Every Monday we release a new featured Bounty Boss, sharing a bit of lore and information about the Seven Realms most treacherous creatures. We are sharing our backlog of Monster Mondays for our Steam users to enjoy.
Wrinkles
Race: Troll
Location: Sea Caves, Realm of Ardent
Though his nose was bulbous and his yellowish fangs protruded crudely from his hairy little mouth, Burkle was nonetheless rather handsome for a troll. Maybe it was his youth. His warty skin, though bumpy, was unmarked by the ravages of time and his blood red eyes sparkled with a lively zest. He was a gentle troll, and an aspiring poet for which the other trolls derisively mocked him. But Burkle didn’t care. He would much rather wander the rocky sea cliffs composing lengthy sonnets in his head than sit around a muddy cave all day plotting yet another attack on the neighboring goblins. The volatile feud existing between trolls and goblins had been going on for as long as Burkle could remember, and it bored him entirely.
Each day he would wander a little further to get away from the noisy strife of their skirmishes. One afternoon, in a scenically isolated cove, ideal for solitary poets, Burkle was startled to find that he was not alone. He had brought no weapons, only parchment and paper, so he was at first fearful of the lone goblin hovering ominously on the banks of the shore. But then she slowly turned around. Burkle was struck helpless by her beauty – her green scaly body, so lithe and slender, and her great pointy ears which flapped gently from the sides of her tiny bald head like a delicate winged butterfly. Lavinia’s golden eyes met Burkle’s, and troll and goblin were in love.
Their forbidden romance soared. A bliss-filled month of secret trysts went by. Lavinia adored her sensitive, handsome troll, and Burkle worshipped his goblin goddess. Such was their all consuming passion, however, that they soon grew careless and forgot to be mindful of secrecy. Grogan, Burkle’s father, a militant troll with a barbarous temper, learned of his son’s atrocious liaison with an enemy goblin and hurled Burkle into a dank pit. Grogan ordered his son to renounce his love for Lavinia. But Burkle adamantly refused, and, so, was kept in the pit.
He could bear the cold and the foulness, but not the separation from his beloved. Burkle grew despondent. His little sister, Tulla, took pity on him and offered to secretly deliver letters to Lavinia. Overjoyed, but wary of his father’s wrath should he find out, Burkle thought it best to use invisible ink, as only trolls can do. He zestfully sliced and gashed his arms with a jagged rock until enough troll blood had been produced with which to write the invisible letter with. As instructed, Lavinia carefully sprinkled ground mushroom dust over the parchment and watched as Burkle’s glorious words leapt into view. She vowed to love him always, and a secret written correspondence between the two began.
Despite the misery of the dank pit, the captive poet knew only joy. Sonnet after sonnet flowed from Burkle, as did his blood, which mattered little to him since the regenerative healing power of trolls ensured the rapid mending of his wounds. Burkle happily sliced and gashed himself, pounded his head against walls, and wrote epoch poems, thousands, to his beloved Lavinia, who always faithfully responded in turn. And so it was that a year passed in this way, for Burkle staunchly refused to renounce his love for Lavinia, and his militant father likewise refused to let him out of the pit.
But Grogan did fall ill one day. In his feverish delirium, he called for his son. The trolls released Burkle, who, blinking, stunned, and exhilarated, went straight to the remote cove where he knew his beloved Lavinia would come to him. And she did. Lavinia screamed in horror at sight of Burkle. His once supple young body was now a twisted mass of shriveled skin and hideous wrinkles that sagged grotesquely from every inch of him. Burkle ardently declared his love and tried to kiss her. But when his leathery, gnarled lips drew close, Lavinia violently recoiled and shrieked that she could never love such a vile wrinkled beast as he. She fled from Burkle, never to return.
His gentle soul crushed, Burkle, or ‘Wrinkles,’ as he is now often jeeringly called, wanders the lonely sea caves, a forlorn and cynical troll. He no longer writes poetry, for when faithless Lavinia went, so, too, did his love of writing go. He does nothing now, and wants only to be left alone. So beware all those who intrude upon this brooding wrinkled troll. He takes unkindly to visitors.