Author Coeld
Riven Interra - Specialized Breeding Camp *Sect 4 added* 


Joined: Dec 27, 2000 Posted: 2003-01-13 18:40   
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 EDIT: Sections 1-3 of 5 planned are now posted. Later sections are higher on action/gore for those of you who revel in the grotesque. I am a trolloc afterall... 


OOC: ADVISORY - story contains explicit scenes of graphic violence and gore. Sensitive readers may be offended. For those ONLY interested in graphic gore, begin reading at section two. 

Preface 

In Robert Jordan's world, trollocs are even more stupid than the animals which compose them. They are incapable of any sort of organized activity without the direct supervision of a fade, and are just as prone to fight each other as they are to fight a human. WoTmud cannot operate this way – PC (player character) trollocs must ALL be capable of more independent strategy than any RJ trolloc could muster. Leaders, tacticians, scouts and assassins exist within every clan, as well as in the skilled unclanned that fight and die in the Blight and on daily raids. I reconcile this by believing that PC trollocs are only 1% of 1% of all trollocs that are born or created. These elite trollocs can understand and speak the trolloc language, and can reason and plan creatively with regard to military organization, strategic deployment, and tactical operations, but fall far short of having the full intellectual enrichment of a fade or a human. This story attempts to provide a framework for how at least some tiny minority of trollocs come to have these ultra-rare abilities. I have only read up to book 6 in RJ's series, and I apologize if this conflicts with the 'canon-law’ of his world. 

I have chosen to use the < > symbols to indicate trolloc speech, rather than the usual “quote”. 

RIVEN INTERRA 

Dhai'mon Barracks, Dark Stronghold, Western Blight 

Coeld Morningbreath, Hideous Hunter of the Dhai'mon Elite, awoke. Standing slowly, he worked to sort the confused visions and nightmares from his head, focusing on the reality before him. Glaring around, he proudly regarded the trophies that were the only decoration in this bare stone chamber within the Dhai'mon barracks. 

His armor had loosened as he slept. Cinching the thick metal plates tightly against his body, Coeld stepped from the chamber, slinging an enormous double bladed axe over his massive shoulders. He then moved through the Stronghold at a trot, finally meeting up with Master Atvar before the great portcullis. Coeld clashed his great axe against his breastplate in a grim salute, grunting, <I am at your command.> Atvar wiped blood from the edge of Malfeasor and smeared it on Coeld's snout, sneering, <THIS is what the blood of an Illian Companion smells like - saltier than normal, and filled with diseases from their painted harlots. You don't have time to hunt them with me, Master Club wants you, at M. Maeltor’s post.> Licking the blood from his snout, Coeld trotted back through the Stronghold, finally coming to a stiffened halt before a brooding and distracted human male seated on a throne. 

<Glory to the Great Lord, His Will be done.> Coeld grunted to the Dreadlord. The man barely shifted his gaze, though Coeld knew he had both heard and understood the guttural trolloc words. "Where, be quick, I’m busy." came the eventual reply. <Thakandar, Master.> 

The Dreadlord Jaeiryoz nodded at Coeld. 
The Dreadlord Jaeiryoz made a small motion and the air shimmered before him. 
The air ripped apart and widened to reveal a gate to a land beyond. 
The Dreadlord ushered Coeld through the shimmering portal. 
The portal shuddered then snapped shut behind him. 

Coeld thrilled at the sudden shift in smells and sounds that marked his passage into TKD. Most of all, it stimulated him to smell the ozone in the air - by product of almost constant lightning strikes from the sky, as well as those made by the powerful Shadowmaulers which were bred and trained in TKD. Occasionally the charge in the air would play across his iron breastplate in an electric pattern that would fill him with the pleasure of pain. 

Coeld turned his attention to his Duty, and lumbered towards his Masters Maeltor and Club. Coeld took note that both Masters were conferring with the Chosen, Master Mangler. A brief but intense hint of terror passed over him, as Master Mangler looked up, hissed at him, then turned back to the other hulking trollocs. Coeld had come to believe that this characteristic wordless hiss meant a number of things, from 'You serve well,' to 'Your life is mine to take.' It was short of approval, but ... In the end, any encounter with a Chosen that did not leave you dead was, in essence, acceptable. 

Coeld waited patiently, standing at attention until the Masters finished their discussion. M. Mangler stepped back into the shadows, disappearing on some deadly mission. Club barked, <Coeld, attend! It is time that you chose a personal retainer to train as battle-guards. Take this badge and show it to the Dreadlord, he will gate you to Riven Interra. There you will choose six trollocs from the honor-scarred Maul Pit survivors. Bring them here for further directions. Go now.> Coeld clashed his axe in salute, and trotted out of the city and down the Dark Road. Riven Interra, Coeld’s mind presented flashing images and sharp smells reminding him of the place: battle, violence, pain, excitement, death and pride. 

