It has been told of the idle and cruel ways of the son of the ironforge, and horrifying as it is, this was not all there is to be told of Hátislár, the curse of the green valley, defiler of elves and man. It has been told of the fell deal and the ghastly bond he forged, and, as terrifying as it was, this is not all that has to be told of that fell creature. Lo and behold the becoming of the beast, the birth of the rotting one, the birth of him of the thousand curses, bane of the fair folk-and subject to their avenge! Learn, all ye sages, of the wars of Yore!
For it was thence that a jolly company came to the house near the swamp-ridden pond, ignorant of the things that dwelt beneath the oily swamp. And thusly they toiled and toiled but to no avail. And thusly they feasted and shared their portions with the fair folk as was their wont, but to no avail. For Hátislár the thrice - cursed smiled and wore a friendly mask; but in secret he sat beside the pond every new moon´s night and bemoaned the filth of his wounds, and he raved and howled like a madman, foaming with insanity. And at last, from the disgusting depths of the slimy pond, there rose a creature ancient and of shrewd wickedness, spawn of the maggot of primeval grey. Once it has been what the Dhiudha na n Iámparái called a *gra-atraul or grey-troll, but by wicked acts of magic the troll aquired a shape different to anything that dwelt on Aardeanna, the jewel-like. Now not all trolls are evil, and not all of them adept in a magic as black as this. The name for the troll-race was *Oreamm in the times of Yore, and while in the beginning, the fair folk fought a terrible war that devastated nearly all of the fruitful plains of the East, where lived many of the tribes of the fair folk, it was also the beginning of the history of man and the becoming of the clans of the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai. In the beginning, the *oreamm were fierce and brutal and were devouring their enemies, but then the Dhiudha na nDhuodhai are no stranger to bloodshed either. But the grey saw the trolls and deemed them a suitable host for its primeval Evil. But it rarely succeeded entirely, for most trolls just did not take to the Grey permanently due to their wild and unfathomable brutality and vitality. However, some did, and much Evil came into the world. Many an Evil giant roamed the wilderness, and they have been called a great many names. *gra-atraul they were called, *orc, *huné and *troll, *gra-oreamm, nightwalkers and nightstalkers. But this one was even more different. It is recorded by the lunatic sage that there are the "old ones" lurking in an abyss between the worlds, and while I personally am hard-pressed to believe this, there is no mistaking the fact that there lurked a creature in the swamp the like of which had not ever seen before, possessed of powers of magic and stealth and prowess unknown even to the fair ones. It is hard to describe how it looked like, because it was not of this world entirely, and few did live to tell the tale. Like the Dhuodhai it had become something different. But unlike to the path of the Dhuodhai, who in their despair walked a hard and stern path across the bridge of lunacy into the veil of being itself, this one troll was lured away from the small and silvery line, and by pain and greed fell prey to the old ones, sharing theit might.
This was the God Hátislár prayed to. This was the deal he had forged.
And there came a day when he could no longer wear the friendly mask and his idle and evil ways prevailed; thus the jolly company fled his estate in terror, besmirched by the filth of his greed and hate. And none of them would ever be the same again, and all joy befouled for them.
Again he put on the friendly mask and begged and lured a lady to his estate to take care of the ruins he had made; and at first she came to the smithy with joy and found the place agreeable and pleasing; for she saw how much good could come from the company she build with smiths and craftsmen and many a jester and many a bard. To the smithy they all came, and to honour the fair folk she carved stones with the spiral ornaments of life and set them on the site, into a garden. And the Dhiudha watched and hoped for a new time. They came and gave gifts, but avoided the black one like a pest. And Hátislár knew, for he still held council with the ancient thing in the deep. And Hátislár smiled and wore a friendly mask and gave a little with one hand, while greedily taking double with the other; and, in stealth, he used the fell magic he had acquired to stealthily drive a wedge of satire between the lady and her betrothed and lured him to drink and forgery, and he, being weak, lost what little monies the couple had in games and drink. Thus Hátislár found reason enough to destroy their efforts and drive them from his estate, relishing in his own shrewdness.
All the while he sat by the pond on each and every new moon´s night, wearing a wicked grin that looked as if it were hewn into his face with a blunt axe; and while he plotted and schemed, slowly his body changed. The change he did not notice at first, but the filth of the three wounds began to ooze, and a sweet, but ghastly stench hung about him... his countenance became crouched and crooked and he constantly wore a frowning and sardonic grin. Ever harder it became now to wear the friendly mask of a grandfatherly elderly man, but instead people began to shun him, and little children cried in his presence, and the dogs barked at him and cats would not go near him anymore. When once the place had been full of birdsong and the animals of the woods had come visiting in his father´s time, a big desolation besmirched the valley, and often there would be strange gusts of cold sweeping over his estate. Often did he now notice that saliva was running down his mouth, and his teeth started to look crooked and at strange angles. Hard lines dug into the skin of his face, not the honest wrinkles of mortal age, but the crevices of greed, hate and lust. And he thought in one bright moment if he might still be saved from the deal he himself had forged with the primeval evil, and he sent out invitations to a great feast.
Now there was a sage and knower of songs and tales, a poet of Ansrúth rank and honour whose retinue had deserted him. But as he walked the path of the Yldanach, he was apt in the craft of smithing and woodcarving too. A swordsmith and wordsmith he was and an adept in the magic ways of the woods, and a close friend of the Dhiudha and Dwarven tribes. This man came to the feast, and at once he noticed that this decaying place wanted to be free from something, but, being just a disciple himself, could not put the finger on the thing that was wrong.
And he came, and by his work and by his songs and tales acquired a new retinue; and again there was laughter and joy radiating in the place that knew but hate and greed and lust.
And Hátislár watched. And Hátislár envied. And Hátislár hated, and sent out waves of primeval hate and gathered all the scum he could find.
To be continued....
