Bounty for the Grendel
This notarized missive is posted here, on the 7th of April, in the year 755 of the Common Calendar, to denote the following bounty. For the past week, a lone troll measuring at least fifteen feet of height to the head and bearing a full rack of horns, has murdered men of the lay and of the cloth at Fallen Crest Abbey. Its whereabouts have loosely been traced to the wooded marsh south of the abbey, but to date no den has been found. For its crimes against humanity, the creature must be put down and safety restored to the people of Westshire.
A bounty for the troll is hereby offered at nine hundred talons of silver for any who can deliver the troll’s head to Prince Gabriel of Vassermark who may, for the spring, be found in the city of Jumeaux. An additional one hundred talons of silver will be included if the entire corpse is transported for full identification.
To compensate the abbey for their damages, a tithe of one tenth will mandatorily be taken from the sum bounty and paid to the abbey
Signed,
Gabriel von Arandall, Second Prince of Vassermark
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To Abbey Master Peter Montoya, from Princeps Helvetius of Westshire,
I mourn for the late Father Marcuese. He was a wise and honorable man. Learned in the faith and histories and as sharp as a skinning knife at trireme. I weep that I will not have the pleasure of another game with him, but by no means will I avoid Fallen Crest Abbey this year.
Father Montoya, I can tell from the intensity of your writing that you are a man of strong passion. I would not miss visiting you to pay my respects to the late bishop even if it meant forgoing food entirely. I was and still am a soldier, hardship and stomach indignity are constant companions for me. But more than a soldier, I am the leader of Westshire and I can see that the abbey is performing an outsized duty to the land by putting my nephew up. I only hope that he is learning something from all your hospitality.
Unfortunately, my present duties prevent me from visiting the abbey at this moment to help sort it out. Diplomatic matters cannot be neglected in these times but that does not mean I intend to leave the abbey to suffer when it is in my power to do otherwise. Transported along with this letter, by my trusted messenger, is a chest of funds to ameliorate the cost of feeding the prince’s host. There is currently one thousand talons of silver.
When he at last departs, please reply with a full tally of expenses and my steward will compensate you the fair market rate to restore the abbey to proper condition. Fallen Crest Abbey is one of our older houses of faith in all of Westshire and it is my duty to support you against the pains of diplomacy.
Thank you for your service,
Princeps Helvetius of Westshire
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755 CC Apr 7th
The rotten thief! The gods should rip his soul to pieces and feed the scraps to their beasts. He should burn for his impudence! What he did should be labeled blasphemy! Dishonorable and criminal would be too weak. They’d still contain an impression that he could be forgiven. To offer a tithe to us with our own money! I wish birds would rip the skin from his body without letting him die. I want his skin to continually scab over only for the birds to rip the scabs off and bring new bleeding–new pain!
My letter did reach the princeps. Not only did he see fit to help but he sent money as compensation. A mere messenger traveling with the Princep’s protection he was safe from all human harm but not from the grendel. The poor man was attacked in the night and clubbed to death. A horrible sight I’m told. Broken bones and blood, his purple capelet stained with his own blood.
Luckily or not, it wasn’t common thieves or highwaymen that found his corpse, but the prince’s men who proved themselves to be thieves. They found the trunk of silver and took it for themselves and then the prince had the audacity to spend our coin to hire mercenaries and adventuring knights to kill the troll for him. He must have thought it an act of wise shame to solve the problem with money instead of the blood of his men.
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The engineer tutted and shook his head at the news, he was with me when Leomund explained what happened. He believes that the prince is trying to solve two problems at once. He hopes the revolutionaries will jump at the chance for so much money and get themselves killed. Eventually someone will kill the troll and it will have cost the prince nothing. And then he has the gall to pay us one tenth of what the princeps sent us! He has robbed us through hospitality and then brazenly robbed us again. Cutthroats have more respect than him.
I can’t even scream at him like I’d love to. The prince has left and taken most of his men with him. He rides south but not quite. I think he is going to dally between the villages and towns, making appearances and causing mayhem as he can, much like he did here. Only a few dozen soldiers are still packing up their camp and lingering on the chance that someone might kill the troll immediately.