Just before entering the Ruined Keep, Coeld saw several Ghar'geal warriors drilling for battle. As he passed near them, Master Jagang bellowed out, <Dhai'mon Coeld, come!> Coeld came to attention before the experienced and respected elder Master. <Coeld, watch.> Jagang pointed toward a grotesquely beautiful feline female trolloc warrior busy practicing axe-forms. Her whiskers quivered and her ears twisted and turned as she spun and twirled her body and blade. Straw-like hair held in bloodstained yellow braids flipped and flopped around her head and shoulders as she struck at imaginary opponents practicing for glory. Her style of fighting was unique in all of the Blight. She was able to whirl and swing her axe in full circles, directing solid blows in almost any direction, which allowed her to face enemies on all sides and win. It was this frenzied style, and the fact that she often chased her own tail, that had earned her the name "Whirlwind." 

Jagang growled, <M. Mangler passed here, says you are going to Riven Interra. You have been before, and know the program?> Coeld dipped his tusks in agreement. Jagang continued, <Take Whirlwind, show her the camp there so that she may return later to find a few survivors with Ghar'geal potential.> Coeld responded, <By your command.> 

Moments later, Coeld and Whirlwind stood before another of the One True Master’s Dreadlords. Coeld presented the badge, which gave him and his companion permission to be transported to one of the most secret places in all of the Blight… 

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Riven Interra, deep underground in an unknown location in the Blight 

Riven Interra was in many ways identical to the scores of other Breeding Camps scattered throughout the Blight. In every camp there were the usual whelping hives, where trolloc *****es gave birth to their litters, metal smiths who supplied the first weapons and thin armor for the whelps and sucklings, Feasting Halls, dormitories, and of course, the culling yards - where the weak are killed and butchered. When several litters of trolloc whelps are born within a few weeks of each other, they are gathered into a 'lot', consisting of about 100 beasts. Around 20 to 30 trollocs in any given lot are considered unacceptable due to deformities, weakness, or profound behavior flaws making them useless to the Great Lord. These whelps are culled, killed due to inferiority, and their bodies are used to feed their lot-mates. The remainder are released into the Blighted Mountains, and forced to march to the Ruined Keep. Many die of exposure or at the claws of deadly scorpions, snakes or Maulers. In the end, only 30 to 40 out of every one hundred live births will turn out to be strong enough, or dodgy enough to serve, though their sheer stupidity usually means that they will only be useful in directly commanded, relatively simple combat. These ‘common trollocs’ are most often bound directly to the will and mind of a Myrddraal, who can use his link and their stupidity to tactical advantage. However, these common beasts lack any independent initiative, are driven by blind urges to survive, to kill, to eat, even failing to recognize their kinship to other trollocs when allowed to act alone. Without a fade to lead them, they are less than useless. 

The trollocs produced at Riven Interra were different -- decades ago, the Chosen decided that a new strain of trolloc was needed. They needed a small number of breedable trollocs which did not sacrifice size nor speed, that were tactically intelligent, that could think independently enough to lead minor Fists to accomplish special missions or command on the front line... but who also remained loyal to the Great Lord above their own personal desires. 

Aginor, the Chosen who had the unique ability to twist and warp nature in a way that could force impossible crossbreeds into creation, began to work on this project. It was relatively easy to create a crossing of two to three beasts to yield a common trolloc. These trollocs could then be repeatedly in-bred with relative simplicity to create the waves and waves of soldiers that comprised the Great Horde. However, the complexity of creating a life form using more than three species grew exponentially. The usual result was either a creature that died seconds to minutes after being forced into existence due to excessive deformities, or a creature that had exceptional attributes, but which was as sterile as a mule. Aginor finally struck on a compromise between his creative manipulation of raw living material, and an age-old strategies of animal husbandry called ‘selective breeding.’ He took a small population of moderately high attribute trollocs which could breed successfully, and with the help of another Chosen, created the program at Riven Interra. 

Coeld was an example of Aginor's success. Nearly a century in age, his life had been unnaturally extended time and time again by the Favor and Reforging of the Great Lord. Head and shoulders were hulking masses of muscle, protected by hardened and thickened hide and extremely coarse, bristly fur. His wart-boar snout bore dagger-like tusks. The fur on his chest and back, when not matted with blood, was sleek and brindled in browns, grays, and greens. He was a magnificent specimen, and was frequently commanded to serve as a stud. 

The two Clanned trollocs took a few moments to adjust to their new environment after stepping through the gateway in space. Glancing around, Coeld noticed that the insignia on the walls of the entry chamber were identical to the one on the badge he had been given by M. Club. Grunting aggressively, he led Whirlwind into a long and twisting passage that snaked its way through many of the basic areas of the camp. Whirlwind took note of the typical smells as she padded along behind her less-graceful escort. Sleeping chambers smelled like feces, that was typical for common trollocs who don’t know any better than to sully their own nests. Racks of dented and poor quality armor ran the length of a low metal-works. 

Coeld and Whirlwind finally emerged from the tunnel, walking out onto a wide stone bridge that crossed the rift, which gave this sub-terranian camp its name. Neither trolloc knew that this great underground canyon was a remnant from the Breaking, formed by massive shockwaves that ripped and buckled the earth. The great chasm was dimly lit from below by a river of molten rock. Stopping briefly, Coeld scanned up and down the incredible rift, hoping for a glimpse of a draghkar aerie. On the whole, dragkhar were perhaps even more stupid than the common trollocs, but their usefulness in scouting was unparalleled, as was their unique ability to entrance their prey into an unnatural paralysis. 

