Legends of Belariath
Roquai
In the mountains of the west, there are towns and living arrangements that look nothing like their neighbors. They are built among the crevices, behind and beside the great boulders, and often inside of them. Summits are hollowed and the roots of the mountains are delved or pushed aside to make room and shelter from the light. Dwellings akin to dwarven, but of a more natural crudity. Wooden huts and adobes can be just themselves, or roofs to populated caverns that a sparse few, besides their residents, may ever willingly see.
It was for certain that in one of these places, although specifics are never recorded or committed to memory for this people, where a certain Mountain Troll was born. The birth itself shouldn’t be recanted, nor the young life of this Troll as he lived through it. His early years were more fortunate then those of his peers, and he was named Roquai at the age of twelve. His home was in the earth and his adventure awaited on the surface of Belariath each night. Hours before each morning he would return to the town. He would stare at the windowless upperground halves of underground buildings, walk around the huge mud saucer roofs of shallow living dens, and grin at the gaping, open, black holes that dotted the town’s top layer, like mouths attached to long and branching interconnecting throats, feeding the pits and rooms and structures below. He knew that those were the smells and noises of his people wafting up, hot from the belly of the town.
Its name was Huir. It was the poorest and weakest of five villages, all-similar and sharing the same foundations. It was falling behind in a kind of migration eastward, towards the center of the continent, lacking behind the other four in both distance and prowess. And it still is.
These were Trolls. Travelers avoided them unless they spoke the tongue, and they spoke it very well. Well enough to talk themselves off of a flaming spit, at least. The Troll would ‘tax’ anyone they found trespassing their enormous territory. Sometimes this tariff was quick and brutal, and often it was soft and forgiving depending on the season and the hunger of the bigger party, but it was always inflicted. Unwary wanderers could rarely make it through the mountain passes in secret, for the Mountain Troll could both smell the breath of a sleeping baby from untold distances, and see clearly with only a star to shine their way.
This was the life that Roquai enjoyed for a long time. He learned much and grew strong, but there was nothing he could do to stop the decline of his home. The changes occurring within the small pocket society were too subtle and small for most of them to grasp. The younger generations worked hard, forging new alliances with other race against unspoken creed, while the elders lorded over them. Roquai was among the later.
The violence and strife that sits like fine silt in Troll blood flared up again, and large amounts of violence and betrayal that should be forgotten happened during these times.
It was during this period of infighting between Huir, the settlements nearest to it, and the other races involved with Huir’s futile efforts to preserve itself, that Roquai journeyed east. Competent males and females, warriors and lore tellers, were sent to the civilized and populated lands to bring back whatever they could, to look for an answer that they couldn’t find and never would. In doing this, Huir lost its only redeemer – the core figures and talents that drove it onwards. Many of the bands that left the town had known this and left anyways, to find more in Belariath, and appease their wanderlust. Roquai was one of these.
That was nearly fifteen years ago. Since then, he has found much more in the world then he had previously known existed. He and his brethren took different paths somewhere during that span of time and no longer know each other’s whereabouts. He’s found companions in other races, chiefly Drow, finding himself with a broad understanding of their customs and minds.
He must still travel to keep his sense of purpose alive, wandering to and fro to find an unattainable goal, and he knows its vainness – but cares little. Roquai has managed to accomplish a vast number of things on his way to nowhere, and will continue to do so.