[Rimetrolls] The Last to Remember

[Xarkly 12581]

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE:

THE LAST TO REMEMBER

 

The Rimeveld, Northern Almaris

Spoiler

 

 

 

---

 

The frozen earth of the Farm crunched under Bido's heavy footsteps.

 

The Rimetrolls - the huge, fat creatures that had inhabited the Rimeveld in northern Almaris for centuries - were an old tribe, and even for a Rimetroll, Bido was old. He was one of the few old enough to remember a time where the Rimetrolls were not peaceful vegetarians; a time where they had not spent their days in blissful peace in the Rimeveld, with nothing to do other than raise their families and waste their days with sleep and games. He remembered a time before the Farm; before they had had an ample source of food, when they had needed to fight, slaughter, steal, and kill for their food.

 

No crop could grow in the Rimeveld, not with the intense cold that quickly killed any creature that was not a Rimetroll. That was why, centuries ago, they had been forced to fight and steal food from the civilizations to the south. They could never have migrated to the south themselves; no, they were Rimetrolls - they were monsters, to be feared and killed. So their way of life had been to raid the farms of Descendants - or warmies, as the Rimetrolls called them - in the fertile lands of southern Almaris, and then retreat to their mountainous home in the Rimeveld. They had been a war-like race, then, who lived purely to kill others so that they could survive. 

 

But then they had been given the Farm.

 

It had been a gift from one of the lands to the south that the Rimetrolls had raided - a totem pole, with strange faces intricately carved up its wooden length - that had been imbued with some kind of magic from that land, a magic that Bido - nor any other Rimetroll - had no hope of comprehending. But it had worked; when they had planted the Totem up in the Rimeveld, it had caused the inhospitable cold to abate around a small area, and filled the soil with life and allowed the Rimetrolls to grow their food. That had become their saving grace; no longer did they need to venture south and raid. With the Farm, they had quickly lost their ways of warfare. They had stopped eating meat, and eventually, many Rimetrolls forgot how to even fight in the first place.

 

That was so long ago.

 

Now, Bido was one of barely half-a-dozen Rimetrolls old enough to remember a time before the Farm. The Rimetrolls of today did not even knew what death really was, much less what it meant to kill another. Violence had been completely erased from their memory after centuries of peace and happiness. After all, why recall the horrors of war in a world where there was no concern but to raise your family? To love your mate and your children? Bido was glad that was what the Rimetroll people had become; they were no longer monsters, no longer feared nor hunted by the Descendants to the south. They were friendly to a fault, and mostly forgotten by the world anyway. Sometimes when a wayward Descendant found themselves lost in the Rimeveld and slowly succumbing to the cold, the Rimetrolls helped them; they gave them warmth, and food, and returned them back south to safety.

 

They had forgotten violence, but Bido had not.

 

The Farm - the source of the Rimetrolls' peace and happiness - had been burnt by Descendants some months ago now. As the snow spiralled down in a strangely calm wind, Bido stared ahead on him at the burnt husk of the Totem in the Farm's centre. It had been set ablaze by Descendants, and its magic destroyed; as a result, it no longer warded off the cold, and it had murdered the Rimetrolls' sole source of food, and their sole source of peace. The worst part was that Bido did not know why - he did not know why the Descendants had torched the heart of his people. And now, his people starved, and they barely understood what was happening, stupid as Rimetrolls were. They had ventured down south cautiously, and some of the Descendants down there had given them food, but Bido knew it would not last. 

 

He sighed deeply, his heavy breath seeping out in mist. Then, he glanced up in surprise when he saw a round shape shift at the foot of the burnt Totem.

 

"Cob?" Bido called huskily.

 

Cob - a younger Troll, with decorated paper talismans hanging from his curved horns - looked up in surprise. A goofy smile split his furry face as he waved a broad paw at Bido in greeting. "Bido! Hi!" he grunted cheerily.