The Clanned passed through another maze of tunnels before entering an arched, open chamber called the Feasting Hall. Sloping along the length of the hall was a stone trough, which emptied its semi-fluid contents into a wide, low basin. The oblong room was packed with naked and half-armored trollocs, jostling and shoving each other to get a position alongside the trough. Whirlwind could smell the familiar jumble of odors coming from the trough that signaled the presence of fresh blood, bile, marrow, urine, and other bodily fluids usually associated with a recently mutilated corpse. She could hear the gluttonous sound of snouts and beaks, jaws and muzzles slopping up the contents of the trough, almost faster that it could refill from the hidden source somewhere behind the far wall. Finally she caught a glimpse of the grisly contents of the feeding trough. It sloshed over the sides, consisting mostly of blood and pulpy muscle and skin tissue, but was filled with shattered bone fragments, shreds of lung and intestines, kidney and liver, bladder and brain. It smelled absolutely delicious. 

Although the young trollocs crowded each other for access to their food source, they were alert enough to give Coeld and Whirlwind a wide berth as the Clanned passed through the hall. Near the exit into the next tunnel, the trough bent steeply up, becoming an enclosed pipe that rang with hollow sucking and sloshing sounds. Whirlwind could hear a deep subsonic rumbling from somewhere behind the solid stone walls, betraying the presence of some great machinery. It sounded familiar, but she could not… quite… place it. 

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 Maul Pits, Riven Interra, the Blight 

Coeld led Whirlwind to a circular intersection in the tunnel. They could hear the sound of claws, beaks, and weapons in battle coming from most of the exits. Coeld led the pair up a steep ramp, guarded by a quartet of heavily armed bear-headed trollocs. The ramp opened into a gigantic domed chamber, the size of a small city. The floor was a honeycomb of massive craters, called collectively, the Maul Pits. Coeld gestures into the closest pit, grunting <Whelplings are put into the pit after the first week of birth, armed with nothing but teeth and claws, protected only with their hides or shells. Two are placed in at first, to fight to the death - every fight in the Maul Pits is to the death. The survivor is restored to health, retaining one scar of honor from each fight. In some matches, both are restored to life and health, but this is rare.> 

Whirlwind lifted her nose, whiskers quivering, and purred, <I smell no burning corpses, and... not enough rot to account for the amount of death here... what happens to the bodies of those not restored?> 

Coeld grunted, <They are milled into slurry for the Feeding Trough. Surely you noticed the Trough?> Whirlwind nodded, finally putting the pieces together. Although she had never seen one, she knew of a device of massive gears, wide vats, slurping pipes, and heavy grinders that could render a corpse into a chunky, slushy slurry. It was an efficient use of a corpse, for every part of it could then be consumed. Most of the elite warriors, hunters, and assassins she had met considered the slurry to be "suckling food," unfit for the hunger needs of a "REAL trolloc." 

Coeld paused as the mortal fight below reached a climax. A hulking, slow trolloc, with the head, shoulders, and great hunched back of a plains bison, had steadily beaten down a quicker but smaller beast. The smaller trolloc was beaked, with long talon-like claws whose sharpness and speed kept the larger trolloc from completely bashing out his brains. Suddenly, 'Beak' made a misstep, allowing 'Bison' to hoist him into the air, and dash him against the pit wall. Beak fell to the ground with a thrilling crunch, and lay still. Bleeding from scores of clawings, Bison stooped over his victim, looking for signs of survival. The smaller trolloc looked like a child, dwarfed and crumpled on the ground by the unlimited strength of the Bison-headed beast. It did not twitch or breathe, but Coeld sensed that something was not right… Moving like lightning, Beak shot his arm straight up, inserting his deadly claws into the exposed neck of his opponent, rolling away in a shower of arterial blood before the massive trolloc collapsed in sudden death. Beak raised his head, screeched defiantly, and died. 

Coeld rumbled, <The little one may make a good Ko'bal one day. His instincts and cunning are lethal.> 

Whirlwind purred, <Yes, but which one truly won? They both appear to be deceased.> 

Coeld replied by pointing to an iron-wrought catwalk that curved along the inner wall of the pit, midway down to the rubble-covered floor. Unnoticed due to the excitement of the battle, a midnight-cloaked Myrddraal stepped out of the shadows. He pointed at the fallen trollocs, rasping to some unseen minion below, "Both, Knitting Chamber." What appeared to be heaps of cold cinders and ash piled around the pit floor rose into roughly humanoid shapes. They shambled across the floor, lifted the corpses, and carried them out of the arena into narrow access tunnels. 

<What does this mean, Dhai'mon? Who is that fade?> asked Whirlwind. 

