Hairy Minotaur
Explorer
For the readers
This is for the story hours readers. It's a little background on why the trolls are a little bloodthirsty, the party knows none of this yet. They will get to see the results tonight though!
"Pile those bones near the door, there's no more room at the back of the hall. The altar must be clear for the calling to work."
"What shall I do with the blood?"
"All of that gets poured into the altar."
"The altar cannot possibly contain all of it. "
"It won't have to, once the gate is opened the remaining essence will be drunk by our master after he steps through. Unless you'd like him to feed on you once he arrives."
The point taken, the troll turns and leaves the shaman alone in this former church now turned hall of bones. Over one hundred thousand cubic feet of bones lay about the central altar, which was once a magnificent tree whose roots drank from the blessed bowl that still cradles it's massive girth.
The tree's branches which were used to support the entire structure had been cut and whittled away weeks ago at the shaman's behest. Now only a solitary spire of wood held up the ceiling and the rest of the troll's new house.
The shaman was careful not to kill the tree, yet, as he still needed it's inherent magic to power the gate that was to bring their demonic commander into their ranks to lead them to war against the mortal races. Thousands of elves and gnomes were properly sacrificed to bring him this close to the beginning, which is what he told his tribe tomorrow would be.
Vaprak's glorious return to the prime plane would signal an end to all opposition, even those massive frost giants wouldn't be able to withstand the terror and rage that is now gasping for life just out of reach of the shaman's fingers, and in less than an hour those gasps will be hearty breaths.
The main door reopened and a one-eyed goblin staggered in.
"Master there are intruders in the prisoner block, they've killed Twitch and Chef." The small raspy voice is almost absorbed by the deadened floor.
"Quickly then, tell the others we start the ceremony now! I will not have interruptions!" The shaman's voices resonates through the marrow of the deceased.
Soon the former elven church echoes with the sounds of bones snapping as dozens of trolls crawl over the mounds of bones to view the spectacle that is to take place. Goblins given semi-regenerative capabilities through experimentation and augmentation, have been lashed to the tree's trunk and constantly drip blood into the basin below from various wounds on their chests.
The shaman and his acolytes, form a circle around the basin and begin the chanting ritual. The air in the former church grows taunt with the flowing magical energies. Even with their darkvision, the troll's sight grows dim as the shaman's word reverberate off the walls.
A great sound of wind rushing to fill a vacuum fills the ears of the gathered hosts, it emanates from the basin itself. Within seconds the tree begins to slowly spin on it's roots and sink into the basin. The assembled trolls push and claw their way for a better view, as the basin has turned into a twisting maelstrom of blackness and void.
The chanting stops as the descent of the tree increases, it's life force is ripped from it's core as white sparks of living essence leap from the tree only to be sucked down in thru the gate. The last fifty feet of the tree breaks the sound barrier as it is pulled into the abyss. The shockwave topples and stuns the watching trolls.
Pride and wonderment smear their stain across the face of the shaman, as his tribe stagger to regain their footing amid fears of what is to come. Smelling their fear all around him, the shaman turns to his people.
"This is the day of reckoning, the day of the troll! Tomorrow will the beginning to a kingdom the likes none have ever witnessed, and you will all play a part in it's birth!"
The shaman's words calm the assemblage for a moment before small red lights spread over the floor of the desecrated church. The trolls are gripped with terror as the eye socket's of every skull erupt with a red hatred for life. The dozens of trolls try to flee, only to be brought low by the gnawing jaws of the skulls.
The troll's darkvision is a aglow within a sea of hate, then in an instant all is dark. The last vestiges of holiness strain to contain the pressure that aches to rip the church asunder. The earth moans in protest as the gate explodes in a shower of blood.
The fluid coats every inch of the church and a low guttural breathing can be heard. The sound appears to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Yet blackness, even within their darkvision, reigns.
"My Liege?" The shaman asks in a way that suggests an uncertainty rather than an absolute.
A roar pierces his ears and fear grips the shaman for the first time, for he hears not one roar, but three.
"What have I done?" The shaman voices, as his head is plucked off his shoulders and into a waiting hungry maw.