 

"What you doing?" Bido asked, narrowing his eyes at the younger Troll. Cob seemed to have several misshapen planks of rotted wood stuffed under his arms.

 

"Oh, this?" Cob's smile widened as he brandished the wood. "Cob trying to fix Totem!"

 

The wind briefly picked up, sending the snowfall into a flurry, as Bido sighed once again. "No fix, Cob. It broken." 

 

"Hruh? You sure?" Cob asked, scratching his chin with a long, grey-furred arm. "Me think if we just give Totem new wood -"

 

"It broken, Cob," Bido cut him off with more anger than he intended, his fists balled at his side. Most of the other Trolls did not understand what magic even was, nevermind that it was the reason their Farm had been able to produce food so far north.

 

"Oh." The planks clattered from Cob's arms to the dead soil as his smile faded. "... But...why it broken?" he asked meekly.

 

"Warmies," Bido grunted through grit teeth as he glared at the burnt totem. The blackened faces of the wood stared back at him as the wind continued to pick up, whipping snow into his face. "They break it, Cob."

 

"Warmies? Hruh. Guma say he meet warmies, and that they not so bad. Why warmies destroy Farm?" 

 

Bido's fists were clenched so hard that they had begun to hurt. He closed his eyes, then, and sucked in a slow breath. Cob, nor any of the other Trolls, did not understand. They did not know what violence was, and it was unfathomable for them to think that Descendants might try to harm them. It was unfathomable for them to think that anyone would want to harm anyone, for they were too young to remember what life had been like for the Rimetrolls before they had been blessed with the Farm.

 

But Bido remembered. 

 

"Because warmies," Bido began, opening his eyes once again and unballing his fists, "are bad, Cob."

 

"Bad?" Cob said, his face blank. "Like Yetis?" 

 

"Worse than Yetis."

 

That produced a small gasp from Cob, but it was clear from his dull eyes that he did not really understand what Bido was saying. "But... what we do for eats, Bido? Me not has lots of food for cub, and me lady barely have any food at all." 

 

Bido glanced into Cob's eyes, then. It was clear the younger Troll didn't understand why anyone would want to harm them, but the worry was obvious in those eyes. Bido could not bear to stare into them for longer than a moment before he averted his gaze with a hiss. "You no worry, Cob," he said, gritting his jaw as he slowly turned back towards the Farm's exit. "Me ... me know a way to get food again."

 

He did not need to look to know that Cob's face had lit up at that, and he heard the younger Troll clap his hands gleefully as he bounced from foot to foot. "You do!? Ahhh! You amazing, Bido! You smart!"

 

"No, not smart," Bido said as he stomped out of the farm.

 

He wasn't smart; he just remembered how Rimetrolls survived before the Farm.

 

And so, he knew how they could survive once again. 

 

[Norman Osborn 247]

The Masked Ranger sat in the snowy hovel in the Rimevaldian with three of his compatriots, a makeshift shelter of woolen tarp and packed snow meant to shield them from the unforgiving elements. He tossed more and more fuel into the fire constructed to keep them warm, though everyone in that hovel knew that there was no braving the Rimevald - only escaping it. The expedition team had constructed a bonfire of grease and ice in an attempt to attract a troll, both to study it's behavior and as a means to leave the Rimevald, as the group's own supplies were dwindling. It only made sense to kill two birds with one stone.

Indeed, they had come there to study the Trolls' ecological behaviors; their numbers, health and social hierarchy. The hefty woolen layers they brought proved to be useless against the biting winds and primordial cold, cutting through them as though they were wrought from paper instead of wool and fur. For the ranger and his team, the cold proved to be the only true danger in the Rimevald. Edgar felt something in his bones different from the cold, a kind of pent-up, unleashed intensity in the arctic air, and murmured to Gustaven.

"Gustaven, dry up my bowstring by the fire."

"Why? I thought you said these creatures were peaceful."

"Harmless - not peaceful."

Man's first discovery was not fire - it was violence.