Coeld grunted, <A Pit Master. They judge the fight and decide who will be repaired and restored, and who will be culled and milled to feed the others. They are also involved in selecting male trollocs as studs, selectively breeding the best with the best, producing better generations of trollocs. In this case, the Master has spared both trollocs, as each showed remarkable prowess, as well as learned about their own fatal weaknesses. If either one falls for the same trick a second time, they will not be spared.> 

<But, what is the Knitting Chamber?> 

<I shall show you soon. First let us tour the other Pits.> 

The Clanned crisscrossed along the tops of the honeycomb of Maul Pits. Coeld pointed out pits containing trollocs wearing various pieces of armor, using assorted weapons, fighting in pairs and in groups. Every aspect of melee combat short of channeling seemed to be represented somewhere in the pits. Coeld explained the Maul Pits were not only a means of training, but also the primary way that this camp culled the weak and the average, yielding only the most naturally skilled, cunning, intelligent, and tactically alert trollocs for the Horde. Out of every 100 live births in a regular trolloc breeding camp, 60 to 70 were culled in some way or another. Out of every 100 live births in Riven Interra, 90-95 were eventually culled or slain in the Pits, milled into slurry, and fed to the future champions of the Horde. Every trolloc that left Riven Interra was a candidate for eventual induction into one of the Four Clans. 

Coeld and Whirlwind took time to observe a group of trollocs in a larger pit containing obstacles and varied terrain. By counting the scars, it was clear that these beasts had all survived many rounds in the Pits. These trollocs hunted with the coordination of the hated wolves, skillfully surrounding and decimating their enemies. Once given permission to despoil the corpses of their victims, they showed no restraint. Arms and legs were the first to be stripped off, then used playfully as clubs. Choice organs were then picked out on the spiked ends of axes or points of swords, and gobbled up with glee. The apparent leader, stern during the fight, appeared to relax, using the carefully extracted bladder of a dead foe to douse his team in urine. Judging by their reactions, this was a celebratory ritual, and not cause for counter-attack. 

In another pit, a single trolloc wearing almost nothing at all stealthily stalked his opponents, who outnumbered him five to one. Wraith-like, he slipped from shadow to shadow, picking them off with precise and silent stabs from an unadorned dagger. In yet a third pit, a lone trolloc held a narrow pass between fallen rubble, blocking his team’s enemies from reaching what appeared to be a designated regrouping point. While his mates ran around causing mayhem, he stayed put, delivering the killing blow to foe after foe. By resisting his animal urge to chase anything that flees, he was able to actually kill much more effectively. Finally Coeld led Whirlwind out of the massive domed cavern, and into another warren of tunnels. 

Coeld eyed Whirlwind knowingly, snorting, <Now we shall see the Knitting Tables, the entire reason this camp is successful. You are in for a unique treat!> 


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The Knitting Tables, Riven Interra, the Blight 

After a few minutes, Coeld and the Daughter of Shadow came to a dead-end in the tunnel. The terminus was a small circular chamber with an iron grating for a floor. Whirlwind peered down the shaft, noticing grooves along the walls that contained pulleys strung with great iron chains. Deep below, the flickering of torchlight could be seen, casting the faintest illumination up the shaft. 

Coeld slapped a heavy latch into place on a control panel on a wall, released a thick bolt, and began to turn a long-handled ratcheted crank. With a surprising lurch, the metal grate began to sink down the shaft. After Whirlwind recovered from her initial unease and distrust of the contraption, she began to get curious - a trait that often got her into trouble. She stepped closer to the wall, trying to figure out the mechanism that supported and controlled the descending platform. 

A strange and distorted sound echoed up the stone shaft, competing with the clinking chains and ratcheting crank. Whirlwind struggled to discern what it was - it popped and crackled like fat in a fire. It sounded something like... like someone was slowly pouring ten mauler-weight of pebbles from a great bucket onto a stone surface, which itself was covered by a thin layer of old and sticky blood. As the sound grew louder, it began to resemble the rapping of heavy hail pelting hollowly against a discarded breastplate. Hidden within the percussive sound were faint high pitched wails and moans, like the sound of a cruel wind blowing through a run-down shack. Whirlwind crouched down to the edge of the grating, snuffling and peering into the dark, trying to figure out what was making this beautiful sound. 

Coeld grunted words that Whirlwind, as a Ghar'geal warrior, took as an insult, <Be careful...> Whirlwind glanced up to chide Coeld for using words of cowardice, but immediately lost track of that thought as the shaft walls came to an end, opening up to a void of blackness. The platform had dropped out of the shaft into an enormous cross-shaped chamber. Whirlwind experienced a brief feeling of vertigo, scurrying back from the edge. 

Coeld stopped their descent with a jolt, which left the lift swaying like a dangling spider. Regaining her composure, Whirlwind purred to herself, resisted the urge to preen, and looked up to see the shaft opening 3 spans* above her nose. Glancing down, she could make out the torch lit floor another 20 spans below. Whirlwind trilled nonchalantly, twitching her wiry whiskers, and turning her ears to take in the scene. The pitch of the crackling sound had dropped, no longer distorted by the narrow shaft. Whirlwind could now immediately identify the sound: breaking bones under living flesh. However, unlike in battle or during torture, this was the sound of scores of bones breaking and knitting together, from hundreds of bodies lying on tables below. She could hear cries and screeches of pain breaking the staccato patter of bone-breaks. There were so many bodies undergoing this mysterious process below her that the sound was like a continuous roar in her ears. 