This is for the story hours readers. It's a little background on why the trolls are a little bloodthirsty, the party knows none of this yet. They will get to see the results tonight though!
"Pile those bones near the door, there's no more room at the back of the hall. The altar must be clear for the calling to work."
"What shall I do with the blood?"
"All of that gets poured into the altar."
"The altar cannot possibly contain all of it. "
"It won't have to, once the gate is opened the remaining essence will be drunk by our master after he steps through. Unless you'd like him to feed on you once he arrives."
The point taken, the troll turns and leaves the shaman alone in this former church now turned hall of bones. Over one hundred thousand cubic feet of bones lay about the central altar, which was once a magnificent tree whose roots drank from the blessed bowl that still cradles it's massive girth.
The tree's branches which were used to support the entire structure had been cut and whittled away weeks ago at the shaman's behest. Now only a solitary spire of wood held up the ceiling and the rest of the troll's new house.
The shaman was careful not to kill the tree, yet, as he still needed it's inherent magic to power the gate that was to bring their demonic commander into their ranks to lead them to war against the mortal races. Thousands of elves and gnomes were properly sacrificed to bring him this close to the beginning, which is what he told his tribe tomorrow would be.
Vaprak's glorious return to the prime plane would signal an end to all opposition, even those massive frost giants wouldn't be able to withstand the terror and rage that is now gasping for life just out of reach of the shaman's fingers, and in less than an hour those gasps will be hearty breaths.
The main door reopened and a one-eyed goblin staggered in.
"Master there are intruders in the prisoner block, they've killed Twitch and Chef." The small raspy voice is almost absorbed by the deadened floor.
"Quickly then, tell the others we start the ceremony now! I will not have interruptions!" The shaman's voices resonates through the marrow of the deceased.
Soon the former elven church echoes with the sounds of bones snapping as dozens of trolls crawl over the mounds of bones to view the spectacle that is to take place. Goblins given semi-regenerative capabilities through experimentation and augmentation, have been lashed to the tree's trunk and constantly drip blood into the basin below from various wounds on their chests.
The shaman and his acolytes, form a circle around the basin and begin the chanting ritual. The air in the former church grows taunt with the flowing magical energies. Even with their darkvision, the troll's sight grows dim as the shaman's word reverberate off the walls.
A great sound of wind rushing to fill a vacuum fills the ears of the gathered hosts, it emanates from the basin itself. Within seconds the tree begins to slowly spin on it's roots and sink into the basin. The assembled trolls push and claw their way for a better view, as the basin has turned into a twisting maelstrom of blackness and void.
The chanting stops as the descent of the tree increases, it's life force is ripped from it's core as white sparks of living essence leap from the tree only to be sucked down in thru the gate. The last fifty feet of the tree breaks the sound barrier as it is pulled into the abyss. The shockwave topples and stuns the watching trolls.
Pride and wonderment smear their stain across the face of the shaman, as his tribe stagger to regain their footing amid fears of what is to come. Smelling their fear all around him, the shaman turns to his people.
"This is the day of reckoning, the day of the troll! Tomorrow will the beginning to a kingdom the likes none have ever witnessed, and you will all play a part in it's birth!"
The shaman's words calm the assemblage for a moment before small red lights spread over the floor of the desecrated church. The trolls are gripped with terror as the eye socket's of every skull erupt with a red hatred for life. The dozens of trolls try to flee, only to be brought low by the gnawing jaws of the skulls.
The troll's darkvision is a aglow within a sea of hate, then in an instant all is dark. The last vestiges of holiness strain to contain the pressure that aches to rip the church asunder. The earth moans in protest as the gate explodes in a shower of blood.
The fluid coats every inch of the church and a low guttural breathing can be heard. The sound appears to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Yet blackness, even within their darkvision, reigns.
"My Liege?" The shaman asks in a way that suggests an uncertainty rather than an absolute.
A roar pierces his ears and fear grips the shaman for the first time, for he hears not one roar, but three.
"What have I done?" The shaman voices, as his head is plucked off his shoulders and into a waiting hungry maw.