and try to attack us," he finished, his wide mouth cracking into a wicked grin, eyes flashing in anticipation. His cohorts chuckled around him.
It happened shortly after passing the great stone pillars. Two men - crudely garbed in flea-infested furs - leapt out from behind the final pillar, wielding well-hewed clubs. But their bravery failed them when faced with the terrifying menace of the razorteeth, quickly released from the troll hunters' grip on them, and the fearsome beasts lunged at the men with skyfire speed, causing them to run in panic. The bolt of a crossbow halted their flight with little ceremony. Then a youth was routed out of hiding by another of the great lizards; his fate more gruesome than his companions'.
"Hack off the heads and bag 'em!" Steeleye ordered. "Let the beasts have the run of what remains of the bodies."
An appraising grey eye tallied up the haul. The two men were average at best - cowardly in heart, surely, but otherwise ordinary. The youth, however, was an unexpected stroke of luck and well worth the three days of tracking; his tender head innards would fetch a pretty bargain among the Goldbrows without doubt. Perhaps he could finesse an extra large batch of razortooth antidote from the crotchety old seer, Steeleye mused.
The din of cloistered, shouting trolls filled the large cavern room. It was the time for calling bets and making wagers. Yellowtooth surveyed the crowd with greed glinting in his beady eyes, targeting a select few fellow betters who had arrived for the night's entertainment. Quickly sealing several undoubtedly lucrative deals, the canny barterer picked his way to an empty spot on the file of benches laced around the large, central pit. As the heavy metal doors below slowly cranked open, the shouting ceased and bodies began to find their places to watch the events.
Beyond the doors within the pit was darkness - darkness and a great sound of seething. A burst of anticipatory murmuring rippled through the crowd, then paused as the first of the great lizards padded out into the guttering torch light; a second appearing from an alternate door. Both beasts were male and huge and vicious like all their kind only more so, bred specifically for the pit fights. Their cold, dark eyes glared at everything in their path - the trolls hollering above, their masters skillfully prodding them from behind and each other.
A haunch of meat was thrown into the pit between the combatants and suddenly the tension snapped with the rush of the first, slightly larger, creature. It lunged, skyfire fast, upon the chunk of meat, only to be attacked by its jealous opponent. Thick fangs rich in fetid salvia sank deep into mottled green/brown scales. The blood curling screech ensued, followed by a raking of equally large and sharply curved claws. Tails thrashed, roars drowned out the bellowing betters above until only one giant lizard breathed and downed the near-forgotten meat.
Yellowtooth rubbed his palms together. Best not to collect his winnings just yet - not here and run the risk of joining the beasts below in the pit from sore losers.
1767 (New Flood)
The wagon wheel creaks rhythmically with each plodding step through the moist darkness of the caves, following the ruts worn into the stone from long usage and heavy loads. Light wavers from side to side, the lantern hitched high up on the wagon behind the lone troll trader. The light flickers, perhaps from an errant wind, or was it a shadow moving up ahead? Wary, the troll pauses, squinting disconcerning eyes into the dimly lit tunnel ahead. He has not taken heed of the warning - have they come to collect payment?
Figures emerge from the shadows ahead in the tunnel, the lantern light glinting off their narrowed eyes which survey the bulging wagon and its load. Yellowtooth drops his grip from the handles, counting the ruffians before him - far too many to hope to survive with but his trusted dagger - a grimace creasing his face.
One of their number lumbers forward, one hand menacingly tapping a stout club against the other. "Have the payment, elf-lover?" he drawls.
Yellowtooth sneers at the insult. "I'd watch your mud-grubbing mouth, bellyworm."
Unperturbed, the leader advances. "You think so? There's more of us then there are of you, old hag, so do yourself a favour and hand over the payment."
Standing his ground and not about to give up his hard-bargained for money, Yellowtooth argues: "King Splitjaw doesn't take kindly to being robbed, especially by mumps the likes of you. Best turn tail now before he finds out the game you're playing."
The youth snorts. "As if you don't skim the pickings yourself - any decent troll would. Now hand it over or we'll thrash you worse than before!"
As if in response to the threat, an ache arises in the trader's ribs, a sore reminder of the band's first calling. A long sigh escapes his lips and nodding as if in defeat, he reaches slowly behind into the covered wagon. The ruffians chortle amongst themselves in victory. Then Yellowtooth's arm flings out with skyfire speed and a leather bag thuds open before the youths. An angry series of hisses pierce the laughter and from the bag skitters three scaley, bile-eyed creatures.
"Spit lizards!" The brute of a leader shouts, a hint of panic in his voice as a murmur of curses resounds around him. "Don't just stand there, fools, kill them!"
Grinning so that his golden tooth flashes in the lantern light before being blown out, Yellowtooth hoists the handles of his trading wagon as the confusion ensues, swiftly darting down the tunnel from which he just came and maneuvering it into a little known side passageway. The lizards, though not lethally dangerous, should keep his stalkers preoccupied long enough for him to distance himself from them and hopefully reduce their numbers to that which he could handle one-to-one. He hoped.
Tucking the wagon into a niche, the trader draws his trusty dagger and takes to the shadows. The shouts that echo down the tunnels die after several minutes but the wiley troll stays hidden - a trusting troll quickly becomes a dead troll, he knows. When his tensed muscles finally begin to ache from standing still too long, he sheathes his blade and cautiously takes up his wagon again. It will be a much longer trek back to the Kingdom using this longer, winding tunnel. A grim frown creases Yellowtooth's face - it now seems these bandits were far more serious than he originally took their threats to be.
The spit lizards are quick in their work and soon more than half of the troll thugs are covered in oozing spittle, their heads swiftly falling victim to its hallucinating effects as the wiley troll trader skips off down the darkened tunnel from which he came.
"Dung! He got away!" curses the leader, "Now he'll be waiting with a dagger for our backs if we go after him!" Beyond frustration, he turns and resoundly kicks and clunks the heads of those companions closest to him.
"Come on," he commands to those with the sense still remaining to listen and obey. "That old medler and conniving hag aren't going to be happy about this - not at all," he grumbles.
The flicker of greasy candles cause shadows upon the hewn stone walls to dance maliciously; a reflection of the dour mood contained within the room. The occassional squeak of small rodents pierces the dead silence until finally the chamber's mistress gives voice.
"Do explain to me how a gang of eight and two of you failed to obtain the barterer's gold pouch and goods?" Her tone is low and dangerous, her eyes cold and calculating.
Shrinking back from the glare that threatens to rend him to pieces at the hint of a wrong answer, Grubnose fidgets uneasily until he realizes to do so further would be foolish. "He-he," he stutters, gasping for air to finish the sentence. "He was prepared! He had spit lizards with him and set them upon us to make his escape!"
Sneering, the crone walks determinedly around him, surveying him, and suddenly the prick of a blade draws blood between his shoulders. "You have lived your whole lives in these caves and you tell me you cannot handle a mottlely bunch of spit lizards? Need I remind you we need that money to grease the wheels of change to our favour? Another failure like this and you will be fit for nothing more than sustance for my pets."
Sweat trickles down Grubnose's forehead, stinging his eyes which wander over the scurrying rodents and he attempts to suppress a shudder.
"Now, get out of my sight and get me that gold!"