Coeld pointed and grumbled, <Those rows of blocks that cover the floor are called Knitting Tables. Look there - they draw their power from the altar in the center, directly below us.> Whirlwind could see four massive stone statues below her. The statues were of trollocs, kneeling, back-to-back, each facing a cardinal direction. Their eyes glowed with power, and a ultrasonic drone could be felt underneath the cacophony of screams and breaking bones. 

It was this ter'angreal and the stone tables it powered that made this camp's specialized program possible. Nothing else like it existed in the world. Coeld began lowering them to the floor, explaining, <The Knitting Tables use brute force to rebuild the bodies of recently dead trollocs, without taxing the Circle of Darkness - which itself is reserved only for those who have gained the Great Lord's personal Favor. Through the Tables, trollocs who show cunning, initiative, battle prowess, the ability to command and improvise, or other special attributes can be quickly restored and put back into training. Those that fail, as you have seen, are milled to feed those that succeed.> 

Coeld and Whirlwind stepped off the platform when it came to a rest in the middle of the ter'angreal statues, and walked out between the rows of tables. Most of the tables held writhing and suffering trollocs, barely restrained by invisible bonds while waves of cruel force broke and re-set bones, crushed and regrew organs and tissue, and flayed open flesh was closed with searing heat. The area around each table was layered with dried pus and vomit violently ejected from trollocs who had been brought to the tables with septic and contaminated wounds. 

Whirlwind watched as a bodily intact and still living trolloc was roughly dropped on one table by four of the shambling cinder-men. Protruding from its scaly chest was a finely crafted axe. At the moment the body contacted the table, the trolloc convulsed and heaved as waves of agonizing pressure began to slowly squeeze the axe back out of his body. Just as the axe appeared to be free, its hooked edge caught on a rib beneath the scaly skin, causing a second puncture wound to protrude from the chest. The handle flopped wildly as the trolloc convulsed, but the hook held fast, refusing to come free. The unseen force that powered the table subsided momentarily, allowing the trolloc to black out from the pain. From somewhere inside the stone table a focused shockwave formed and shot upwards. It struck the immobilized trolloc's back with the precision of a tack-hammer, snapping the spine, pulverizing organs as it passed through the torso, and cracking open the beast's ribcage from the inside out. The axe blew free of the splintering ribs, and dropped to the floor with a clatter. The weapon was dispassionately recovered by one of the shambling heaps for re-use in the Pits above. Immediately the knitting resumed, agonizingly dragging the scaled monster back from the brink of death. 

The Clanned strode down the row toward the exit at the far end of this arm of the chamber. They passed table after table of suffering, quietly enjoying the blunt brutality of the painful 'knitting.' Whirlwind purred, <It's good that these trollocs are made to know pain - they will need that in the battlefield.> Coeld nodded, indeed it was. In fact, the process of knitting was far more intense than the normal pain and suffering of dying. Most common trollocs were no different from any other animal in their avoidance and fear of pain. However, the Great Lord needed elite trollocs, such as are found in the ranks of the Four Clans, who not only withstood pain and kept fighting, but who could become excited and made more vigorous by suffering and anguish. A raiding Dha'vol such as the infamous and respected Batter, for example, was so accustomed to pain that he was just as deadly, if not more-so even when in critical condition. The process of repeated knitting conditioned trollocs to endure and eventually enjoy pain - it was a sign that they were worthy of the gift of life. 

'Knitting' was the name given by the original Chosen who founded the camp. It was something of an inside joke among the human Chosen that knew the ironic double use of the word - to heal a bone, but also, to repair or create an article of clothing. On the knitting table, bones that are not damaged in the Pits are often broken anyway, so that marrow can be drawn out to replenish lost blood. Flesh and tissue are seared with heat produced as a byproduct of accelerated growth. Pulped and crushed organs are digested in place to provide the raw materials for their own regrowth. The heart and brain are stopped and started repeatedly with agonizing jolts of electricity. When the process is complete, the revived trolloc is so exhausted that they must do nothing but sleep and eat for at least a day and a night. 

Coeld pointed out another table where a trolloc had been dropped in four dismembered pieces. Its limbs were roughly jammed against its body by an unseen force, and reattached by regrown sinew. The attachment had a sound like wet rope being pulled through hot tar. <It would seem that this trolloc lost decisively - why would a Pit Master choose him for restoration?> asked Whirlwind. 

Coeld replied, <He may have shown uncanny ability to speak, plan, and lead a group. If his group failed him, but his tactics were judged to be sound, he is considered worth recovery, so that he may learn from his mistake, and become superior.> 

An agile looking fox-faced trolloc who had just completed its restoration lay still on its table, waiting to be carried away. As Whirlwind passed by, it suddenly shot his arm out, grasping her cloak and crying for help. Instinctively, the cat-like Whirlwind dropped her weight, slamming her armored elbow into the fax-face's collarbone. The bone snapped, along with several of its ribs. The fox-face released her cloak, its arm dropping uselessly to the side, as the Ghar'geal spun free. Detecting the new injury, the table re-bound the suffering trolloc with invisible force, sending waves of pressure and scalding heat to begin knitting the trollocs crushed chest. Whirlwind regarded the screaming fox-face without sympathy, and began licking and preening her cloak where the beast had touched it. 

