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About trogwolf

My father was a stalwart soldier in the retinue of a renowned noble, a defender following in the footsteps of his father. He was fiercely loyal to Gorum. My mother's father was raised by elves after a band of raiders killed the party of refugees that his family was with. He was small enough to hide among the baggage and was adopted by those who found him. He was nimble but not large and tended more toward study than feats of arms. When his wife died in childbirth, he fled with his daughter to seek life within city walls and learned how to be invisible in a crowd. He raised his daughter on tales of the elves and so it was no surprise that my mother found herself serving in the elven ward of a hospice in the city, when she grew old enough to feel some responsibility for the welfare of the household. Though surrounded by walls, the tales inspired her to dream of the wild and she worshiped Nethys, though I never understood why until her father died. I try to honor both Gorum and Nethys, in memory of my folks, but I am ahead of myself.

The best soldiers still get injured on occasion and that's how my parents met, in the hospice where my mother tended the injured from the elven district of Galt, at the beginning of the Red Revolution. My father's injuries required unusual attention and my mother was drawn to him for some reason. His injuries made him taciturn and even gruff, and that may have seemed like a challenge to my mother. Finally she got him to talk and they discovered that they shared a desire to make a home in some wild place away from cities and nobles, which they did north of the East Sellen River. One thing led to another which led to me. I learned all of my mother's and grandfather's tales and the elven tongue and letters. I loved to climb trees. Mother called me her little tree frog, which didn't sit well with Father. He shortened it to Trog and it stuck. My father knew that knowledge of lore wasn't enough to keep me alive in the wild world, even if it wasn't all tall tales. He taught me how to handle myself with weapons and how to shape the hides of the fierce creatures we killed into effective armor. My favorite hides for armor are those of the wolf. Wolf hide may not be as tough as bear hide, but I like the way it looks. Plus, a wolf was the first real kill I ever made on my own. Rabbits and badgers don't count. Sometime after I left home, I started referring to myself as Trog-wolf.

My father always told me, "Someday you will grow up to be a great man." My mother told me, "It is enough if you grow up to be a good man."

I came back around dusk one evening after checking traps and snares. The full moon was just rising a bright orange. Mother always said to be wary of the blood moon. I love her tales, but seriously, as Father would say. There were visitors at our cabin. They seemed very friendly, a couple of humans and a couple of elves, the first true elves I had seen, though I had heard all about them. Mother invited them to meal and Father brought up some of his best homebrew from the cellar. There were tales of adventure and talk of forgotten lands and treasures. Grandfather told a tale about Nethys that no one believed. He had had a bit more mead than usual. He was quite offended at not being believed and, for emphasis, brought a chain up from around his neck that had a double dragon pendant dangling from it. My eyes went wide and my mouth stood open. I had never seen it my whole life. Mother insisted he put it away, but he showed it around to everybody.

The conversation was a bit stilted after that. No one knew quite what to say. There seemed to be a lot of sideways glances among our guests. Mother and Father looked a bit anxious. After an uncomfortable silence, father offered the straw barn for our visitors to lodge in and we all said good night. I couldn't forget about the pendant, so after Grandfather had fallen asleep, I went in and took it from around his neck and carried it out to my secret tree-den, built elven style, as near as I was able, away from the house, where I could examine it in the bright moonlight. All of my private treasures, including my favorite books of lore and my wolf hide armor and Father's campaign sword that he had given me last month on my 12th birthday (Mother didn't approve - she said 15 was soon enough) were there in my tree-den. I was enthralled.

I don't know how long I was there except that I know that the beams of moonlight were now coming through a different window. I heard an unusual sound for that time of night, rustling and crackling like a large cook fire. But I should only be able to hear a sound like that if I am quite close to such a fire. Then I realized that not all the shadows on the wall of my den were from the moonlight, and those other shadows were unsteady, fluid. I dropped the pendant and climbed, jumped really, out of the tree and ran toward the cabin. It didn't take me long to realize what the rustling and crackling must be. When I reached the edge of the clearing, I saw one of the visitors in full armor coming out of the cellar wiping off his sword.