Leomund joked that perhaps he still should go kill it. The royal engineer said that infection wouldn’t have set in yet, if the prince’s shit covered arrows had worked. To my surprise, Leomund agreed he should wait a night.
The old engineer tried to engage me with a game of trireme. I think he felt sorry for me. I’m nearly the last keeper of the abbey left. My friends and brothers are nearly all gone and I lack the mood to be with others regardless.
Now I stew with my paper and ink, dashing my anger across the page which I hope none but myself shall ever read. Perhaps years from now I will come here again. It will be like a simulacra of my mind to marvel at with the distance of time. I wonder if I will relive this moment? Or will I be someone else examining a stranger of the same name?
Regardless, I pray that I can find rest tonight.
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Legends of the North by Sean Cainwicks
Excerpt from page 73
The troll demon grendel had stolen a gift from the gods by eating the raw flesh of the blessed and filling himself with their blood. He had stolen for himself the domain over ice and snow. He conjured storms and draped mist upon the land, ice upon the eyes. He wove white currents between the stones and twisted the light until all sight was confused. Thus he ensnared the men come to hunt him, for there was no fleeing from this bloody confrontation. While King Haelfbear had spear and steel, Grendel fought with ice and stone.
Every swing of the statue blade struck strong enough to sunder bone and earth. Any retreat was met with summoned shards of hoary death. Arrow after arrow loosed into the monster but winds tumbled most and those that struck true couldn’t pierce hide and fat both.
But all was not lost, for King Haelfbear had the gifts of the gods as well, true born through is blood and passed from father to sun for generations. In his blood, upon his breast, emblazoned by his soul was the power of [Lordly Might]. While Grendel had easily the strength of twenty men, his was the strength of every sworn bannerman. The great King Haelfbear danced around the monster, slashing and stabbing and carving through the troll’s lichen hide. He cleaved sheets of hide from the blood-mad beast until his blows snapped his own weapon apart.
But this was the reason his ten men had brought their spears as well. There was a second for him to fight with. A third to put a chip in the statue blade. A fourth to rip free one of the demonic crowns. A fifth to half-blind the beast. A sixth to snap half the length from Grendel’s blade. A seventh to rupture the trolls' stomping foot. An eighth to pierce Grendel’s lung. A ninth to sever his blackened tongue.
And then a tenth to hold the old king up as he and foe alike stood broken and bleeding without the strength to fight but with too much guts to fall. Grendel had been maimed but his heart still beat, and King Haelfbear had not survived unscathed. His shield arm hung useless and hardly a spot of flesh upon him lacked a laceration from ice.
The troll had not killed the bannermen however. He understood that perhaps he could yet kill the king but he would not survive the night no matter what. Rather than fall with honor, he chose the path of spite. Bugling through his twisted snout he laid a curse upon the land. He forced all the strength that could be forced through his stolen stigmata and clad himself in layers of unbreakable ice.
King Haelfbear was carried back to his home a hero, living long enough to see his wife and children to tell them that the demon grendel’s heart still beat and forever so long as it should, the strength of a wronged and lonely troll should never be thought small.
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755 CC Apr 8th
To Prince Gabriel von Arandall of Vassermark,
I beg of you your swift return to Fallen Crest Abbey. Turn back from your journey south and bring the justice of the gods to the chapel. No sooner did you leave, taking your men with you, than the troll returned and did not leave. He beat down the doors of the chapel with his fists and crushed Brother Marcus between the pews. Your men have been killed but we know where it is. It has not left! It has made the chapel into a den.
Even now, it sits upon hallowed ground. I can smell it even above the stench of pigs. He is profaning the chapel with his presence, his blood, his sweat, his molting flesh.
I cannot put to paper just the consequences that may come from this, for I do not know if it will reach only your eyes. Return to the abbey and I will explain, please! I urge you. Surround it. Burn the chapel to the ground if you have to, but destroy this monster before it is too late. If any action you take could ever prove your right to rule, that you can uphold the social contract you feel beholden to, this is it. Bring steel and fire to bear on this enemy of humanity before it is too late.
Westshire cannot survive a crusade. Return and I will explain, please! With the utmost haste!
Peter