Coeld led on through the tables grunting and snorting quietly to himself. Though it was important to make haste to the Muster for selection, he could not help but enjoy the carnage around him. Coeld's boot caught on something elastic. He kicked to free himself, but only got more entangled. He looked down to see a sticky gray-pink tendril looped around his boot, snaking down the row towards one entryway. Coeld carefully pulled his boot from the tendril, recognizing what it was by its smell and feel. He nudged Whirlwind, grunting, <Watch this.> Coeld picked up the grayish mucous covered cord and gave it a firm but gentle tug. Two rows over, a magnificent rhino-headed trolloc bellowed in rage, as the table responded to the increased abdominal trauma Coeld had just caused. With a slithering, scraping, sucking sound, the rhino-head's intestines began to retract into his gut through a gaping, septic axe-wound above his pelvis. Coeld held on to his section until it drew taught, like a bowstring, finally releasing it with a SNAP. Yard after yard of the tacky entrails were slurped in and refolded inside the trolloc’s ruined viscera by a force incomprehensible to the watching Clanned. As the gray-pink tubing scraped past Coeld and Whirlwind, it snagged and caught on rough stone, ripping small holes in the tissue, and spilling its foul contents. 

Whirlwind trilled inquisitively, <How now? The gut is surely ruined beyond repair! It is shot through with tears, and is covered in filth - why would the Tables draw it back in?> 

Coeld rapped a heavy gauntleted fist against his breastplate, <You cannot make armor without iron, can you?> The exact workings of the Tables and the central ter'angreal were incredibly far beyond Coeld's ability to comprehend. However, he figured correctly that the tables couldn’t create something out of nothing. There was a process for removing waste, disease, poison, and other sepsis, as well as for breaking down and rebuilding organs and tissue, but the process required the destroyed and damaged organs as building blocks. If some tissue was missing, it could be ‘borrowed’ from the remaining biomass of the broken body. However, if enough of the trolloc was left on the Maul Pit floor, the body could not be revived by the Knitting Tables. 

Coeld rumbled, <We must move on, though I loathe departing this place. The only thing more enjoyable than feeling the suffering of this room is hearing the screams of terror as I kill the puke-children of Whitebridge.> Coeld led toward the exit, but was accidentally blocked by a shambling cinder-man, which was blindly following its task, unaware of the Clanned's presence. Without breaking his stride, Coeld unslung his great axe, and bashed the lifeless thing into a cloud of ash and debris. After the two trollocs passed on down the aisle, the fallen ash, dust and cinders, chips of wood and bone, shards of metal, pottery, and stone drew back together into its rough man-shape, and shambled about its business. 

Continued/concluded in: Muster Hall, Riven Interra, the Blight 

NOTES: 

*a span is an estimate of distance measuring the breadth of a trolloc's outstretched arms, fingertip to fingertip. Since trollocs vary in size, many fights have broken out between them when trying to agree on the exact measurement of something. For our purposes, a span is approximately 7 feet, +/- 6 inches. 

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Muster Hall, Riven Interra, the Blight 

The Clanned trollocs wound through the warren of tunnels past rooms used for various purposes, none of which were noteworthy. Eventually they entered another intersection guarded by the menacing bear-headed trollocs. Coeld grunted an order, and the guards tramped over to open great gilded double doors, unlike anything else seen so far in Riven Interra. The passage beyond the doors was paneled in finished cedar, and smelled fresh despite the lingering death and rot from the Mill, the Pits, and the Tables. This section of Riven Interra was finished to the standards preferred by the Human Chosen who frequented the place long ago. Scented oil lamps in wrought-silver holders provided light instead of the usual dim pitch-torches and phosphorescent fungi that broke the solid blackness of the rest of the Camp. Coeld had a dim memory that Lord Master Aginor's actual labs and construction rooms were sealed up somewhere in this section of the tunnels, though he had no idea if this was fact or rumor. 

Coeld directed Whirlwind to take care not to touch any of the human-made decor. Together, they weaved carefully through the paneled corridors, past estate rooms, a banquet hall, ceremonial rooms, storage, and utility rooms. They crossed through an intersection and into a long, rib-vaulted trophy-hall. The walls were covered in perfectly preserved tapestries depicting scenes of war unfamiliar to either trolloc. Massive war machines appeared in the stitching, which seemed to have the capacity to throw streams of fire, to hurl great exploding stones, and to be capable of ramming through a fortress wall. Racks of odd weaponry stood between suits of bizarre armor, both adorned with insignia which could no longer be found anywhere else in the world. Neither trolloc was aware of the significance of the artifacts they strode through. Their own intelligence was limited to the comprehension and application of physical ways to kill an enemy, and had no capacity for understanding the history, technology, artistry, and culture represented in this hall. 

