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Rongor

Why does the food try to reason?

0 · 151 views · located in Rivenmarch

a character in “Through Monstrous Eyes”, as played by Quantumlegacy

Description

Image
Player: Quantumlegacy
Character Full Name: Rongor
Nickname(s): Rancor, Rongor, Oh Shit,
Association(s): N/A
Race: Troll
Age: 78
Sex: Male
Skin Color: Dark Green
Hair: Grey
Eyes: Green
Weight: 345 lbs
Height: 8' 2"
Usual Apparrell: Soiled Brown Loincloth, Finger Bone Necklace

Rongor stands at eight feet and two inches when he's standing his tallest usually mid mighty swing. Any other time with his hunch he stands to be just under eight feet. He has dark green skin with hard warts and dark splotches all over. His belly and his palms are lighter then the rest of him. He's got two rows of sharp teeth and four other tusk like teeth jutting from his lower lip. These are actually attached to his jawbone and don't work as teeth. His right ear is missing a chunk from it where he tussled with an infamous knight that was tasked with his removal. He wears a necklace made from the bones of his toughest fallen enemies. He also wears a extremely soiled brown loincloth he's never washed. For a weapon he carries the femur of a giant he found rotting after he assumed some adventurers got a hold of it. The skull attached at the bottom is of the knight whom ruined his ear.

Personality

Rongor doesn't say much. He's always been a solitary troll for as long as he can really remember, that only being in what he'd guess was his forties. He has learned over the years that he can't eat every monster that he see's as they are the only things keeping most of the adventurers from always chasing him.

His actions are mostly driven by the unending hunger that plagues trolls and as such he can't concentrate on one thing for to long without thinking of food. Even as such, he has surprising bouts of intelligence that puts his entire physical appearance into denial. He's a fondness for a few riddles he's acquired over the years and enjoys testing the adventurers that will amuse him before he eats them. (Whether it's before he's smashed them to a pulp or just before death.)

Equipment

Giant Femur Bone Club, Soiled Loincloth, Assorted Bone Necklace, Gnarled Infective Claws

History

Rongor is pushing eighty years of munching on adventurers soon. He is sure of at least thirty years worth of his history and can learn the rest if he paid enough attention to his wanted posters. He earned the name Rongor from an adventurer who compared him to a fearsome creature called a Rancor, but his friend misheard Rongor as he was chewing on his friend's face.

He's traveled quite a bit from smaller settlement to settlement hunting it's inhabitants until nothing was left but a ghost town. There were times where he'd lived in a cave, in the forest, and anywhere he happened to plop down. There was even a time he lived in one of the emptied towns for awhile eating unwary visitors who tried to cross the bridge into it. He couldn't tell you about most of it though. Even though he isn't an idiotic brute his cursed hunger tends to blur all his thoughts to it whenever he focuses to hard.

Lately he's been on the move looking for a new place to stop.

Other Tidbits: He's never washed himself intentionally, ever. His favorite morsel is fat humans with a side of elven children.

So begins...

Rongor's Story

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Just outside Rivenmarch in a Caravan Cage


Rongor's life was nothing as it should be. He was minding his own business traveling back to the hole he'd chewed out of a hillside for shelter for now. When he was set upon by more of the annoying Troll hunters. It might have had something to do with the dwarven mining settlement he'd just finished dining at. There had been some elves there but he couldn't help himself. The fat little men made such delicious stews, he still had one by it's leg he'd been dragging for a mile now.

He hadn't been wary of others showing up due to him being groggy and full. Which was a feat in itself. And mithril never did sit well with his stomach. The ensuing battle was about to be another one for his folktales and wanted poster when of all things a guarded caravan came along. It was his fault for ever thinking he could set up so close to the eastern borders. He'd been traveling for so long though, and the trail of food kept getting more and more plentiful.

He took his eyes off the fight just long enough for the scrawny elf he'd had his his paws, about to snap in thrice, to rattle off a spell in desperation. The concussive force of the blast so close sent the two of them sprawling and by the time his head was sitting right he'd already been set upon by chains and the horde of caravan guards.

The thought angered him but with a heavy sigh he lazily scanned from one dark corner of his cage to another. He was slumped into a corner of the cage partially asleep. They'd stop moving and he could tell but he didn't care. He'd been with these oppressors of his for to long. After maiming more then one appendage from more then one of his handlers his most recent one had taken extra precautions. Cursed irons burn at his ever regenerating flesh at the word of his handler whenever he tried to resist. Like others he was used for show for the enjoyment of the food.

Despite his appearance and what the food thought of him, Rongor had a surprising intelligence e to him. Granted he was indeed a primal rage filled carnivore with only food on his mind. But he understood many of the words his captor's used and what the other monsters around him said. He was still actively looking to escape from the food, longing to roam the damp darkness of his homeland. He silently swore to himself that if he escaped he'd bring his left-overs with him instead of trying to overfill.

This very existence enraged him and as much as he wished to just chew through the chains, the bars, the people, and anything else that stood in his way. He knew he couldn't. He'd seen too many monsters before him fall. Besides, aside from the daily torment they did keep him stocked with plenty of strange things to eat.

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"And this, your Grace is the troll pen."

"Yes," came the priest's voice, muffled by the hem of her robe, "I can smell it."

"One of the downsides of keeping trolls I'm afraid, but its why we always locate this attraction at the far end of the camp. Still it nets one of our biggest turn outs. Everyone has heard about the troll's ability to regenerate, you know, and everyone is willing to pay a few shillings to see it grow a hand or an arm back from nothing."

The cleric's cold eyes thawed for a brief moment as she viewed the monster bound before her, "you are telling me you mutilate this wretched creature for... entertainment."

"My Lady this wretched creature was captured after having devoured countless souls. According to those who captured the beast he was actually making stew out of..."

"That's enough, Terral," the cleric snapped, eyes frozen once more, "let's move on before my knights faint of the smell."

"Very well, your Holiness, I'll now show you our grandest attraction."

"Most recklessly dangerous one, more like," the Cleric muttered as she followed the plump entertainer out of the stench filled tent.