I was unarmed and unarmored. All I could do was watch as smoking remnants of my home fell in upon themselves. The visitors were yelling and cursing, and I heard one say, "Well, where the hell is the boy?" I ducked farther out of sight and climbed up to one of my favorite perches. I waited for them to leave. As they left, I headed for the edge of the clearing, I circled around so I could follow them. I couldn't do anything but make sure they were actually leaving, then I went back home. When I could get into the cellar, I realized everything had been slashed open and ransacked. It must have been the same throughout the house before they set it ablaze. My mother and father and my grandfather were dead. Anything of value had been taken. All that was left was what I had in my tree-den and my memories. No, I also had my lore and my training.

Well, that was twelve years ago. I've spent time with my grandfather's people and I've spent time in the noble's guard, my father's people, you could say. I can make my way in the wild, and I can be invisible in a crowd. I know that there are good and evil among humans and among elves and I have seen aberrations in the wild. I try to live up to Mother's hopes and Father's expectations, but I distrust adventurers until they prove themselves and if I ever find those four visitors who killed my family, the most they can hope from me is a moment to address their gods before I send them to meet them in person. I vow VENGEANCE in the name of Gorum. Forgive me, Mother. For you, I Vow that I shall NEVER perpetrate nor tolerate such a crime.

When I was a child, I was fascinated by the tales told by my mother and her father, although I am not sure that I more than half believed any of them. Then came that night. Grandfather spoke of the ancient god, Nethys, and showed a pendant that he had spoken of in tales but never indicated that he actually possessed. And then a handful of elves and humans killed my entire family to get it. I began to re-examine all of the tales and to rethink my attitude about them. Over the past twelve years I have seen things and FOUND things that completely overturned my skepticism.

Speaking of finding things, I found a partner a year ago, or she found me - a she-wolf cub, orphaned by hunters and perhaps attracted to me because of my armor or else maybe it is because she could tell that I was an orphan, too. Now we are inseparable.

Pursuing my quest to solve the mystery of the double dragon pendant, I recently stumbled onto an organization of similar seekers. They call themselves Pathfinders. I am going to see if joining them for a time will help me find what has eluded me for so many years.

I had a strange encounter recently with a sorceress in the city of Eto in the East-central Osirion lands. She was a half-elf also, and apparently an orphan like me as well. I put on a ring that she had been wearing and felt an incredible power surge through me. I had to surrender the ring, but I must get it back. I feel as though that ring woke something dormant within me. My parents died when I was 12. Perhaps there is something about my mother's people that she and my grandfather never had a chance to explain to me. It won't be long before I will be qualified to obtain the ring. What if it no longer holds that same power?

I finally brought my she-wolf companion, Twilight's Gleam, on her first adventure. It was disastrous. I nearly died and she did die. I had a chance to save a fellow pathfinder (though I didn't know it at the time) but I was too intent on saving myself. I think Gorum punished me by taking away my companion. It is a hard lesson, but one I must take to heart.

I went out hunting not long ago. After my recent misadventure, I admit that I just wanted to kill something that needed killing. I had hoped to find an aberration or two. One evening I came across a grizzled old hunter warming himself by a campfire. I made some unnecessary noise and then announced myself and received permission to approach. The first thing I noticed before coming in was a pack mule laden with various pelts. After I got comfortable and the hunter ceased to be ill at ease, I noticed an obviously abused and half-starved yearling wolf, who was favoring one leg, cowering just at the edge of the firelight. I asked if she had been caught in a trap. "Nar," says the hunter, "I haven't had much luck with my traps. I found this thing caught under some deadfall a couple of days ago. Must have happened during that storm last week. Can't decide if it’s worth it to feed the thing long enough to skin it. Why do you ask?" So I said, "If it's more trouble to you than it's worth, perhaps I could take it off your hands." That perked him up right away. "What's it worth to you?" he says, "I couldn't part with it for less than 150 gold." We finally settled on me spending a week making traps for him worth the 150 gold, that only cost me 100 gold and my time.

It didn't take much more than a few good meals and a little rough affection to win her over. Her leg healed right up, just a sprain, I guess. Teaching her to attack was easy. I just made most of the first dummies look like that grizzled old hunter. I suppose we had better not meet him again while her skills are still rough around the edges. I call her Twilight's End, in honor of the companion I lost.

It cost a pretty penny, but I finally got my hands on that ring. So far, after putting it on, the only thing that has happened is that I have an irresistible urge to delve into the Arcane magic that my mother’s people tried to interest me in while I was among them. Perhaps they were trying to tell me something, in their subtle way, that my mother and grandfather didn’t live long enough to explain to me.