Coeld and Whirlwind stepped out from a cedar-paneled corridor onto a semicircular stage that extended two or three spans into an oddly designed hall. It was roughly the shape of a shallow amphitheatre, arranged in tiers beginning just below the stage, stretching back and up at an incline several spans, until it met the ceiling. Unlike a normal performance hall, this room's tiered floor had no seating, but was simple flat stone. Coeld grunted, <This is a Muster Hall. It is used for reviewing veteran survivors of the Maul Pits, just before assigning them to Fists, or garrisoning in the Stronghold or the Ruined Keep.> Coeld explained that as trollocs gain honor-scarring by surviving and being selected for restoration in the Pits, they are moved up in rank. This not only keeps them in order, but gets them accustomed to respecting the absolute hierarchy commanded directly by Shadar Haran in the name of the Great Lord. The highest ranked trollocs in the entire camp are bunked in barracks down a passage that connects directly to the Muster Hall. Coeld finished, <Only those ranked highly enough through honor-scarring and survival may respond to the Muster Horn.> Coeld tapped on a stylized pewter casting of a conch shell, which was affixed atop a fluted marble pedestal. 

Taking a deep breath, he blew forcefully on the circular opening made in one end of the shell. Enhanced by the Power, the shell let out a thunderous trumpeting vibration which echoed hollowly off the walls and resonated down the side-tunnels. In a few moments, the sound of rapid marching could be heard coming from each access tunnel. Armed and armored trollocs of all shapes and sizes began to flow across the tiers, stopping and coming to attention as they filled the rows. Scanning over the rows, Whirlwind could see that these trollocs were very unlike the commons that filled the rank and file of the Horde. Their eyes were alert, their energy was focused, and they carried themselves with an air of lethal readiness. 

Coeld turned to Whirlwind, showing her a portion of the stage for her to stand, <In a moment, I shall send trollocs to stand with you. Those will become my Battle Guard, and will return to Thakandar with us.> Whirlwind trilled acknowledgement and watched as the Dhai'mon stepped off the stage and began to examine the assembled trollocs. 

Coeld paced through the rows, carefully evaluating the trollocs that stood out as the most impressive. He stopped from time to time, to inspect a potential recruit more carefully. One in particular was a bizarre and very rare trolloc with the head and shell-plating of a giant snapping turtle.** Its shell plating rose along its hunched back to form a protective crest above its shoulders. Due to severe scoliosis along the upper spine and neck, this trolloc's head faced forward perpendicular with its chest, in the manner of a biped. <What are you called, and what do you do, trolloc?> demanded Coeld. The beast's words were punctuated by the clacking of its snapping beak, <Ryshnar, sir. I bash the enemy to the ground, and splinter its body into bloody fragments.> Coeld nodded, taking note of the long halberd this beast had chosen for a weapon. <Take the stage, stand in attendance under Whirlwind's command.> Coeld watched as the lumbering gray-green plated trolloc moved toward the stage, then turned back to his work. 

Coeld carefully selected three more trollocs featuring phenomenal strength, and incredible body mass, each of which carried weapons with which to bash. One he recognized must have been a litter mate to the Rhinohead they had toyed with in the Knitting Chamber, which itself must still be recovering from the violent re-visceration. The next had the head and shoulders of a black-faced mountain ram. Its arms ended in almost completely humanized hands. Blackened, thick fingernails suggested the hoof material of the dominant section of the hybrid. Bony plating along its forearms, lower back, and thighs suggested that this trolloc contained some other species aside from man and goat, but Coeld could not quite place the smell. 

The last selected stood taller than almost every other trolloc in the room, and although Coeld could see and smell that the beast's major hybrid parts were of the bear species, he did not exactly recognize it as any of the bears of the forest he had killed during raids. The head, while massive, was more sleek and wedge-shaped than the Kodiak, more like a common black bear, the likes of which interfered with Coeld's hunting in the Unblighted Forest. It was the wrong color to be a black bear... the fur looked as if it had been stained with blood, giving it a crimson hue, despite its underlying white coloration. This trolloc's destiny was to become tinged darker and darker in reds and blacks as it survived bloody battles. It would also be mottled with green and brown as his hollow insulating fur grew algae and bacteria prompted by to the intense Blight heat, fed by an abundance of rotting blood. It would only return to its original snow-white coloring when it was completely corporeally regenerated by the Favor of the Great Lord in the Circle of Darkness. Then the process would begin anew. 

Coeld reviewed the four trollocs he had chosen thus far. He knew that the core of any battle-guard and in fact most standard Fists required soldiers large enough to be able to knock a horse and rider to the ground. It did not matter if the trolloc used a great axe such as Coeld's own, or a massive club, or a long handled pole-arm, as long as the enemy hit the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of them, a victory could be won. This was especially important if the enemy human force included the foul witches, who drew fire from the air to burn eyes and skin. Coeld could not count the number of tactical retreats that were forced by the intervention of a witch alone, or a witch and her guard dog. They were incredibly quick, and appeared capable of commanding nature to freeze into solid spikes of flying ice, of being able to sicken and weaken a healthy trolloc, and even of causing the earth to tremble and buck. If even one human witch was left standing and in control of her senses, she could call lightning from the sky, cooking a trolloc where he stood. 

Coeld remembered leading a minor Fist against a green-shawled witch and her fiercely loyal leash-hound who held the Gap. The woman, whom he did not know was called 'Iliana,' gesticulated wildly as she wheeled her horse out of reach of a powerful bash. A sudden bright slash of lightning struck a nearby comrade squarely in his breastplate, knocking him to the ground. The sudden searing caused the air to explode with thunder, and heated his ally so rapidly that his eyeballs exploded and eardrums ruptured. Tactical wisdom overcoming rage, Coeld called a retreat, forcing the witch to come into the Blight to continue her attack. When Coeld returned to the Gap after the battle was over, his fallen follower's corpse was still steaming from the heat of electric discharge. Coeld attempted to recover the valuable plate-mail, but it too was ruined, fused into a single piece by the power of the witch's bolt. Witches, Coeld knew, were the biggest threat to the Will and Plan of the Great Lord. 

Grunting to himself, Coeld focused on completing the selection of his team. His core of bashers needed support from quicker scouts and flankers. He reviewed several trollocs of lighter build, slapping their flanks sharply to test muscle tone. Finally he chose four beasts, each shorter than himself, and slimmer, yet each was as taught and sinewy as a tightly strung bow. <You, trolloc, what are you called, and what can you do?> Coeld barked. The lithe trolloc that answered was covered in short, slick, midnight black fur, but an undercoat of spots could still be seen when the light hit him at an angle. It yip-snarled, <I am Tsychotyk, and I start and end fights with a well-placed short-blade.> Coeld guessed that this beast was a hybrid of at least a hyena and a plains cat, possibly a cheetah. It appeared quick and intelligent. He tested the speaking abilities of the trolloc, and briefly evaluated its tactical experience. Finally satisfied, he grunted, <Join the others, you will be my lead scout and assassin.> 

Again, Coeld chose three more trollocs, this time focusing on physical build suggesting speed or stealth. Although trollocs such as these were next to useless in fully engaged battle, they were indispensable when it came to locating the enemy, and observing troop movement. Some of these trollocs were cunning enough to assassinate leaders or weaker members of an enemy force. Others were fleet of hoof enough that they can reach and secure narrow passes and dense forest paths, thus preventing the retreat of a broken human formation. The trollocs who were sent to stand with Whirlwind included recognizable hybrids of the pig-like forest peccary, the fierce mongoose, and a strangely striped wild dog. Coeld noted secondary and tertiary characteristics, detectible by unique species odor, of the wolverine, the despised wolf, and the wild turkey. These attributes should serve to increase the aggressiveness and decrease the chances of panic and early retreat. 

Coeld dismissed the remaining trollocs from the Muster Hall with a barked order. He turned to his new battle-guard, which included beasts called Sojin, Tanzlicous, Lilith and Brawgul, and began to grunt, <Beasts of the Great Lord, you are TROLLOCS! You will follow me now out of this coddling cradle and into the Glory of His Service. You are my Battle-Guard, and you will be bound to me by a Blood Ritual. Your only duty is to protect me in battle, such that I may give the Master's orders to a Minor, Lesser, or Greater Fist without concern of assassination. To fail me in battle is to fail the Great Lord himself...> Coeld grunted his statements slowly, watching the eyes of his Guard for signs of comprehension. He punctuated his words by striking his axe head against his own breastplate, continuing, <In return, I will give the best orders I can, I will not waste your lives for my own pleasure, but only in His service shall you die and be reforged. You will learn to win, and you will drink fresh blood of the enemy every night!> Coeld paused as the beasts shuffled, grunted and growled in approval. He glared the excited trollocs back to silent attention, stating, <In times of rest, when not in battle, you are on your OWN. You are not Dhai'mon, you are not Clanned, and you MUST learn to survive in the Blight alone or in pairs when I am not around. In time, and with the experience of age, victory, and death, you may choose to be relieved of your obedience to me to Grunt for an honored Clan. Serve well, and you will earn my Word of recommendation. Serve poorly, and you will not live to apply.> 

Whirlwind took silent note of her Dhai'mon companion's actions, carefully considering what she had learned during her tour of Riven Interra. As she followed Coeld and his new guard through more tunnels and into a hexagonal chamber, she thought of the day when she would select her own Battle Guard to assist her in the Ghar'geal mission to defend the Blight at all costs. Coeld glared around to make sure his eight followers and Whirlwind were inside the room, then carefully laid the badge originally given to him by Club in the flames of a bronze brazier hanging low from the ceiling. There was a sudden flash of fire and the acrid smell of brimstone which temporarily blinded and singed the trollocs. When their senses cleared, they found that they had been delivered instantly and without damage into the Portal Chamber of Thakandar. 

Whirlwind and Coeld struck each other with a loud cracking head-butt, a gesture of respect between respected allies, and the feline trolloc went on her way. Coeld led his Guard down the streets of Thakandar, and into the audience of his Master Maeltor to report his mission success. Before he could cross the chamber to speak with the gruesome leader of the Dhai'mon, he was met by the superior trolloc, Master Amino, and given an urgent mission. There would be no time for his Guard to adjust to quarters outside of Riven Interra, no time for them to see the moon for the first time in their lives, no time to bask in the heat of the Blight, they would have to deploy immediately... 

End of Riven Interra